Full Disclosure

       The day after Thanksgiving, I found myself moving into a cozy and cute apartment in what could arguably be described as the Upper West Side of Manhattan. This move thrilled me for a variety of reasons; my commute to work has decreased, I am surrounded by bars and restaurants that I can’t wait to try once we have a vaccine, and it’s now a bit more convenient for friends from other neighborhoods to reach me. This apartment really seemed to have it all, which is why my roommates and I signed the lease with little hesitation. However, in between signing and moving in, I found myself having to battle the very real emotional hurdle of saying goodbye to the neighborhood of Harlem.      Ever since I moved to New York City in February of 2019, I called Harlem my home. I was excited and proud to call this cultural mecca my home. Historic buildings and multiethnic restaurants were available as I stepped out of my door, and my neighbors were a beautiful mixture of all types of ethnic, cultu

  Do you know what community looks like? Many young New York transplants might say no. The city is famous for moving ridiculously fast and being a place where in an apartment of many units you might never learn your neighbor’s names. Moving to New York at 23, I had resolved to defy those stereotypes and bring a sense of small town community to my little corner of the Big Apple. But after about 6 weeks I found that I had had zero success in finding any sense of community in the space around me. Then quarantine hit. For the few months that I was back at home with my family, I got a pretty positive picture of what community looks like. One night I was washing dishes and it dawned on me that I had done all the dishes almost every night while my sister had yet to even rinse her own water bottle. But on the other hand, I couldn’t recall having done laundry since I arrived. That was a chore she’d taken upon herself each week without any instruction. Each of us was contributing differently, bu

All my life people have asked me how I stay so positive and cheerful. When I was younger I couldn't really give a solid answer. But as I’ve grown, I’ve had to become more intentional about maintaining those traits in life. After all, the older we get, the easier it is to become bogged down with cynicism about the world around us. I know that it’s impossible to be happy all the time, but I also know there are some things I can rely on to nudge myself more in the direction of happiness than despair. So without further to do, here are 5 ways to be happy - without embracing toxic positivity of course. Try to Unplug      These days it’s especially hard to disconnect. With gatherings still being largely limited and a lot of people still working from home, it’s easy to glance at the clock and realize you’ve spent the last 12 hours in front of a screen. But research has shown that spending too much time with your devices can cause neck strain, headaches, blurred vision, and disrupted sleep

Throughout the last few months I’ve struggled with feeling a sense of purpose. While time moves forward, most of the acting industry is at a standstill and I can’t do what I’ve spent most of my life preparing to do as a fulfilling career. Coupled with the lack of agency is a feeling of uncertainty about the timing of the industry’s full return. Many nights I’ve sat on Indeed.com and stared at a slew of job posts wondering if it’s time to make a transition into business or corporate administration. There’s a fine line between the romantic notion of waiting for passion to become tangible again and needing to pay rent each month. But without theatre, without acting, I couldn’t help but wonder dreadfully, what is it I’m meant to do? Even worse than the existential dread has been the sense of guilt that I’m worried about my career while others in this country and across the globe are literally fighting for their lives. Every life lost has been a painful reminder that the time we have on ear

     Last month, my dad invited me to a running group based on the Nike Run Club App. The  group does challenges every month and he convinced me to take part in the 30-mile challenge. This broke down into one mile per day, a seemingly easy “challenge” as far as they go. However, anyone who’s known me for much of my life can tell you that I’ve always been a sprinter in the most extreme sense. My middle school years are haunted by gym class mile times of 15 minutes and I can’t think of my brief stint on the track team without thinking about how it took me 90 seconds to run a 400 meter race during a tournament. Despite my misgivings, the lack of a gym had me ready to explore any and all forms of exercise and so I dove in.      The first two weeks of the month weren’t bad. I was running about 1 ½ miles each day and consistently clocking in at around 12 minutes per mile. I was proud to have come down to 12 minutes after starting off the first day of the month at around 13 minutes. Every day

My hair journey began before I had successfully mastered the skill of subtraction. One day in kindergarten, my mom sent me off to school with cornrows in my hair and a classmate of mine came up to me and told me I looked like a boy. During those same formative years I harbored an obsession with The Powerpuff Girls. I asked my mom every week to style my hair like Blossom or even Bubbles. She opted to tell me she didn’t know how to do it because she didn’t have the heart to tell me that my hair wouldn’t fall straight the way theirs did.   These moments didn’t stick in the forefront of my mind. In fact, I didn’t even remember either of these incidents again until I was preparing to go to college. But growing up in Vermont during a period in which it was the second whitest state in the country, my relationship with my hair was always complicated. Boundaries were often overstepped when it came to my personal space and emotional well being. In class students would complain that they coul

Last week I hope I illustrated that I am extremely proud of my mother’s Jamaican lineage. However, I would be remiss to brag about my maternal side and not mention the beautiful heritage my father has passed on to me. My dad grew up in the country of Belize, in an area called Dangriga. He is part of a group of people called the Garinagau, or Garifuna. I remember my childhood being marked by his proud stories of how the Garifuna people descended from a group of West Africans who were shipwrecked and escaped captivity, settling originally in St. Vincent. (Although readers of Ivan Van Sertima’s They Came Before Columbus may assert that their history in the Americas begins as early as 10th century B.C.). They intermarried with indegenous South American groups and became known as Black Caribs. Generations later, the people came to be found primarily in Belize, Honduras, and Guatemala. A complicated history certainly, but by now you must know that complexity is my mode of operation. Like wi

I am a Black woman. Black history is my history. But when it comes to my history, there is so much of it that you don’t know. My mother was born and raised in Jamaica. We had a clock with Bob Marley’s face hanging on the wall of my childhood home. Her accent appeared strong and thick whenever relatives called or I did something to make her upset. And the poetry of Lousie Bennett-Coverly was a staple on the bookshelf. While I knew that my heritage was half Jamaican, my history did not come alive for me until a family vacation to the island. in the summer of 2009. It was during this time that we spent time in the house my mother grew up in. I saw the garden that she worked to grow fruits and vegetables her family ate. I sat in the room where she learned to sew. I listened to my grandmother speak with a thick accent that needed no prompting. I examined the strong foundation of a house that mirrored the strong foundation of my family line. It was also during this time that we visited Bob M

Over the past week, we have seen inspiring and exciting change. Breonna’s Law, regulating no-knock warrants, was passed through the public safety committee in Louisville, KY. The murderer of George Floyd as well as his accomplices have been charged as such. Statues built to glorify racists have been torn down. And cities are taking serious steps to defund their police departments and redirect those dollars back to the community that is long overdue for support. The question as we ride on this momentum seems to be, “where do we go from here?” Now that we have succeeded in making our voices heard and pressuring lawmakers into the beginning of concrete action, we must begin to attack the root of the problem by addressing the insidious nature of racism in this country. And that means having many discussions. Many white allies have turned to social media and made their voices heard in a variety of ways. I have been frankly floored by the amount of sharing on my timeline of resources for pro

As I sit at home in the middle of the afternoon, I cannot help but think how surreal it is to see that just 50 years after 1968, we are here yet again. The emotional roller coaster I have gone on the past two weeks is unexplainable. George Floyd was murdered in spite of his compliance. Breonna Taylor was gunned down in her own home. Every act of brutal violence against those who look like me makes my heart heavy. As the days go by, I am more and more burdened by the knowledge that there is injustice waiting for me around every corner in the minefield that is this nation’s unchecked white supremacy. And what frightens me even more is the church’s compliance in this system. When Trayvon Martin was murdered in 2012, my white Christian friend told me that black on black crime was the real problem, not police brutality. I told her she had a point and resolved never to sleep over at her house again. In the spring of 2015 there were protests and sit ins occurring on my liberal college cam

Dear Jesus, I’m so weary. I can’t turn on the news or scroll through a feed without seeing pain inflicted on people who look like me. Every day time goes forward but we stay stuck in place. I feel obligated to act and yet I feel immobilized. Where do I go, what do I do? I can’t organize, I’m not a leader. I don’t have the strength and formidable presence to stand up in the streets. All my energy is spent wondering how many of my followers are really my friends. Who can I trust to protect me when it matters, to stand up for me when something isn’t right? How will I bring a child into this world that is set up to make people who look like me fail? I have so many questions and the answers just aren’t clear. Whenever well-meaning people message me with well wishes or hopes of checking in, I feel myself sinking further and further into numb dissociation. People love to say this country was built on Christian values, but where is God in a country that values subjugating Black lives? Wher

A few days ago I downloaded a running app that asked me to input my height and weight. I figured I’d be as accurate as possible so I hopped on the bathroom scale. My stomach dropped when I looked down and realized that in the 10 weeks I’ve been in quarantine, I’ve already gained 8 pounds! I immediately began brainstorming ways to discipline myself. Should I start counting calories? Throw out all the snacks in the house? Maybe it was time to finally go Keto? I ruminated on the possibilities miserably on my couch, sipping very deliberately on lemon water. I know I’d said this time was about rest, but I couldn’t actually sit and do nothing , could I? As an actor, beauty standards regarding body image have been tied to my professional worth for as long as I can remember. As a Black woman attempting to live up to white beauty standards, the pressure is compounded. But, I frequently patted myself on the back over the years, proudly telling friends and family that I didn’

Merriam Webster defines rest first and foremost as, "freedom from activity or labor". This definition conjures up images of #selfcare by way of bubble baths and large glasses of wine, two things I'm definitely known to be fond of. But with times being as stressful as they are as we enter into yet another month of sheltering in place with no clear end in sight, I can't help but wonder if this really all there is to rest? Interestingly enough, when you scroll down a bit you'll find definition number four, which actually defines rest as, "peace of mind or spirit". Now that is a definition of rest that sounds equally as appealing as it does elusive. As an actor, I am no stranger to the phrase, "the show must go on". Before moving to New York, this meant working as much as possible in order to save up for the big move. Once in New York City, this meant waking up before 6am multiple times a week to put my name on lists in the hope that I would get