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eunice ann

tales of a girl trying to make sense of it all.

How I Missed the Lessons on Being Black

June 29, 2020 by euniceann Leave a Comment

This post was written for the Race in America series on the Kindred Blog

When you think of mixed-race families, it seems that my parents broke all the “rules.” My dad is white, which, in and of itself, is rare among mixed race couples. I never really thought about it until I started hearing, “Wait. So your dad is White?” I met a woman recently who studied sociology and criminal justice and she explained to me why it’s rare to see a White man and a Black woman together.

In the historical order of things, White men have always been regarded as the “ideal human”, and as such, they carry the most privilege (thus perpetuating the myth of White Supremacy). Black men, despite how we see them treated today, were given rights that women did not have, positioning men as better than women regardless of race. Therefore, a Black woman is treated societally as the least of these.  carrying the least amount of privilege (which is still reflected in the wage gap—Black women make $0.62 for every $1 a White man makes, compared to the $0.79 White women make). For a White man to marry a Black woman used to be seen as him marrying down, which is why you don’t see it as frequently with mixed-race couples as a White woman marrying a Black man.

On top of that, my dad grew up very poor. So poor, in fact, that he lived in a Black neighborhood in Boston. My mom grew up with her grandparents, who were prominent business owners in Savannah, Georgia, prior to moving to Boston when she was about five. When my parents decided to get married, they moved out west to protect their future children from the kind of overt racism that they had both grown up experiencing.

I grew up in northern Arizona and was surrounded by a mix of kids of different races – mostly Navajo, White or Mexican. My experience of racism was always as a witness to someone else being subjected to unsettling comments. I understood the concept of racism, but at the time, I really believed I hadn’t been on the receiving end of it.

Read the full story

 

 

 

3 Simple Things to Boost Your Productivity Exponentially

May 14, 2020 by euniceann Leave a Comment

When it comes to productivity, I have struggled so much with being a successful multi-tasker. When I first took a role as a Project Manager for a marketing agency, the Type-A personality wanted to nail it. I already knew that the company president wasn’t fully behind my hire and I had to prove my salt. I got familiar with our production schedules and had multiple clients with varying deadlines that I had to learn to juggle.

I learned to respond to emails while sitting on conference calls. I often carried on multiple conversations over IM or text (and again, while sitting in a meeting). I got really good at scheduling press checks at our printers so that I could review multiple jobs in one visit. I would often scarf down my lunch in the lobby and check emails while I waited for each one. I was an efficiency queen, or so I thought.

Read the full post on the Kindred Voice Blog.

I’m (Not) Failing At Motherhood

February 27, 2020 by euniceann Leave a Comment

Photo by Sai De Silva on Unsplash

This excerpt is from a post written for and published on the Kindred Voice (formerly Holl & Lane) Blog.

In this first month of the new year, I’ve spent the time equivalent to five days wondering if my teenage daughter was alive and ok. I cycled through the gamut of emotions each of the three times she disappeared—fear, anger, sadness, uncertainty, and most importantly, failure. Every time my daughter slipped away under the cover of night, I sat and questioned exactly how much I was failing at being a good mom that would lead her to run away from the home I have worked so hard to build for her.

The first two days of the new year were the longest. For 53 straight hours, I wasn’t sure if she was alive or dead, if she’d truly run away or if she’d been kidnapped, if she would return home unharmed or completely traumatized. When she finally came home, I collapsed into a sobbing mess that was rich with relief and disappointment. She showed no remorse or concern about what she had put me through and even went as far as to wonder out loud why I cared so much.

It was like a knife sinking deep into my heart. I wondered how I could be failing my child so much, after spending so much time fighting for her the past several years. So many well-meaning comments are intended to reassure me that my daughter’s behavior is just a phase and that we’ll get through it. What most don’t know (or fail to recognize) is that my daughter is also a trauma survivor.

The blend of pubescent hormones and trauma is a dangerous combination. Read the full story on Kindred.

Alternate Reality

November 19, 2019 by euniceann Leave a Comment

This article originally appeared in the Kindred Voice Vol 2: Mental Illness

I never realized that I was a villain.

I sit in my therapist’s office, gazing out of the window like I always do, and I say to her, “I just don’t get it.”

She shifts in her chair and says to me with her cute southern accent, “you never will. You keep trying to rationalize someone whose behavior is completely irrational.”

Her words roll around in my head with some regularity. I’m still trying to accept this fact. I am a fairly self-confident woman until I’ve had to interact with him. And then I begin to question everything.

My co-parenting relationship had been fairly copacetic for several years, but for some reason, my decision to file legal paperwork memorializing our parenting arrangements sent him over the edge. Prior to filing, I gave him warning that it was coming and reassured him that I wasn’t looking to change anything, I just wanted to lock in the status quo.

“It will protect us both in the long run,” I told him, “in case things aren’t always as good as they are right now.”

Little did I know that was the last time things would be good.

After getting served the paperwork, he told our daughter that I was trying to take her away from him. She came home crying and wanted to know why I would do such a thing. I reassured her that I wasn’t trying to take her away; that I would never do that without reason. I told her that everything was fine and she need not worry.

I started therapy two weeks after filing those papers. I needed to make sure I was prepared for the emotional battle it seemed I was gearing up to fight. I didn’t realize at the time what an amazingly good decision it would turn out to be.

My daughter is the product of a broken heart, an ill-advised rebound, and a birth control failure. It caught us both by surprise, but I wasn’t exactly shocked when he decided to opt out of fatherhood.

It completely blindsided me when, exactly five years later, he decided to go all in.

Things were fine at the beginning. I was mostly in utter shock that he had changed his mind. It wasn’t without me begging for a change of heart for the first three years, to no avail. I had long since given up when I heard the words on the eve of my child’s fifth birthday­— “I think I want to do this dad thing.”

Those might not have been his exact words, but that was the sentiment. We partnered up the next day to give our child a memorable birthday. I fielded calls from his siblings, who, up until this point, had no clue I–or their niece–even existed. It was all so incredibly surreal.

After a few years, we had finally settled into a co-parenting groove that was tolerable, but not great. What I knew of what co-parenting looked like, regardless of whether the parties are in a committed relationship or not, it was messy and imperfect. Our relationship was no different.

Now that we were at the point of legalizing our agreement, I didn’t understand why he thought that I was trying to take anything away from him. I sat in the therapist’s chair, week after week, trying to comprehend why he was so angry with me. I only wanted to protect us both, “Just in case,” I said to her. Why was that so bad?

I questioned my decision on a daily basis. Everyone in my orbit reassured me it was the right thing to do.

A few months later, he was being investigated for a child abuse allegation and I desired to restrict his parenting time. My daughter’s version of what happened and his were completely different. Hers was violent and scary and his was that he did nothing more than discipline his child. I have re-read the police report from time to time, just trying to see if I could understand what exactly he thought had happened on that night.

The investigation that was ordered in our civil case after the fact saw him cast me as dishonest because of one incident where I had my child lie about her age to avoid paying bus fare that I didn’t have so I could get her to school. I heard things like “the parties are embroiled in a very contested parenting case,” when the only one that was contesting anything was him.

At his sentencing hearing for the abuse charge, he told the judge that he apologized for wasting the court’s time for something so trivial. I about fell out of my chair to realize that he didn’t agree that his actions were at all traumatic to a ten-year-old. The judge also disagreed, responding that it was never a waste of the court’s time to ensure the safety of a child.

A couple of months later, I received an email from my attorney, wanting to know details about something that had happened between me and the dentist’s office. I read the email four times, just to make sure that what I was seeing was actually what the email said. His attorney was describing an event that had never even happened.

I found myself in the therapist’s office again the next morning, asking her how I’m supposed to cope with someone that doesn’t even know what actually happened from something that never happened? I was starting to feel completely crazy and combed through my memories to see if there was anything that closely resembled this incident that was creating drama.

I picked out a memory from several years prior that sounded sort of familiar to the incident described in the email. “Could that be what he’s remembering? Why does he think that just happened?” I shook my head and gazed out the window. “His attorney thinks I’m this raging bitch and he believes every single word his client tells him about me! I’ve been cast as a villain and I haven’t done anything wrong!”

I broke down in tears and my therapist reminded me that I am not the one who is irrational. Even so, I question it, and walk out of her office, recounting every conversation obsessively, trying to glean even the slightest visibility into his perspective.

His family completely stopped talking to me after the abuse incident, where we previously had a positive relationship. When my daughter expressed a desire to reconnect with those family members, I shared with them the details of the abuse. No editorializing, just the facts.

I was called manipulative and controlling and was asked never to contact his family again. I’m still not sure how my act of trying to bring the family back together created an insurmountable divide that I don’t think will ever be mended.

It was then that I realized that every time his reality and mine don’t align, I begin to question myself.  And I have gotten to the point where I try to anticipate how he’s going to respond to me with every interaction.

I get it wrong every time.

I put a lot of effort into side-stepping the land mines, but what I seem to forget is that the land mines haven’t been planted yet. In fact, they probably don’t even exist.

My Velvet Rope

May 20, 2019 by euniceann Leave a Comment

This article was written for Holl and Lane Magazine Issue 20: Growth.

How boundaries helped me to reclaim control of my life

Whenever I see velvet ropes, I think of all the fancy people that are allowed to see what’s on the other side of them. I correlate this image in my mind with exclusivity and permission. Not everyone gets to go behind the velvet ropes and not everyone deserves to be invited in.

I’ve started to think of boundaries as my personal version of a velvet rope.

I’ve never been good about saying no when I should or not speaking up when I didn’t agree. I always wanted to be liked. I always wanted to be agreeable. I didn’t want to be the girl that made everything more challenging for everyone else. To describe me as a pushover would be accurate.

I was raised by a Southern woman who taught me how best to keep up appearances and avoid making waves. When things were good, you shared only enough to let people know that you had it together. More than that would be bragging and that was unbecoming. When things were bad, you pretended that everything was A-Ok so that no one would know that you didn’t have it together. Don’t ever let anyone feel sorry for you.

My entire life, I said yes to things I wanted to say no to, I never told people how I really felt until I exploded in anger, and I was walking around carrying a lot of resentment in my heart. I was mad at the world for my feelings of discontent, but it took my parents’ divorce to make me realize that I actually had control over how others were treating me.

My parents divorced when I was 35. I haven’t figured out whether or not it’s harder to have your parents divorce as an adult or as a child. When you’re a child, your parents do everything they can to protect you from the pain. When you’re an adult, all bets are off. My siblings and I were square in the middle of the fallout as our parents’ 36 year marriage quickly unraveled.

Both of my parents were horrible as they dissolved their marriage. My mom regularly spent her air time with me bashing my dad and telling me all of the things he was doing and what a terrible human being he was. My dad used his to explain why he was such a victim in all of this as well as why he had better sexual chemistry with his new girlfriend. (TMI, Dad, TMI).

I would sit and listen to each of them for hours at a time, feeling a constant tug on my loyalty from side to side. Both of them would profess how much they didn’t want us to take sides and then launch into a spouse-bashing diatribe that made it clear that each of them hoped the side we would choose was theirs.

It was exhausting. After a few weeks of this daily battle, I couldn’t take any more. For the first time in my life, I put up a boundary. I simply used the phrase, “I may be an adult, but I need you to remember that I am still your child.” It was my way of signaling that I didn’t want to participate in this feud and that my energy was spent.

Both of them had a similar reaction. At first, they retreated in shock. And then they pressed forward harder. This time, telling me bigger, more salacious details. He was so abusive. She was a controlling bitch. It was as though they both believed if they could make me see their side of the story, I could be swayed to join the alliance. And while I did see their respective sides, I also saw a little girl who was having the images of a strong mother and a loving father shattered.

The phrase, “I am still your child,” became a mantra that I repeated over and over until they both backed off. At this point, I was using it to convince myself that I was right not to get sucked into their mess.

About a year after the divorce, I started therapy. At this point, I had been estranged from my mom for the better part of a year and the guilt of cutting my mother out of my life so completely was overwhelming me. I had good reason for not wanting to talk to her–my mom had interpreted that the boundaries I was learning to set with her as me taking my dad’s side and she punished me for it.

When the opportunity came for her to move across country with her job, she not only chose not to tell me, but she asked my siblings not to tell me either. As if I wouldn’t have noticed when I came home for a visit that she no longer lived there. Her reasoning was that she didn’t want my dad to know that she was moving and she assumed I would be the one to tell him. I was so hurt that my mother would choose to punish me in such a cruel way that I decided to just disengage completely. I reasoned that she couldn’t hurt me if she couldn’t talk to me.

But after about six months, I began to doubt my decision. What kind of a person cuts a family member out of their lives? Only the truly horrible ones, right? I knew I wasn’t horrible, but I also knew that having a relationship with my mother was hurting me. I was lost and confused, so I found a therapist and started talking.

As I rehashed the previous 24 months of my life, my therapist asked why I felt this obligation to my mother, who was clearly manipulating me for her benefit. I paused and considered the question.

“Well, because she’s my mother,” I answered finally.

“So?” she said.

I looked at her quizzically and said, “I don’t understand what you mean. The woman gave birth to me. I can’t just avoid talking to her for the rest of my life.”

The next thing she said will stick with me for the rest of my life— “If a relationship is hurting you, then you are under no obligation to participate. And if you do, it needs to be on your terms, not theirs.”

Wow. I had never once thought about having a different relationship with my mom than the one I had that wasn’t serving me. To put myself at the center seemed so incredibly selfish. I was being given permission to share only what I wanted to share and learning that I was not obligated to anything just because she gave me life.

I suddenly felt free.

It took a lot of time to modify the terms of our relationship, and my mom was not always accepting of my boundaries. When I would put up the velvet rope, signaling that she was not allowed in to this part of my life, she would push harder to get in. But I learned to hold the boundary and stopped feeling guilty for doing so.

The Lessons in Our Choices

March 20, 2019 by euniceann

illuminate-vol-2-cover

Originally published on Medium. Featured in illuminate vol. 2.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Your strength amazes me.”

“Wow, you’ve been through a lot.”

“I don’t think I could handle all of that.”

I am so tired of hearing these things. They are all well meaning efforts at empathy, but every one of them grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. It’s not that I don’t understand what the person uttering these words is trying to say. It’s that they don’t understand my pain, yet they feel compelled to say something because no reaction would be taken as heartless and uncaring. Read the full article.

The Lost Hope of Redemption

February 15, 2019 by euniceann

redemption-spread

This article was written for Holl and Lane Magazine Issue 19: Redemption.

“I believe you” and “I’m sorry” are the two phrases that victims yearn to hear. They are the phrases that validate our experience and allow us to begin to heal. It’s not uncommon that we never hear either. Living with that void is torturous.

Two years ago, I received a phone call I never expected. It was my daughter’s school calling to tell me that there was evidence of child abuse–she had come to school with bruises on her neck–and that they needed to contact the authorities and I needed to come to the school as soon as possible. My heart dropped into my stomach. I wasn’t sure what was harder to believe, that someone had so violently hurt my child or that the person who hurt her was her father.

The events of that afternoon are both crystal clear and somewhat surreal. We spent time at the school being interviewed, having photos taken, and mostly sitting there in shock. While he was always more of the authoritarian, this seemed so out of character for the man I thought I knew.

The man that fathered my child was kind and gentlemanly, even if he was a bit selfish and aggressive. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with his child for five years, but never complained about paying me a scant amount of child support each month. When he finally decided to get involved, he seemingly went all in and made an earnest effort to forge a relationship with his child. He and I got along, even though we had the occasional angry disagreement over how best to parent our child.

I just couldn’t believe that this was the man now being accused of child abuse. I thought for sure there must be some mistake, that the police would speak to him and he would admit that he had been wrong, he would apologize, and we would take whatever steps necessary to fix this situation. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the charming man who had fathered my child didn’t really exist and that he was going to fight this allegation with every fiber of his being.

The court process took a few months to get underway, and another five before it was finished. It felt like an eternity. Hearing after hearing, I had my character attacked while he plead his innocence in the matter. I believed that I had truth on my side and that it would prevail, but when truth is constantly attacked and twisted into something that is then weaponized against you, it starts to feel like the truth wasn’t all that real to begin with.

I just wanted it to be over and to hear the words, “I’m sorry to put you both through this. How can we move forward?”

I will never hear those words.

Through the entire process, I have been vilified at every turn. I have worked hard to protect my child from the lies, the anger, and the manipulation. It is only thanks to his insistence on making this about me that I have been able to keep her safely away from him.

In the midst of the criminal proceedings, he decided to take up a battle on the civil side of things as well. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to break me financially or spiritually, or if it was just fun for him to watch me struggle to manage everything he threw at me. I submitted to an investigation. It came out in my favor. I gave a deposition. They didn’t get anything they could use. They tried to get me to give up, by dragging out the process, but I kept fighting for my daughter.

At no point did he stop, accept responsibility, and apologize for what he had done.

In therapy, I talked for hours about how I couldn’t believe that I was being treated like the bad guy in all of this when my only fault was protecting my daughter. The facts were being obscured by semantics rather than looking at the overall effect this aggressive act had on my child. She became ancillary to the process, rather than its central subject. It was clear that this had become all about retribution for him.

I came to accept that he would never admit his wrongdoing and would certainly never apologize for what he put us through. I held out hope that maybe his family would.

I had only managed to forge a somewhat decent relationship with one member of his family in the five years he had been actively a dad. I had spoken to his oldest sister shortly after the incident and told her what had happened. A few days later, she sent me a text begging me to do everything in my power to make sure that he would still be able to see his child. She argued that my child’s life would be so empty without him and his family in it. She had clearly taken his side. I disagreed and did not respond.

I never knew what had been said to her or any other member of the family, but they completely stopped calling. I didn’t understand why. My heart broke for my child. I was angry and disappointed, but I chose to believe that when they wanted to hear the truth, they would ask. I hoped that everyone would someday tell my daughter they were sorry for abandoning her and for not being willing to at least hear her side of the story.

This has been my reality for the past two years. I keep hoping for redemption and it never comes. Every time I think that we are on the cusp of that breakthrough, I am reminded that the story is already written. No one thinks to ask for my perspective before passing judgement. When I do have the opportunity to speak the truth, the bias that has formed against me is all too real. I am the villain, every time. My motives are questioned and I find myself constantly defensive of my words and my actions. Any effort I have made to repair the relationships has been seen as controlling.

I see communication between the attorneys where I’ve been painted to be manipulative and dishonest. I’ve been subject to accusations filled with lies so blatant that it wouldn’t take much effort for me to fully debunk them. The way his attorney is openly hostile toward me in every interaction makes me wonder what else has been said about me. I know I shouldn’t care. It angers me that anyone could believe the falsehoods that have been shared about me.

I know that none of what I have been fighting against is my fault. I know that the stories I hear are untrue. I know that the efforts to twist my intentions into something negative are only to give cover to the real villain. I know that the things that are said about me and the feelings that are directed toward me are all a result of the lies that have been said.

Every time things go quiet for a bit, I keep hoping that it’s over. That I will finally be able to let my guard down and not have to think so hard about the words I use. That I won’t have to defend the latest thing I said. That someone will finally say, “I believe you” and “I’m sorry to have put you through this.”

I want to believe it, but I know that day will never come.

illuminate writing featured member

January 28, 2019 by euniceann

As a member of illuminate, I was honored to be listed as a featured member in January 2019.

illuminate is a sister brand to Holl & Lane Magazine and is dedicated to helping women of all backgrounds and talents find their voices in writing.

Honoring a Child’s Gut Instinct

January 24, 2019 by euniceann

mother-daughter-in-field
Photo by Knight Light Photography

This article was originally published on Medium, then re-published on the Kindred Voice Blog. 

The gut instinct–it’s something we are born with. I’ve been told that the reason our gut is so connected to our heart and brain is because these are the first three organs that form when a new human is developing. Our gut has literally been our safe-keeper, not only nourishing the body with the nutrients we feed it, but alerting us to potential danger so that our limbic system can jump into action and protect us.

Our gut has saved our lives for hundreds of generations. So why do we struggle with listening to it?

Because we’re taught as children to ignore it. Read the full article.

Growing Up Among the Trees

January 16, 2019 by euniceann

trees-with-light-peeking-through
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

This story was inspired by a prompt on “Growth” from illuminate. Read the full story, selected for publication on the Holl & Lane Blog. 

I’m not sure just how many acres we covered that summer, but when I think back on the time my dad and I spent in the woods, I think less about the scratches on my limbs from the locusts, or the weight of the backpack, or the taste of the horrible protein bars we brought with us for energy, or how tired I was from hiking around for eight or ten hours. I think about all of the beauty that surrounded us each day.

I remember the little seedlings that were popping up from the forest floor and how it killed me that we always had to cut the smallest one. It never seemed fair that one of them had to be sacrificed in the name of science while all of the others continued to grow. It reminded me of all the children that never make it to see their first or fifth or tenth birthday, and how it doesn’t feel like part of the natural order of things for a parent to lose a child. I was able to see the beauty in the thought that although the little ones had a short life, their time was necessary and their death was important.

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Dear Grown Ass Women™ Ambassador

dear grown ass women ambassador

instagram

eunicebrownlee

In honor of women’s celebration month, I’m res In honor of women’s celebration month, I’m resharing the first piece I ever had published, which I wrote about my amazing daughter, who is likely mortified that I am posting this right now (sorry not sorry kid. I love you.) 
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I was scrolling through my feed and came across a post @cpamgo217 had shared from @thekindredvoice (then Holl and Lane). It was about mental health and it stopped me in my tracks, as most posts on mental health do. I checked out their website and it was love at first sight. I noticed they were accepting pitches on the theme of “educate.”
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I had never pitched a publication before, and at that point in my life, barely considered myself a writer. But I had a nugget of an idea that I wanted to explore after an interaction with @calleylane so I sent in a pitch. 
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And they accepted it. I was floored. 
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What most people don’t know is that at the time I pitched and wrote this article, I was amidst the unending court nightmare that was my life for the majority of 2017 and I honestly didn’t know that I had the tenacity to make it to the end of that battle still standing. But I did. She did. We both did. And we are stronger for it. 
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Link to essay in bio. https://www.thekindredvoice.com/blog/2017/8/15/teaching-our-girls-to-become-strong-women
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—
Image descriptions: Image one is a mixed race girl with brown skin and long brown curly hair. She is wearing a denim coat and a coral top. Her arms are crossed and she’s standing in a field. 📷 cred: @knight_light_photography // Image two is the same girl, older, taking a selfie. She is wearing a black tee and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. You can see a closet and a TV in the background. 
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 #WritersOfInstagram #AmWriting #StoriesThatStick #Storyteller #ShareYourStory #OwnYourNarrative #PowerInWords #WritingCommunity #BlackVoices #TellYourStory #Writer #IlluminateWriting
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