The Black Girl Magic Conference 2015 (A fictional mini series)
“This shit is stupid, this is the type of shit that makes you remember why you tried to off yourself.” That was the only thought that swirled around in my mind when I read the big bold hash tag #BlackGirlMagic followed by Conference 2015. How did I end up here? My mother was talking to the check in lady who looks like she just stepped out of Essence magazine. She was beautiful, her hair was natural she had the whole natural fro going. She paired it with a black t-shirt that bore the logo of the conference name written on it in big white letters. Even though she was sitting behind a table I could tell she was model height, her complexion matching that of her shirt made her all the more striking to look at. She smiled graciously as my mother went yapping away. I could only imagine all the questions she was asking the beautiful woman. That was my mother, the overprotective nutcase that carried her bible everywhere she went.
This is what I get, somehow my mother thought that because I tried to kill myself coming to an all black women’s conference with the catch phrase #blackgirlmagic would somehow make me want to live. It was almost amusing to watch all of these beautifully well put together black women fix their hair and snap photos which I’m sure were being uploading to whatever social media site that made them feel empowered by way of likes or comments to prove that they indeed cared about their blackness. So much so they spent 5,000 for three days to listen to a whole bunch of “educated” and “informed” group of black women tell them just how magical their blackness was. There were hundreds of black women in the lobby of the “Rock World” resort; apparently my mother didn’t have to go far to fix me, a ride from New York City to the Poconos would do the trick.
“Connecticut, I have you all checked in, just put on this pink wrist band and take this itinerary and you are all set,” my mother said as she came up to me. She actually held out my hand and placed the pink wristband which of course read #BlackGirlMagicConferece2015 on it. I gave her a weak smile to reassure her that I would be alive and well when she came to pick me up in three days. My smile was to assure her that I wouldn’t try for a third time to unsuccessfully end my life. Her identical smile back assured me she somehow accepted my contract of agreement to live…for now.
“Do you need anything, coffee, tea, gum?” My mother couldn’t help it she didn’t want to leave but her time was up. “No, I don’t need anything” was the only reply I could muster up, she played the mother role well, and to random eyes looking she seemed like a normal concerned mother. Wearing a navy Ralph Lauren dress that came past her knee she looked like a well-kept woman. Everything was always in place she actually fit right in with all the rest of these Black women looking to be made whole by this stupid ass conference. For three days we were going to talk, cry, eat, and repeat until we left feeling as though all the bull shit these “power women” spewed were saving lives. Social media had convinced all of these black women that they just had to be here to figure out how to be the best black woman they could possibly be, what a load of shit.
My mother being the good Christian woman that was in the know heard about this conference from one of her church friends and thought it was the perfect blessing. She paid for the conference before telling me, and once she received her confirmation she gave me two options, go to the conference or go see a psychotherapist. I had been down the shrink road many times and I was over it. I had seen a regular therapist, a holistic psychiatrist, a child shrink, a dipped the blood of Jesus shrink, a shrink who incorporated yoga and meditation, and it was all a bunch of bullshit. So to appease my mother I chose the conference, from the looks of it the shrink option didn’t seem so bad now. “Okay Connecticut Marie Brown, I better be leaving the lady at the desk said they would be starting soon.” I hated when my mother sang my full name it was so annoying.
She tried her best not to cry; I could see her eyes start to water as she came in to hug me. I froze at her touch, I didn’t know how to reciprocate, too much had happened. She loosened her grip realizing she was the only one doing the hugging and stepped back almost stumbling. “I won’t fight you for a hug, but I want you to know that I am praying for you. God loves you so much Conny, so much that even after…” Her voice went low I’m assuming because she didn’t want the black girl magic folks to know that her daughter tried to kill herself not one but two times. “Even after,” she cleared her throat barely audible in a room full of women who were in a joyous mood. “Even after…you know, God said it was not your time, not yet.” My mother couldn’t even say it; it was moments like this that made me question her sanity.
She was just like all the black folks who prayed to white Jesus asking him to deliver them from all of their sins. Faithfully going to her black church giving them all of her money to ensure that when she died that she would have a VIP seat in heaven. I am sure that after I survived both suicide attempts she was positive that God himself came down to save me from myself. I watched as she left, disappearing into the sea of black women who wanted so badly to find their magic. A loud speaker adjusted in the lobby and a women’s voice calmed the room down. “Welcome to the 2015 Black Girl Magic Conference!” The room responded to the loud speaker with cheers and hand claps, I swear I even heard a few Amens. Black women of all age’s shapes and sizes listened eagerly to hear the next set of instructions that would soon follow.
“Black women you are magic, and this conference will prove just how magical you really are.” Again the crowd went up in cheer, no face to place the voice to but from the applause in the lobby you would have thought a concert was about to start. I looked around the lobby and finally took it in; it was really beautiful, an upscale resort in the Poconos that had been revamped to look like a cross between a spa and an old fashioned cabin. Everything was wood, trimmed with specs of red and gold. The lobby was huge, there were flat screen televisions hanging on each wall that played on a loop what the resort used to look like compared to the 2015 upgrade. The red-carpeted floor made the revamped look come together. “Everyone should check into their rooms and play close attention to the itinerary so you won’t miss any of the magic.” If this anonymous lady said magic just one more time I swear I am going to haul ass out of this conference and check into the hotel I saw across the street.
As soon as the thought crossed my mind I saw Chelsea waving over to me, the shrink visit seemed like a day in the park now. I dragged my feet through the sea of women with my rolling luggage to meet a yelling Chelsea. “Praise the Lord, you made it! I am so glad Sister Brown got you to come.” Chelsea said in the most upbeat church voice she could muster. “Yup, Sister Brown has her way of making me attend just about anything these days.” I said matching her tone with my fake enthusiasm. Chelsea was 33, had no kids, no man, and thought it was her job correction her career to always be in my fucking business. Always giving her opinion when nobody asked, always popping up over my house uninvited, and my mother simply adored her. She was the child my mother should have got but instead she got me. “You look soooo bohemian rocker, Zoe Kravitz meets Willow Smith.” Chelsea said, as she looked me up and down. Chelsea was short about 5’4 and dressed like she was a trying her best to make sure she had a spot in heaven when the time came.
She was brown skin, wore her hair straight with a part down the middle, if I had to guess I would say she was a size 12. She always wore a knee length dress and some sort of blazer; come to think of it she dressed just like my damned mother. And today was no different, a beige dress with a beige blazer, and beige pumps which I’m sure came from H&M and Forever 21. Chelsea loves to brag about how much money she saves and didn’t let a human go by without telling them she purchased her home at 21 and blah blah fucking blah. Chelsea was a thorn in my ass and I was dreading spending three days with her. “So are we bunking it together or what?” Her words came out almost knowing that I had no choice in the matter. Just then the anonymous lady started to speak over the loud speaker, “Everyone open your black girl magic folders, inside you will find your room key. You will also notice there is a number, those who have the same number as you will be your roommate for the duration of the conference.”
I had never been so happy to hear the anonymous ladies voice as I was in this moment. Chelsea opened her folder and saw that her number was 109, if there is a God it would be today that he would exercise his power to fuck me over and I would have the same number as Chelsea. Women everywhere started yelling out numbers and running over to the women who matched theirs. I opened my folder slow; I could see Chelsea growing impatient trying to see if we had matching numbers. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that my number read 203, “looks like we wont be bunking it together after all.” I said cheerfully waving my number like the American flag on the 4th of July. Chelsea looked as though she had lost some type of bet she had going. “Maybe I can talk to the front desk and we can ask to be roommates, and whoever has our numbers they can share.” The very thought of that made me scream out 203, I turned into one of the black girl magic women eagerly looking for a response.
“I have 203,” a voice without cheer said behind me, when I turned around a stylish and very pretty brown girl held up her number that matched mines. Before Chelsea could even proceed with her plan I grabbed the girls arms and headed toward the big elevators I spotted by the check in table. I waved at Chelsea letting her know by practically dragging this stranger that I did not want to be roomed with her annoying ass. I let go of the pretty brown girl who was clearly startled by my behavior. “Are you fucking crazy? Your bag damn near took off my leg while you dragged me?” I guess I should add that she was pretty, stylish, and had a fucking attitude the size of the golden nugget. “Look, I’m sorry I just didn’t want to bunk with this other girl who was about to try her damnedest to lock me in a room with her for three days.”
“Are you a lesbian? Because I respect your way of life but ummm, I’m strictly dickly.” I was confused but then I heard my last line over in my head and it did make me seem like I could be a potential carpet muncher. “No, I’m not gay, I honestly don’t even want to be here so can we just start over. I’m Conny.” I extended my hand and the pretty brown girl shook it suspiciously. “I’m Brooke, we are in room 203.” We waited for the elevator and I saw in the reflection of the elevator doors that she was eyeing me up and down. The elevator came and we both got on, she had a big black travel bag on her shoulders. I noticed she kept making eye contact with my rolling travel bag. “I hope this chick is not a thief who came here for a quick come up.” Every woman in the lobby was in their Sunday’s best so I could only imagine how much a person could steal if that was their intent.
“Are you a thief?” I asked looking directly in front of me never once turning to make eye contact. “Am I a fucking thief? Brooke yelled as she turned to look me. “You’ve got some nerve; you pulled me to run from your lesbian lover and now you’re accusing ME of being a thief? What would I want to steal of yours? Your ugly ass black leather pants or that ugly ass black t-shirt you have on? Wait, I know maybe it’s those long frizzy ass box braids that needs to be done over. Nope, hold up, it’s probably those ugly biker boots.” Brooke angrily laughed at her own jokes as she ripped my entire outfit apart. I was amused, but she still had not answered my question. “You kept looking at my bag…” Before I could finish Brooke jumped in, “Yeah, I kept looking at your bag to see if you might be carrying a bomb, you’ve got on all black doing the whole gothic look, all that’s missing is a black trench coat.” I laughed at her assessment of me; she was wearing light blue denim jeans with matching long sleeved denim button up. She paired it with nude pumps that matched her nude camel coat.
Brooke’s brown skin against her camel coat made her brown eyes stand out, he hair was jet-black and cut in a long wavy bob. She went easy on the makeup, so easy that if I were a man who didn’t know any better I would think she was without any. She looked at me in disgust and while I didn’t look at her directly in her eyes the reflection I saw in the elevator told the story. “I always get paired up with the crazy bitches, I came here on a whim and now I’m with fucking psycho Carrie who thinks I’m a thief! Of all things a thief!” Brooke was yelling at no one in particular until the doors opened to our floor. Neither of us stepped off the elevator, both of us realizing that we needed to get our shit in order if we were even going to consider staying in the same room for three days.
“Look, I didn’t mean to offend you.” I said as calmly as possible. “Yes the fuck you did, you called me a thief! What human on earth wouldn’t be offended?” Brooke said with a sharp New York City accent. “Fuck it, maybe it was offensive but you kept eyeing my bag and...” “Bitch, I eyed your bag because it’s a nice Louis Vuitton bag, not because I was going to steal it.” She snapped back. Somehow in between her yelling and my explaining, we walked off the elevator to our shared room. “Look, if you think I’m a thief we can go back downstairs and get our rooms changed because I will not have some Zoe Kravitz lookalike tell me I’m a thief.” Brooke said in a more calm tone, so calm I thought she might be one of those chicks who became real calm right before hitting you.
“Look, my life at the moment is fucked up beyond repair I was dragged here by my mother who paid for me to attend this dumb ass conference. I bumped into her golden church child downstairs who I am sure now is probably here to keep an eye on me. I assure you I don’t think you are a thief, I really just want to go in this room and drink.” I said, I was now exhausted from the entire ordeal. “Well shit me too, I have been arguing with everyone and I don’t feel like arguing with you.” Brooke’s face relaxed, I didn’t know what she was going through, but she looked like she had a lot on her mind. She surveyed the room and chose the bed next to the balcony, after accusing her of being a thief I wasn’t going to put up a fight about what bed I got.
The room was painted in a turquoise color very different from the lobby area, the room made you want to relax. The queen-sized beds looked comfortable, as I walked to the bathroom I noticed the two big black and gold envelopes that laid on both of our beds.
To Be Continued…
