I’m not into being fake happy. I seldomly show excitement, half a smile is just as good as a full one and don’t expect my voice to go an octave higher than my normal tone. Resting bitch face is a natural state of being for me. I don’t do it to be shady or for any petty reasons. Shit, I don’t even know I do it until it’s pointed out to me! I’m always told I don’t show feelings, to smile, to not be such a bitch…since apparently not smiling equates to being “a bitch”.
People have caught feelings about giving me gifts because I haven’t shown levels of excitement that were acceptable to them. People have called me heartless, bitter, cold, bitchy (they love that one) and whatever other adjectives suits them at the moment to point out the fact that my demeanour makes them uncomfortable.
Well guess what bitch? I’m me. That’s it. I don’t smile because life has conditioned me not to smile. I don’t smile because I don’t fucking feel like it. I don’t smile because I’m not obligated to make your insecure ass feel better about yourself if I flash you some teeth and gums. I don’t smile because I’ve gone through so much hurt and have so much inside to deal with that my half smile is all I’ve trained my mind to project just to feel a little bit normal at times that a smile would be warranted. I don’t smile because it’s not a welcome sign for men to approach me or talk to me when all I want to do is get to where the hell in going!
So if you ever do see me smile and even more rare hear me laugh out loud…then know that you’re truly appreciated and your presence is indeed a present.
Those closest to me know my rough past. They know a blue bandanna was a staple for me. Despite going to a catholic school with uniform we still managed to make it look as hood as possible. Thick black eyeliner, curly hair, blue bandannas and white K-Swiss kicks paired with a very short kilt and with a white button up or over sized white golf shirt. That was the look that set the cholas apart from the predominantly white population of the high school I attended. The school was mostly full of Italians and Polish kids. Most of the coloured kids concentrated their lockers in one or two hallways. If we were assigned lockers somewhere else we either traded with someone or ended up with two lockers for the year. The hallway was dubbed “the night hallway”, it was where you found all the black kids, Filipinos, Latinos and the white kids that grew up with us. It was the hallway where you found all the singers, the breakers, the star athletes and the roughnecks in one place. We were a family. It was us against them. You call one person a n****r, you call all of us a n****r. You call one person a s**c, you call all of us a s**c. We were like a swarm of angry bees if you disturbed the nest. We used to go to each other’s court dates. If someone thought she was pregnant, we’d borrow a health card so she could go to a clinic. If we knew you were gonna get your ass beat at home for whatever reason we’d walk you home in hopes that your pops or mom would forget why they were mad in the first place. When the time came to go home we’d let you know that if shit went down we’d have a bed ready for you. We looked out for each other because nobody else was doing it. The other kids would call us juvies, short for juvenile delinquents. Teachers would always be trying to catch us in something to suspend us or telling us we would end up like our parents if we didn’t smarten up. As if it was the worst thing in the world. Cops would target us and follow us home. It was always us against them. Some of us made it…others didn’t. It’s a hard knock life.
When nothing else makes sense. When you try and try to think of ways to get through yet another week, weekend or day. When you just want to say ‘Fuck everything!’ Music comes along and makes it all go away. It’s like a soothing balm. No matter what type of music you listen to or how varied your preference is.
I’ve been on a trap music tip for awhile now. This mix is a perfect playlist for my weekend.