Bee In The Bonnet

  I liked to think of myself as a “WallFlower Child”. A “WallFlower Child” is a person that was desensitized by exposure to adult activities. This is why people do not curse, smoke, or use adult language around children and we tell them “Stay out of grown folks' business” “Stay in a child’s place” “Don’t grow up too fast” However taboo and rare, I was exposed to tons of adult content and experiences at an early age. I was always curious and observant in these adult settings. I was raised by a village of drug-abusing addicts, alcoholics, drug dealers, gang members, convicts, pimps, prostitutes, mental illness, and violence. We called it “THE FAMILY CURSE” I also identify as an empath. When I was seeing drugs on the tables, drunken fights, self-harm, and other dysfunctions by my elders, I absorbed all this energy and could FEEL and WITNESS to the emotions, the power, and the weakness in the environment. I felt the pain, anger, resentment, sorrows, grief, and stress of the adults arou...

  Ageism feels like a generational curse, with elders often projecting their differences in opinions, lifestyles, and eras onto younger generations. We hear it all the time: "Back in my day..." "These kids today..." or "You're too young for that." It’s ironic because while elders criticize the younger generation, they often forget that we were raised by them. If they were so perfect, where did things go wrong? Could it be envy of youth or a need for self-preservation? Growing up, adults constantly told me, “Don’t grow up too fast,” or “Enjoy being a kid.” Many children naturally strive for independence, mirroring the adults around them. It's not always about wanting to be "grown" or envying adulthood; it's about embodying freedom, maturity, and respect . I was one of those kids caught between wanting to be both young and grown. I was curious—how do adults make money, find food, cook dinner, and provide shelter? It’s a natural part of...

We guard our hearts against life’s uncertainties, but sometimes, even the smallest unexpected moments can remind us of the walls we’ve built and the weight they carry. Like waiting for a phone call from a love interest, the phone rings…and it’s someone unanticipated, like your doctor’s office.  The feeling you get is a mix of disappointment, a hint of grief, and a taste of sadness. "We wait like Godot, for change that’s delayed, Hours stretch like years, in the dark, dismayed." "The mountain looms, but no summit appears, Still, each push uphill conquers some fear." It reveals why we have a guard, why it’s hard to bring it down, and how it becomes enforced and difficult to break. It often symbolizes protection, isolation, and control. The phrase "having a guard up" is a common metaphor for the emotional barriers we create to shield ourselves from hurt, rejection, or vulnerability. It reflects both a defense mechanism and a coping strategy, rooted in fear, ...

Many people hide behind secrets, striving to be like someone else. The irony is that it’s easier to be yourself, yet many feel compelled to imitate others. People often try to escape their past, but it inevitably catches up with them. To fit in, many put up facades, masking their true selves out of fear—fear of judgment, ridicule, and rejection. They suppress the qualities that make them unique, trading authenticity for social approval, status, and power gained through intimidation. Wearing this mask may feel like protection, but it also conceals their real identity. Everyone experiences judgment, especially when their actions don’t align with their words. But those with “real eyes” can see through the lies. I believe in transparency, and where others fear showing their true selves, I embrace mine with authenticity. It is my strength, and I wield it freely. Hiding behind a mask would suffocate me. Not everyone will accept you, and that’s okay. People gossip about others’ successes and ...

As an adolescent, I struggled with behavioral and emotional imbalances rooted in the traumas I faced at home. Expressing my emotions felt impossible, so I bottled them up until they erupted into violent outbursts. One fateful day at school, this struggle reached its breaking point. After a weekend of chaos at home—my mother’s heavy drinking and sharp words left me feeling raw and fragile—I arrived at school teetering on the edge. When a bully sneered at me, calling my mother a “crackhead,” I lost control. The world around me disappeared as I swung at him uncontrollably. It took three teachers to restrain me. That fight earned me a three-day suspension, but more than that, it forced me to confront what I’d been denying: I was drowning in pain I didn’t know how to process. During that turbulent time, a teacher stepped into my life and changed its course. An elder white woman with a surprising depth of understanding of ethnic/Black culture, she saw me—not just a struggling young Black gir...