My name is Angela Shortt, and I'm a writer. I'm also mother to three of the most wonderful people in the world (my biased opinion), and grandmother to an amazing grandson. Apparently, my only other duty in life is to be in recovery from my various distractions during this ongoing spiritual journey as a Baha'i and a "friend of Bill". It's not easy, but it's getting better, one day at a time.
Adding my Facebookpage to Blogger
Angela: Facebook, meet my Blogger account, email@example.com. Blogger meet my Facebook account, which is...I'm not sure; I can't see the URL from here. Oh, well, you know where it is.
Facebook and Blogger: Pleased to meet you! (They smile and shake hands.)
Angela: All right! Now I'm sure we'll all be the bestest of friends! :)
Over the past four months, there has been an outpouring of high profile sexual harassment cases that have captured the headlines, beginning with Ronan Farrow's investigation of weathy and influential talent agent Harvey Weinstein's perversities and sexual abuse/harassment of well known actresses. This seems to have had various results: men from the entertainment and media industries have lost their affluent positions and/or they have faced intense scrutiny. As a result of these headline generating news stories that I've been reading, several memories from my past have bubbled up from that submerged and extremely crowded area of my brain that is reserved for denial. So again, it is time to take another series of deep breaths, dive in, bring those memories to the surface, and into the unflinchingly harsh light of self examination.
I've been describing my experiences dealing with unsettling memories in the same disordered manner they have returned to the forefront of my …
Over three decades ago, I made a mistake that nearly cost me my life, not just once, but on several occasions. Looking, back, there were reasons why I made this particular mistake. It was the usual suspects: insecurity (Even though author and star of the HBO's show Insecure, Ms. Issa Rae, is young enough to be one of my daughters, I identify with the basic issues she discusses in her book, The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl), low self esteem that was based on my issues with food addiction (I LOVE the combination of flour and fat, such as homemade macaroni and cheese, deep fried chicken, and...the list is endless); and my food addiction's ever present partner, obesity, which has fluctuated between being slightly obese to super morbid obesity. Seriously. At one point, I couldn't buy clothes at Lane Bryant because they don't carry size 5x and 6x in their stores. I had to either order my clothes or go about my daily business naked. The second option was not morally o…
The article that I'm posting could have been written by me. I'm stunned that it wasn't because it tells my story almost precisely. There are some differences: I was my mother's confident and personal counselor; it was she who used guilt and rage to control what I did, how I felt, and what I thought. My father was the alcoholic, but just like the young man's mother, he was pretty much wrapped up in his own life. However, we do have similar nicknames given to us: his was "Honeyboy" and my father called me, "Honey". He still does. I have to say, I feel strange posting this. I'm not only violating my family's "don't talk about family business to anyone outside this house", but there's the larger version of the "don't talk" rule that envelops the African American community. This is sometimes referred to as "don't be putting your business out in the streets", or simply "don't be tell…