Being Your Own...

Y’all already know my taste in men is questionable to say the least. 

On top of that, I am a true romantic at heart. I still want my knight in shining armor to ride up on his stallion and whisk me away. I dream of getting flowers “just because” at work, and grinning from ear to ear when I come home to surprises. 

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Broken Pieces

When I was a little girl I loved puzzles. It could be an actual puzzle from the dollar store, one on my brand new computer that my aunt and grandmother purchased for me, a word puzzle, connect-the-dots, even the one from Cracker Barrel that called me an ig-no-ra-mous if I left more than 3 pegs — anything that I had to figure out, I wanted to do it. 

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For Black Babies...

I teach at a high school in the middle of the hood. 100% of our students are black, and 100% live in or are subjected to poverty on a daily basis. They face traumas that seem unreal, grown folk problems at 14, and reading scores that make my job nearly impossible to do. But there is one thing that stands out to me as the most uphill battle. 

My babies don’t know who they are. 

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Not Just Sad

“I am so sick of people saying they’re depressed! That mess is not real!”

That is an actual quote from someone that I had grown to respect as they spoke to my class. I sat, numb, because in my head there was an all-out war happening, and it wasn’t just two sides. 

Nah, they don’t mean that. 

Is that true? Am I overdoing it? 

HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT FOOLISHNESS!

Breathe, Laquasha, breathe. 

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Writing the Vision...

I have always loved to write. I was one of those girls who begged their mother to buy those journals with the cheap locks from the Scholastic Book Fairs and I would put it in my Lisa Frank bag and carry it and my gel pens everywhere. Every. Where. 

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Holding On to My Faith

Over the past few months I’ve read a few Op-Eds about millennials leaving churches but continuing to believe, or about what millennials need out of Christianity, or why we don’t participate in service like folk think we should. I’ve read it, rolled my eyes, and felt stuck between a rock and a hard place.

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Learning Me, Again

November is over, thank God.

It was a helluva month for me, and although I made it through, I still feel it. I feel the remnants of what November showed me, and what I learned about myself for the millionth time in my 27 years of life.

I am not superwoman.

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Black Girl Breaks Down

I wrote the title of this piece then got on Facebook because I was afraid to tell the truth. Let me start from the beginning, though. Maybe it will help. Maybe you’ll understand. Maybe I’ll understand.

Seven years ago my hurt was given a name: depression. Two years later anxiety jumped on board. Monday I had a mental breakdown.

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