It's been almost a month and a half since our department received news that the company had finalized the contract. Three waves of layoffs will make way for third party customer service representatives to take over. Soon, another agent - more often than not based in another country - will be answering the phone. Not me. Not Marie. Not Tomasita. Not Chris. Not any of my co-workers.
I have let it sit inside like a stone. Unfeeling. I have not even looked at my resume since being hired on, despite the early warning.
Tonight is perhaps the third time we have all been gathered together to discuss it, although, frankly, there has been little discussion. The majority is quiet. What do you say to that? My mind goes blank usually. Or rather, my heart goes blank while my mind races into walls, probably in attempt to knock itself out. It really sounds more dramatic than it is.
While the Important People spoke to us from the front of the room, the cynic in me could not help thinking how much more this display of support was a means of easing their conscience as opposed to being "there" for us.
It is logical to me that these meetings truly serve both sides. But I don't pretend this demonstration is not vastly to save the company's collective face. To save the faces of those who made the decision for the good of the company. In other words I can still fully appreciate the benefits of this gentle ass fuck as opposed to a brutally lubeless intrusion - and the fact that some people truly do care for us AND the success of the company. The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive - the consequences for us simply suck. In truth, the company is a much better company than the majority and I have a genuine sense of loyalty working there. Success on company's part via assimilation? Or mine?
Though I hardly dream of being a customer service representive for my entire life, the job has fulfilled me and I hope I it. For the first time since news broke, I struggled to swallow back tears. Maybe it's because Michele and Erin cried.
But I suddenly realized, despite my logical understanding of the decision being completely impersonal to any of us, I have been taking it personally on an emotional level the entire time, a distinction I thought I was much better at than this. I have always thrived on validation from others. I do not require it to function, to be fantastic but gee golly Miss Molly, it sure does help!
Because of the nature of our department - fast paced, clock hands riding us like a depraved psychotic - validation of the individual's abilities and successes is lowest priority and the importance of resolving any mistakes much higher. The silver lining of that structure is this: I have learned to rely much more on myself than before, a habit I need to continually foster. Trust and self-reliance is not a habit that comes easily to me but I can do it, and do it pretty well anyway. My experience working in this department has strengthened me and I am utterly grateful for it.
But I am sad. Sad to see others go. To know that things are changing pretty drastically for those I have grown to care about almost like a family. Mentally, differentiating work from friends/family is easy but emotionally, suffice it to say I easily fall in love with awesome people.
I also feel that the change is overall a beautiful one, one that has some of us dusting off our dreams and re-evaluating our hopes and goals. And we get to do it together.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Where the Buffalo Are
So my brother decided to resurrect our old hard drive from 5 or 6 years ago for...whatever his purposes are. He salvaged my old documents and to say the least, it's been like finding a time capsule of HORROR and DISMAY at what a silly teenager I was.
He found a creative piece I wrote less than 2 months after I turned 17 for one of my two history classes during senior year of high school. I was enrolled in 2 history classes - 1 IB World History class and 1 "remedial" US History for the easy A to make up for my dismal grade in IB US History the year prior.
The teacher asked us to write from the perspective of the Native Americans during the European colonization of the United States. I think I was a bit liberal with the prompt and wrote in a style loosely inspired by Toni Morrison's Beloved since we had read it for IB English. Since the hard drive crash, I have been looking for a copy of this piece ever since.
I not only turned it in and got an A, I printed it out in red italics - AND read it out loud to the class for extra credit. It's a fucking wonder they didn't send me straight to the school psychologist:
Chance Hilott
US History – 6
Her side rises with my head against it. I lay my head on the soft down of my mother, ensanguined with blood. Mine and hers, our blood, it bleeds into the milk she leaks. Precious, life-giving elixir, tainted with blood, human and animal. I hear the Earth our bodies rest upon, the Earth which we cannot separate ourselves from, I hear her cry out, drink in our blood. She observes her own children go mad with greed, with fury. She weeps. The breath snorting through my mother’s nostrils fades. We see red and are blinded by it.
We cannot do a thing.
My mother and I. We cannot close our eyes. The men without skin scalp my sister. I see her fall to her knees before me, her eyes meet my lifeless ones before she falls silently to kiss the Earth. Her blood feeds the Earth too. My mother’s body shudders. I shudder.
There…I see my father wrapped in the red mist. He wrestles with the skinless one. Something happens, and the skinless one falls. My father wipes his brow as he watches the Earth drink the blood of her skinless son. My father explodes! His body collapses on top of the skinless one’s. They embrace, their blood merges as one stream. The Earth drinks and cries.
The skinless ones. They crush my baby’s skull with stone. Yesterday he said, “Mama.” They rape my aunt. They spit on her, scratch her face and slice off her breasts with their wolves’ claws. They drag her ravaged body behind their horses. They slice her neck but her eyes are open. They laugh, their mouths move. They chew us up and spit us out. Their smiles are stained with blood, coating their teeth like oil. They carry our scalps on the point of their sword, mocking our way. I cannot see anymore.
Nothing but red.
It consumes me. I cannot cry but my soul weeps. I cannot moan but my soul wails.
Where is my mother? I forget. Where have all the buffalo gone? My heart hurts. I am so tired. My eyes hurt. I do not like the red. But I cannot close my eyes. Blood, the Earth’s breath stinks of burnt blood, like copper. The skinless ones taste the red too. Some of them hesitate because of it. Most are propelled by it. I cannot see the blue sky. There’s too much red. I cannot see the buffalo. Too much red. I cannot see the Earth. Too much red. I cannot see my mother.
Too much red.
I cannot taste her milk. I gag on metallic blood. My mother’s blood. The skinless one’s blood. The buffalo’s blood. My blood. The Earth swallows it all. I want water. But the red is too dense, thick like cotton. I cannot breathe. Singing. Who is singing? I need to taste the singing. I want to taste that song. I need to hear the milk. I can hardly feel it when they take my scalp. My eyes are open! But I don’t care.
Who is singing? I have to touch it…I reach out for it with my mind. I have to have it. Her song carries me away. It is mine. She whispers to me that she will take me to the buffalo, where the milk and the water are. Where the red won’t hurt my eyes. Where the red can’t clog my throat.
She says that my mother is there.
She says that my sister and father are there.
She says my aunt is there. And my sweet, sweet baby too. But she cannot carry me there until the red is gone. Until we are set free.
So still I wait.
He found a creative piece I wrote less than 2 months after I turned 17 for one of my two history classes during senior year of high school. I was enrolled in 2 history classes - 1 IB World History class and 1 "remedial" US History for the easy A to make up for my dismal grade in IB US History the year prior.
The teacher asked us to write from the perspective of the Native Americans during the European colonization of the United States. I think I was a bit liberal with the prompt and wrote in a style loosely inspired by Toni Morrison's Beloved since we had read it for IB English. Since the hard drive crash, I have been looking for a copy of this piece ever since.
I not only turned it in and got an A, I printed it out in red italics - AND read it out loud to the class for extra credit. It's a fucking wonder they didn't send me straight to the school psychologist:
Chance Hilott
US History – 6
Where the Buffalo Are
Her side rises with my head against it. I lay my head on the soft down of my mother, ensanguined with blood. Mine and hers, our blood, it bleeds into the milk she leaks. Precious, life-giving elixir, tainted with blood, human and animal. I hear the Earth our bodies rest upon, the Earth which we cannot separate ourselves from, I hear her cry out, drink in our blood. She observes her own children go mad with greed, with fury. She weeps. The breath snorting through my mother’s nostrils fades. We see red and are blinded by it.
We cannot do a thing.
My mother and I. We cannot close our eyes. The men without skin scalp my sister. I see her fall to her knees before me, her eyes meet my lifeless ones before she falls silently to kiss the Earth. Her blood feeds the Earth too. My mother’s body shudders. I shudder.
There…I see my father wrapped in the red mist. He wrestles with the skinless one. Something happens, and the skinless one falls. My father wipes his brow as he watches the Earth drink the blood of her skinless son. My father explodes! His body collapses on top of the skinless one’s. They embrace, their blood merges as one stream. The Earth drinks and cries.
The skinless ones. They crush my baby’s skull with stone. Yesterday he said, “Mama.” They rape my aunt. They spit on her, scratch her face and slice off her breasts with their wolves’ claws. They drag her ravaged body behind their horses. They slice her neck but her eyes are open. They laugh, their mouths move. They chew us up and spit us out. Their smiles are stained with blood, coating their teeth like oil. They carry our scalps on the point of their sword, mocking our way. I cannot see anymore.
Nothing but red.
It consumes me. I cannot cry but my soul weeps. I cannot moan but my soul wails.
Where is my mother? I forget. Where have all the buffalo gone? My heart hurts. I am so tired. My eyes hurt. I do not like the red. But I cannot close my eyes. Blood, the Earth’s breath stinks of burnt blood, like copper. The skinless ones taste the red too. Some of them hesitate because of it. Most are propelled by it. I cannot see the blue sky. There’s too much red. I cannot see the buffalo. Too much red. I cannot see the Earth. Too much red. I cannot see my mother.
Too much red.
I cannot taste her milk. I gag on metallic blood. My mother’s blood. The skinless one’s blood. The buffalo’s blood. My blood. The Earth swallows it all. I want water. But the red is too dense, thick like cotton. I cannot breathe. Singing. Who is singing? I need to taste the singing. I want to taste that song. I need to hear the milk. I can hardly feel it when they take my scalp. My eyes are open! But I don’t care.
Who is singing? I have to touch it…I reach out for it with my mind. I have to have it. Her song carries me away. It is mine. She whispers to me that she will take me to the buffalo, where the milk and the water are. Where the red won’t hurt my eyes. Where the red can’t clog my throat.
She says that my mother is there.
She says that my sister and father are there.
She says my aunt is there. And my sweet, sweet baby too. But she cannot carry me there until the red is gone. Until we are set free.
So still I wait.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Old poems to mourn and smile for
Unholy
Subtle to start.
Oily. Raw.
You are newly-birthed silk,
between these restless fingertips.
I tease you
into something resembling threads
like rosary beads, one prayer a peace.
Discount price
for shortlived relief
and long overdue release.
Syllables tremble,
tangle once they leave these lips,
and another bead down from a knot that grows
with life of its own
leaves me sore
all over,
brings me
closer,
to something holier than
I've ever known.
Tonatzin
I am
so tired and I can't sleep
Because this hollow inside
won't cave into closure
Refuses to live and let live
An ache
for a homeland
for
a place to embrace and be embraced
no questions asked!
I want to danza
To dance,
to tickle Tonatzin with my bare toes
And feel her sigh
inside my heart
inside my womb
To call her and you and I my other eye
Like the Mayans did
I want to be strong
Indestructible
Not to be yet another
successful case of
assimilation
I want to love
and not perpetuate
de-evolution of
my ancestors
The great big US
did not have room for us
for my mother
for my grandmother
Who out of fear
out of love
Stuck a key in their faces
Where a mouth used to be
Quietly turned it so it stuck
And kept secrets inside
From their children,
from me
Before they died
And I'm left motherless
Grandmotherless
Without my rightful herstory
Always
Burning breath, velvet tongue
heavy with cheap beer
aftertaste
and
incessant need,
filling empty spaces I did not know I had.
I, callow, could not always stand to see
hunger
in those eyes,
so I closed mine and
just felt you meld into me
all over,
pulling you into me.
Hands beautiful
for drawing me closer to what I did not think I would
ever have,
did not have
in the end.
Throbbing heat pressed hard to
rhythms
I've never heard before.
Even the afterembrace the next afternoon,
while we were sober, I could have spent the day in,
connected to you
at the solar plexus
and pelvis.
I loved how your energy played with mine
coaxing,
like we were still lying in bed.
Ephemeral love meaning
nothing
and meaning
everything,
not deep enough to drown in
but deep enough
to change this ache
into a
different sort.
Who knew that when you said
"always", you meant it
and didn't?
Five syllables
Pentagonal, boxy
Five fingers grasping clay
Misshapen and gray as identity
Kneading dough, needing something to
Hold on to
Five
Sex-u-al-i-ty
One, as in SEX
Two, as in YOU
Three, as in ALL
Four, as in I
Five, as in TEE as in "fits 'you', 'all', and 'I' to a 'tee'"
Bullshit
Fuck your geometry
I don't knead you so don't knead me
I am woman hear me roar while I kiss my wife on the lips
But don't start nodding just yet because
I am not the L of your LGBT
At sixteen, I was the B of your LGBT
Bisexual and then I said call me biaffectional because sex
ain't all us non-heteros have to give
I believe in love, I said, I believe in love
No I am NOT my sexuality
I am me
I am not that lesbian woman
I am not that bisexual woman
I am certainly not that hetero woman
I just am
A woman, biologically as well as in heart
A human in love with another human
A soul in love with another soul
I am a woman who writes, who thinks, who talks,
who bleeds from her CUNT, who scars
I am a woman who loves painting words to fly, who fights for justice, a woman of substance of color of consciousness
I am Chance who is bisexual, no biaffectional, no call me monogamous
Monogamous and in love.
Because I believe in love
Because I refuse to let bi label polarity limit all the love I have to give
to two sexes,
to two genders
to "either or," to "this or that,"
two measley out of so many delectable choices,
countless humans with identities defying gravity
Defying polarity
Defying pentagonal boxes with five syllables, two genders and a handful of choices that weigh in clay, comfortably in grasping hand, palattable to most tongues
Like I said, fuck that geometry
I am me and tripping over pre-made labels imprisons me to vernacular
So when you ask me about my sexuality
When you ask me about my sexual preference, preference as if it were some masochistic choice
I will respond, "Hello, my name is Chance. I believe in love and I am monogamous."
The first time
That night our fingers grazed forbidden skins. Creeping as silk over these surfaces and then piercing deep, deep down into some shivery, dark, warm, wet, throbbing place, like strung darts.
You wove through me. It was your web and I span and undulated with it. Rising and falling, each passing car in the night rocking us gently like waves. This was our ship and we were floating somewhere in the cosmos. Your breathing, heavier and scratchy in the silence of the car, echoing over and over inside my head. So slow, so careful, nothing could break it now. I wanted you. You wanted me. I'd seen you look at me like that before as though your eyes were magnets and my movements some polar attraction for them. I couldn't figure it out at the time, why you followed me with those eyes, why you were the first to respond to whatever I'd say, why you were so concerned, so intent on making me laugh.
But it clicked that night. That was love. Desire. Adoration. Heat. And here I was cuddled up at your right side as you looked down on me with an expression seeming a slight smile but too easily covering up something running deep, organically sprawled as a galaxy or a neural network and, just as complex. Blinking up at you and afraid at every flick of eyelash you'd disappear----or that you'd still be there and this was real. So wet down there, so swollen, heart in every part of my body because it was too soon afterward but somehow too long in the making. Nervous, excited, scared, sad, happy, guilty. Guilty guilty guilty.
Did you want to kiss me? Oh yes. Tattooed all over your face, in the hands you kept trickling over me in so many aching streams of want. Knowing it left me parched and dizzy, a sudden flare....down there and then massaging squeeze to keep the flood to a minimum. Over and over, the "noyesnoyesnoyes" drum hitting me from inside, bruising me and all I needed was that kiss to take the pain away and replace it with another, much more delicious sort of pain.
I shifted close with your breath fanning my face, your torso expanding into me, contracting and pulling me into you, further, further. Nuzzling my ear into your heartbeat that said "yesyesyesyesyesitsokaybecauseiloveyouan
Subtle to start.
Oily. Raw.
You are newly-birthed silk,
between these restless fingertips.
I tease you
into something resembling threads
like rosary beads, one prayer a peace.
Discount price
for shortlived relief
and long overdue release.
Syllables tremble,
tangle once they leave these lips,
and another bead down from a knot that grows
with life of its own
leaves me sore
all over,
brings me
closer,
to something holier than
I've ever known.
Tonatzin
I am
so tired and I can't sleep
Because this hollow inside
won't cave into closure
Refuses to live and let live
An ache
for a homeland
for
a place to embrace and be embraced
no questions asked!
I want to danza
To dance,
to tickle Tonatzin with my bare toes
And feel her sigh
inside my heart
inside my womb
To call her and you and I my other eye
Like the Mayans did
I want to be strong
Indestructible
Not to be yet another
successful case of
assimilation
I want to love
and not perpetuate
de-evolution of
my ancestors
The great big US
did not have room for us
for my mother
for my grandmother
Who out of fear
out of love
Stuck a key in their faces
Where a mouth used to be
Quietly turned it so it stuck
And kept secrets inside
From their children,
from me
Before they died
And I'm left motherless
Grandmotherless
Without my rightful herstory
Always
Burning breath, velvet tongue
heavy with cheap beer
aftertaste
and
incessant need,
filling empty spaces I did not know I had.
I, callow, could not always stand to see
hunger
in those eyes,
so I closed mine and
just felt you meld into me
all over,
pulling you into me.
Hands beautiful
for drawing me closer to what I did not think I would
ever have,
did not have
in the end.
Throbbing heat pressed hard to
rhythms
I've never heard before.
Even the afterembrace the next afternoon,
while we were sober, I could have spent the day in,
connected to you
at the solar plexus
and pelvis.
I loved how your energy played with mine
coaxing,
like we were still lying in bed.
Ephemeral love meaning
nothing
and meaning
everything,
not deep enough to drown in
but deep enough
to change this ache
into a
different sort.
Who knew that when you said
"always", you meant it
and didn't?
Automatic typing?
fingers toes hands brazen skill
these are the parts you were given to connect with the one, the supreme all there is. like tadpoles seeking the frogs you are the one to feel us swim by, yearn to leap as we leap and you will, you are, you have. nothing can stop you from being you but you. and even then you will always be. you. don't hesitate with the being. go with the flow and you will know it has always been this way. we want to serve you we want to hold you we want to protect you guide you love you but we will never interfere or challenge. bring us down into your realm and we will always come to your aide. even when your thoughts are elsewhere we come to you watch over you. you are so loved by us and once you reconnect you will see you have always loved us too. this world made you forget but there is no harm done. we'll be the old friend whose name you forgot in MNWAI your amnesia. holding your hand until you wake up talking to YOU through this dream you call waking life. do what needs to be done for you your soul's purpose and we will give you strength. make you aware of your own strength. do not be afraid to live outside of the beekeeepr's cage. there might be stinging but you are sturdy enough to survive it. your were meant to survive it. what you will.
Five syllables
Pentagonal, boxy
Five fingers grasping clay
Misshapen and gray as identity
Kneading dough, needing something to
Hold on to
Five
Sex-u-al-i-ty
One, as in SEX
Two, as in YOU
Three, as in ALL
Four, as in I
Five, as in TEE as in "fits 'you', 'all', and 'I' to a 'tee'"
Bullshit
Fuck your geometry
I don't knead you so don't knead me
I am woman hear me roar while I kiss my wife on the lips
But don't start nodding just yet because
I am not the L of your LGBT
At sixteen, I was the B of your LGBT
Bisexual and then I said call me biaffectional because sex
ain't all us non-heteros have to give
I believe in love, I said, I believe in love
No I am NOT my sexuality
I am me
I am not that lesbian woman
I am not that bisexual woman
I am certainly not that hetero woman
I just am
A woman, biologically as well as in heart
A human in love with another human
A soul in love with another soul
I am a woman who writes, who thinks, who talks,
who bleeds from her CUNT, who scars
I am a woman who loves painting words to fly, who fights for justice, a woman of substance of color of consciousness
I am Chance who is bisexual, no biaffectional, no call me monogamous
Monogamous and in love.
Because I believe in love
Because I refuse to let bi label polarity limit all the love I have to give
to two sexes,
to two genders
to "either or," to "this or that,"
two measley out of so many delectable choices,
countless humans with identities defying gravity
Defying polarity
Defying pentagonal boxes with five syllables, two genders and a handful of choices that weigh in clay, comfortably in grasping hand, palattable to most tongues
Like I said, fuck that geometry
I am me and tripping over pre-made labels imprisons me to vernacular
So when you ask me about my sexuality
When you ask me about my sexual preference, preference as if it were some masochistic choice
I will respond, "Hello, my name is Chance. I believe in love and I am monogamous."
The first time
That night our fingers grazed forbidden skins. Creeping as silk over these surfaces and then piercing deep, deep down into some shivery, dark, warm, wet, throbbing place, like strung darts.
You wove through me. It was your web and I span and undulated with it. Rising and falling, each passing car in the night rocking us gently like waves. This was our ship and we were floating somewhere in the cosmos. Your breathing, heavier and scratchy in the silence of the car, echoing over and over inside my head. So slow, so careful, nothing could break it now. I wanted you. You wanted me. I'd seen you look at me like that before as though your eyes were magnets and my movements some polar attraction for them. I couldn't figure it out at the time, why you followed me with those eyes, why you were the first to respond to whatever I'd say, why you were so concerned, so intent on making me laugh.
But it clicked that night. That was love. Desire. Adoration. Heat. And here I was cuddled up at your right side as you looked down on me with an expression seeming a slight smile but too easily covering up something running deep, organically sprawled as a galaxy or a neural network and, just as complex. Blinking up at you and afraid at every flick of eyelash you'd disappear----or that you'd still be there and this was real. So wet down there, so swollen, heart in every part of my body because it was too soon afterward but somehow too long in the making. Nervous, excited, scared, sad, happy, guilty. Guilty guilty guilty.
Did you want to kiss me? Oh yes. Tattooed all over your face, in the hands you kept trickling over me in so many aching streams of want. Knowing it left me parched and dizzy, a sudden flare....down there and then massaging squeeze to keep the flood to a minimum. Over and over, the "noyesnoyesnoyes" drum hitting me from inside, bruising me and all I needed was that kiss to take the pain away and replace it with another, much more delicious sort of pain.
I shifted close with your breath fanning my face, your torso expanding into me, contracting and pulling me into you, further, further. Nuzzling my ear into your heartbeat that said "yesyesyesyesyesitsokaybecauseiloveyouan
It was like a loud whisper becoming a steady moan. You were the brave one. Electric, yes. Silk, yes. YOU, yes! Lips wrapping around each others' and velvet tongues moving, roaming, reminding us of other velvety places now open to touch, to keep, to taste, to kiss like this, to love.
I long for you to kiss me like that again. For you to touch me as you did that night. To look at me like I was the gift you'd been waiting for but never thought you'd get in a million years.
I still want you, baby. I'm just waiting....waiting for you to want me back again.
Marshmallow eyes
Marshmallow eyes, too swollen and soft to do anything.
Melt, maybe.
Poetry saws back and forth between millions of synapses and all I can do is lay here, listening to purple and black bruises pump out of the speakers. I'd rather just straddle her paintbrush lyrics than move from this dent. I let my own severed words trickle like blood all down the stairs of my mind in exchange for floating away on someone else's sung ones. It's easier that way but I imagine I have the energy to write it all down anyway. I don't, so I wallow in the pool I've created instead.
This bed is caving in slow motion. The sawing continues, I can't cry. More poetry falls off and melts, I don't understand. What am I supposed to do with this cut up alphabet? I'm confused and I just don't know. The letters fall through my fingers like sand, gritty and salty like the tears that never come, a worn metaphor that beckons me closer.
Maybe I cry in my sleep. Maybe that's why I have marshmallow eyes today. Maybe that's why I have no memory of it. I dreamt of coughing up a yellow pool of phlegmn into the sink. It only felt like a teaspoon's worth, if that, but when I coughed it up, it was enough to fill a medium soup bowl.
Love, love, love that's why I throw things around the house today. It's a silly thing. No, I didn't really throw things around the house today, but at the time, the idea sounded like it would relieve it. But I know: it would have made me feel worse.
POP
The world is strange.
Borders are dishsoap bubbles at a glancing touch.
Daynight slithers through my fingers
in ribbons,
nuzzling, licking the crooks
between digits, sinuous.
Transition, glisten.
Just...
listen.
One pulse.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
My mascara love affair
I am on a journey to find the perfect mascara. It's a terrible addiction.
As with every journey, mine started somewhere - at the foot of my mother's bed. When I was little, my mother's make-up ritual fascinated me. I often found myself kneeling on her bedroom carpet with my head propped up in hands, elbows sunken into the mattress. At the head of the bed, she would sit with one leg curled under her, meticulously combing a mascara brush through her eyelashes.
"Chance, if you ever want to use one piece of make-up, go for mascara - it makes anyone look prettier."
She wholeheartedly encouraged me to practice applying make-up. Her theory was that I was going to experiment with it sooner or later, and she would not want to force me into the position she found herself in at my age - hastily applying make-up at the bus stop before school and then having to scrub it off in the school bathroom before returning home to her mother.
"We all want to look pretty," she told me, "and though I think you're already pretty, you won't believe me because I am your mother. If you're going to put on make-up, I want you to be able to do it properly and with the right colors. Lord knows, I went to school many a time looking like a kabuki actor trying to figure it out on my own." So began the love affair with mascara.
Though I have no intention of becoming a review blogger, I'm thinking I'll use this blog to post my reviews of some mascaras I've tried since I swear of experimented with every brand on the market. Who knows - maybe I'll also include other beauty product reviews. With my HUGE hair, hair product reviews might also be in store.
As with every journey, mine started somewhere - at the foot of my mother's bed. When I was little, my mother's make-up ritual fascinated me. I often found myself kneeling on her bedroom carpet with my head propped up in hands, elbows sunken into the mattress. At the head of the bed, she would sit with one leg curled under her, meticulously combing a mascara brush through her eyelashes.
"Chance, if you ever want to use one piece of make-up, go for mascara - it makes anyone look prettier."
She wholeheartedly encouraged me to practice applying make-up. Her theory was that I was going to experiment with it sooner or later, and she would not want to force me into the position she found herself in at my age - hastily applying make-up at the bus stop before school and then having to scrub it off in the school bathroom before returning home to her mother.
"We all want to look pretty," she told me, "and though I think you're already pretty, you won't believe me because I am your mother. If you're going to put on make-up, I want you to be able to do it properly and with the right colors. Lord knows, I went to school many a time looking like a kabuki actor trying to figure it out on my own." So began the love affair with mascara.
Though I have no intention of becoming a review blogger, I'm thinking I'll use this blog to post my reviews of some mascaras I've tried since I swear of experimented with every brand on the market. Who knows - maybe I'll also include other beauty product reviews. With my HUGE hair, hair product reviews might also be in store.
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