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telling
my stories through stories
becoming an effective communicator is essential to every career path and every potential employer. Earning my MBA at babson has crafted my skillset to become a master at communication through a business lens. learning how to story tell through marketing, data science, and entrepreneurship locally and globally grounds me in a different version of strength behind my words. the more i learn, the more i can connect to people.
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My Story Posts
My BLACK Mom #1: The Start.
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I saw a protest sign that read, “When George Floyd cried out for his mom, ALL moms should be out.”
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In my life, talking about race and racism is a daily occurrence if not on my social media it is in person. Yes, I’m tired, exhausted with this heighten awareness from White people and some POCs. Actions should already be present. My heart hurts the most. Educating other of the relevance of Black Lives in corrupt and problematic systems. Defending my smile. Arguing about the existence of my body in hopes for others to not kill me and/or anymore of my people.
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So I will tell 30 days worth of stories about my BLACK mom and I in addition to being present in protests, educating ALL who will listen, and continuing to educate myself on how to dismantle systems and create new ones.
I love my mom. I became a photographer at the age of 15 when I picked up a film camera at BBN and told myself that I would shoot my neighborhood to prove that is was beautiful too. My mom is beautiful and she will tell you, “I am beautifully broken.” She is human. She calls my photographing “creepin.” I would try to be sly on the click and capture the candid moment where magic and stories intertwined. She knew. But still would yell at me to go outside, go creep, be safe.
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I was 15. My final project. Self Portraits. Didn’t have a tripod. So, we stacked books on top of a salon chair my mom got some how. We fussed. Remembering Mrs. Dobson’s words. Contrast. Your skin appears differently in film. Watch your light.
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How many times I sat on the toilet and watched my mom put on her makeup in the mirror or do someone else’s? The friends. Family. The conversations about love and opportunity that happened in that bathroom. The laughs. The gems that would fall from my moms lips when applying an eyelash, that final sprits of perfume, or my grandmother cackling on speaker phone. My mom loves me. She loves my sister. The family we acquired. The family she was born into. The family she deemed family. She taught me love. She says, “I have a lot of love to give. Don’t worry.”
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Everyone deserves LOVE. Every BLACK person deserves love.
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#blacklivesmatter #allblacklivesmatter
Thailand #32: Falling in Love.
Planned a trip to Thailand as a graduation gift to myself 3.5 years ago. But, family deaths and life pushed it back. I had a moment and I’m here breathing. Learning.
In a hostel. Room 301. Mixed women and men. Swiss-Germans. Thai. Austrians. Then one night my roommates were two men from France one 35, one 58, and an Arab man from Jordan who is 29.
It’s bedtime. Everyone is making light movements except for my man Jordan who is extremely drunk. Drunk Jordan decides to bother me. “Hey, why do you have all those books on the floor? Whatcha reading?” I do have my books about black women and self-love.
“You want to read some poetry out loud for me?” Thought I would get some laughs and maybe he’ll go to bed.
“No. Let Frenchy 35 read. He has the better accent.” Frenchy 35 is currently reading his own book but says he will read my favorite poem. He reads it. Thinks out loud. Then he reads from his own book out loud in French.
He explains, “I want to learn how to be a better man in relationships.” Frenchy 58 sits quietly. Drunk Jordan asks Frenchy 35, “What do you think about love?”
I learn Frenchy 35 believes in love, but doesn’t believe in marriage for himself. I learn that Drunk Jordan is feeling the social pressures of marriage at his age from his family. He is also Muslim. Both men have been hurt by love. They go back and forth about trust. Commitment. Gayness. Polyamory.
I look over to Frenchy 58, “What do you think about all of this? What are your thoughts?” Frenchy 58 spills his story. Has loved and loss. 10 liters of beer a day with a bottle of whiskey. Alcoholism. Drops knowledge.
“I had to make a choice on my birthday whether to die or to live. I will love again but I am healthy.” That was 10 years ago. The conversation went way into the night....
I did not know if a photo could capture this conversation. The pain. The giggles. The love. I came across a piece of the flower festival. It was so beautiful and so pink that when no one was looking I decided to touch. The flowers were fake. Deceived. Do I love it any less? I don’t think so.
Hostel Room 301 has now separated, but I won’t forget them.