It’s OK To Not Be OK.

Hey y’all, I know its been a while. I’m going to be honest with you. I haven’t felt motivated or inspired to write a blog post for some time now. A lot has changed for me personally. First off, new blog name. I love fashion and style blogging, but I’m not exclusively that. I want to be able to write and talk about anything. This is my platform for expressing my opinions and experiences, and I appreciate you following along my journey. According to Fallon seemed like a better fit for what I want this blog to be. I want to be able to laugh and cry and be silly with you, but right now is not the time for that.

During quarantine, we lived this groundhog’s day over and over of nothing bad, but nothing spectacular in our day to day life as the Covid-19 death toll continued to rise. I spent time with my family—reconnecting and disconnecting was great, but it quickly grew tiresome and there was truly nothing I had to say.  Quarantine ended and phase one began. We all returned to work if we were fortunate enough to still have jobs, and things got overwhelming.  Going from no set schedule to returning to a routine was difficult. I was not one of those Quaranqueens who had a set schedule and nailed down the day to day.  I was tired, overwhelmed and scared.  Covid-19 is still a very real threat, and to add yet another senseless murder of an unarmed Black person to the mix…well I was not prepared for the emotions that would soon overtake me.  

I have not, and will not watch the video of George Floyd’s murder.  I do not need to see video proof to believe it happened AGAIN.  I have been trying to gather my thoughts on the matter, and the truth is I cannot.  Every time I think I know what I want to say, I think of something to add. Memories have been surfacing of my own past experiences with racism and I just cry instead.  As I get older, I notice when I’m experiencing racism far more quickly, and way too often.  I look back on different memories starting from childhood, and now have the cognitive ability to realize what I had suppressed for so long.  I’m going to share with you a few examples from my own life.

A little backstory, I was born in New Orleans, but at the age of 3 moved with my family to Agoura Hills, California.  We were one of a very few Black families in the area at this time (1989) A couple years later I started at the nearby elementary school as the only Black child. Yes, the ONLY one, until I graduated in the 5th grade, a little boy was starting kindergarten.  Now it was indeed southern California, so there was a mix of Asian and Hispanic kids as well, but remember, I was the ONLY Black child.  None of these kids outright made me feel different, until the moment they did.  Now another little tidbit, my father is a musician, but he was also a hair stylist.  I add this to say that my hair was always neatly combed and curled or styled. Daily my parents took the time to make sure that I was dressed and ready to go to school.  I can list multiple instances, but I will focus on two.  One evening I spent the night at a friend’s house because my parents had an event to attend. I distinctly remember my dad saying “Have fun, but remember, don’t go swimming. I won’t be able to fix your hair before school tomorrow”. The second I got to my friends house she said “do you want to go swimming?’ And of course I was a kid….we dove in the pool with the quickness!  Her mother attempted to wash my hair that night, but it was a complete disaster.  My hair is thick and extremely course in its natural form. Her mother attempted to braid parts of my hair to “lay it down” but it just kept getting worse.  The next day at school kids made fun of me. Calling me “pillow head” and “fluff ball”  among other names. I don’t remember crying about it, but I spent most of that day alone in the corner with my best friend (not the girl whose house I slept at the previous night). As soon as my dad picked me up that day he said “So I see you went swimming…” and that was it. We went home, he fixed my hair, and the next day I definitely gave a hair toss and kept it moving. If I recall correctly, this was 1st or 2nd grade.  

Another experience I had came later in the 4th or 5th grade. From the very beginning, My teacher had it out for me.  I made poor grades in her class when other children doing equal or lesser work seemed to do better than me. I became frustrated and stopped trying to do well.  I continued coming to school put together. I had my clique of friends and everything else seemed to be going well, but one day this teacher sent home a note with me requesting a meeting with my parents.  In this note she said that I dressed too nicely and made the other kids feel bad about themselves.  My dad was always the classroom parent helper and the field trip volunteer chaperone, but this time my mother wanted to show up and take this meeting.  She being the no nonsense strong woman that she is, tore my teacher a new one.  I later in life got a bit of personal gratification when I ran into a friend of this teacher (small small world) back in New Orleans of course, but I let her know to “Tell Mrs. ___ That Fallon Lewis says hello and that I’m doing well.” 

 There are many other instances that I have personally experienced, but to be honest, just writing this and going back to that headspace is EXHAUSTING. I am more than happy to have conversations about the topic, but just know that my experience will be different from yours. I see a lot of people trying to discredit other people and their stories, but we should not have to stay silent. I have spent the majority of my life just trying to fit in to my surroundings and make other people feel comfortable. I’m done. It’s true (for the most part) that you get wiser as you get older. Through losing friends and making new ones and finding my circle, I now see that I don’t have to be anyone other than myself. And in my experience I also acknowledge that I have the “privilege” of looking “exotic.” I am without a doubt a Black woman and it’s astonishing how many people have tried to assign me other ethnicities. I’ve had a man tell me “Oh no, come on, what are you? You’re not Black.” Why do I need to argue with strangers over my heritage. Literally he didn’t believe me.  Sir, your “pickup line” isn’t working, move along. Keep in mind, I was dating my now husband at the time, and stating that I had a boyfriend was not enough to make him go away.  THAT is a whole other topic of conversation for another day.

I’m going to end on this note: listen to the stories you hear from your Black friends. We have all at some point experienced racism either passively or aggressively. Listen and be open to changing your way of thinking.