This is the story of a boy and a girl. Nightly, she sat behind her computer in the Midwest typing her poems into the ether and he sat at his monitor on the East Coast sharing his words with the world. Through online forums, instant messages, and e-mails the boy and the girl learned each other’s hearts and fell in love. They planned a life together via web browsers and moved from the ether into the physical. They married, created, and loved. Their lives, online and off, intertwined. 

This is the story of a boy and a girl now trying to disconnect the threads of their lives. 

I've been in an emotional rut for a while now. Some would call this a quarter life crisis, but I'd prefer to call it Valerie's Time of Reflection. Feeling lost and even depressed, I've pulled out every self-help book I could get my hands on. I'm not a die-hard supporter of self-titled life gurus telling others how to live their lives, but I felt that maybe someone's inspirational jargon could rekindle my dwindling inner flame . Up until last week, none of them were doing the trick. I wasn't here for writers telling me to "follow my bliss" and all that other Oprah and Deepak Chopra-esque stuff. I felt as if I followed my bliss, only to end up in a place that feels one-couch-more-comfortable than Hades' underworld.

Three weeks ago, I declared via Twitter that I am a womanist. It wasn’t the simplest conclusion to arrive at, despite the fact that I attend a historical black college designed to educate and empower women. I had never identified as a womanist, feminist, or what I perceived as a “bra-burning, equality-seeking, angry woman who hates men.” I considered womanism and feminism to be direct contrasts to the values I cherish as a woman.

I have been thinking a lot about the representation of black bodies in black films and how that reflects on the black community. As I start to go through the list in my head (Precious, For Colored Girls, and the host of Tyler Perry films) I realize that many of these films that are suppose to highlight and celebrate the black experience on the contrary reaffirm and assert damaging stereotypes about black women and black men.

My father’s skin is a rich cocoa-brown color, and my mother is fair-skinned with light brown freckles, and natural red highlights in her hair. Her great-grandmother, Sara, was the daughter of a slave woman and her master. In a photo I saw of her, she appeared white and had braids that hung down to the center of her chest. Because she married a man who was also the child of his master, her daughter (my great-grandma Ethel) was fair-skinned as well.

Little Brother,

Have I ever told you how amazing you are? Not in the infantile, often obligatory sense that looms over the head of an older sister confronted with questions about her siblings. Little Brother, you are amazing because you teach me how to be brave. Although, I doubt you realize this super strength with which you are endowed.

I think by now most of us (due to the power and magic of the internet) have watched the clips of Makode Aj Linde's performance art piece at Moderna Museet. Acting as the screaming head of a cake formed as a caricatured black woman, Linde insists that his piece was meant to shed light on female genital circumcision. Yet, I, as well as others, felt that circumcision was the last thing his live art was bringing focus on.

As a kid, I often felt voiceless. I didn't grow up in one of those TV drama homes where we discussed our feelings. I've always been opinionated, but I, like many Black women, was taught to turn emotional affairs inward. Subsequently, I became a great actress and fooled most everyone I encountered for the majority of my life. And then my house of cards came tumbling down during my third year of college.

It was during that time that I founded For Harriet and discovered storytelling saves lives. I don't believe in coincidences. That this forum launched at the time my life fell apart isn't lucky. Put simply: a blog, this blog, saved me.

I don't think there is a day that goes by that the state of black love/relationships is not discussed/debated on my Twitter timeline. The conversations tend to be redundant and circular, providing little to no new information or insight. Yet, a tweet from last week in this general context has been sitting in the back of mind, continually churning the wheels of analysis in my brain.

For Harriet wouldn't be possible without our crew of dedicated supporters. Thank you all so much for commenting, tweeting, and Facebooking your support as we continue to celebrate the fullness of Black women.

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Here’s the truth: I am not a Nicki Minaj fan. Whatsoever. In fact, I am one of Roman Zolanski’s harshest women critics. I might nod my head to “Superbass” on occasion because the beat is catchy, but I mostly engage in heated debates about her endless lack of talent and the hypersexualization of her image. Whenever she appears on MTV, BET, Fuse, and the host of other networks that seem to feature her once a month, I quickly change the channel. I might flip to Basketball Wives, which is equally as ignorant, but at least I’ll retain more brain cells. That was harsh.  I know. But, it conveys the point, right?

One.

The evening is beautiful. The air is cool and if I listen closely enough I can hear the leaves rustling even from four floors up. Every once in awhile there is the ding of the Riverline on the tracks circling the building and the occasional voice rising. The Camden skyline and the shore of Philadelphia are framed in the windows. In the distance, a tall ship blinks its mast lights before they remain a solid red. They are a warning for small aircraft that dare soar this late in the evening. Later, when I think of this night, I will remember this view and hold onto its beauty.

I cheated on you in Chicago.

I want to trust the police. Actually I need to trust the police. But right now I don't.

As a single woman of small stature I know there may likely come a time when I make an emergency call, and when the officers come I want to be sure of the fact that the men or women commissioned to protect me are going to do so. But my faith in law enforcement is at an all-time low.

I had never read a Hunger Games book when I went to watch the movie a few weeks ago. I enjoyed the movie, as I do most. There weren’t many black characters, but I found myself really impressed with the ones that were there. They were not playing stereotypical roles, they were complex, and on the whole, the most sympathetic characters in the film. As it turns out, that was a problem. Tweens took twitter by storm outraged that the fan favourite, Rue, was played by a black actress. The tweets fell along the spectrum of expressing surprise to KKK-esque. Somewhere in the middle of that spectrum was this young man who tweeted: “Kk call me racist but when I found out rue was black her death wasn’t as sad #ihatemyself”.

If you've been following me on twitter for the past month, you probably have had to sit through my tweets lamenting a horrible case of writer's block. As a last ditch effort to breakthrough my mental obstacle, I decided to attend a creative writing class this past Wednesday. I wasn't expecting much, probably a few awkward writing exercises that would resemble my fifth grade Mavis Beacon lessons. However, what I walked away with has given me a new perspective on not only my writing but how many of us (including moi) approach life.

The story of Trayvon Martin has not only outraged many of us, it has also unraveled our hope that racial prejudice in America is ending. The fact that a 200 pound white Hispanic man exited his SUV, followed and eventually gunned down an unarmed teenage black male pedestrian without facing any legal repercussions whatsoever baffles us. Trayvon Martin, with his baby-face and scrawny 140 pound adolescent frame, was a victim of what seems to be a mucky cocktail of racism or prejudice, vigilantism and just plain tragedy. Many of us are disgusted that George Zimmerman, our fellow American, appears to view boys who look like Trayvon Martin as "suspicious" "assholes" who "always get away." However, fewer of us are taking this opportunity to examine our own prejudices.

The other day, I came across a story about French business titan, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and his new, sexually related charges of "pimping" women in France. If the name sounds familiar to you, it's because Strauss-Kahn was accused of raping an African chambermaid, Nafissatou Diallo, in a New York City hotel last year. The story made world-wide headlines, as the business man was, at the time, head of the International Monetary Fund and a possible contender for the French presidency. Although, Strauss-Kahn had quite the history of sexual harassment and lewd behavior prior to this event, many in the media sought and succeeded in destroying Ms. Diallo's credibility and claims. Strauss-Kahn had all charges in this case dropped in August of 2011.