I found you embedded in the cracks of something broken.
I found you in thoughts formed by words left unspoken.
Author: The Dainty Thug
Empty Side of the Bed
It seems like I’ve woken up on the empty side of the bed today.
That probably explains why I miss you the way I do.
Before you my twin size bed always seemed so small and full of me.
Now it’s 3,120 square inches of mattress, sheets, pillows, and quilts woven with threads that seem to release tiny bursts of loneliness enveloped in the scent of your cologne.
Yes, I must’ve woken up on the lonely side of the bed today.
Because the four pillows I use to substitute your presence have done nothing but mock me and taunt me since the day you stopped sleeping here and normally that wouldn’t bother me but today,
Today makes 2 days since I slept with your arms around me and 2 weeks since i’ve uttered the words i love you and 2 months since I’ve been single or independent as I like to tell myself,
And I’ve been hurting for too damn long to still be hurting this damn bad.
365 days ago I invested 18 years, two months, and 18 days of my savings in your stock when you were still on the market, seeking company from other companies.
My assets depreciated in value the day I opened my legs for business and incurred my first expense trying to earn your revenue.
365 days later I still find myself clinging to the empty promises and believing in the sweet nothing’s you whisper in my ears.
And I still cry every time you find a new way to break another piece of this thing in my chest that pumps blood through my veins up to my brain to remind me that I’m still breathing.
And every tear that falls leaves a new crack in my foundation and a crack in the foundation that I spent 18 years, 2 months and 18 days trying to build and 365 days trying to repair.
365 days ago I spent the night sharing 3,120 square inches with you and tomorrow I’ll probably wake up alone on the empty side of the bed.
Masterpiece
My golden skin,
The evidence of the remnants,
Of the 50 shades of brown that run through my veins.
The skin that feels the rain, as it falls like the tears I don’t shed as I face ignorance from bigots,
Glistening, like the sweat on the faces of the indominable people whose womb produced those that produced me,
As they produced millions upon millions of pounds of sugar a year.
My golden skin, A product of ebony and ivory still trying to learn to live in perfect harmony.
My golden skin.
My hair, My lovely, thick, curly, wavy, frizzy head of hair.
The hair that has more waves than those that splashed against the boats that brought mi gente on that Trans-Atlantic Trade so long ago.
My hair, a natural entity of savage strands, to the eyes of the ignorant.
The ignorance that fueled the extinction of a culture I would have loved to call my own.
The savage strands that straighten under heat, only to rebel and return to its natural state if they aren’t held hostage by the infinite amount of scrunchies that never seem to be enough.
My hair, my lovely, thick, curly, wavy, frizzy head of hair.
My heart,
The one that beats the rhythm the drummer plays on the conga, the son of the barrile, made in the likeness of the drums of the Africans.
My heart, that pumps the very blood shed by those who received 5, 6, 7, 29, 30 lashes for stealing a break from the 18 hours they spent on their feet under that hot caribbean sun, people now long to vacation under.
My heart that thump, thump, thumps, like the pounding of the chained feet on the dry earth as they marched in a single file to their prisons known as Plantations.
Mi corazon.
I stand here before you with my golden skin, my wild hair, and my metronomic heart,
A walking portrait painted by Los Africanos, Quisqueyano’s, and even those Europeo’s.
I may not hang in the Louvre, next to Mona Lisa.
I may not attract as many tourists as the Sistine Chapel, or David himself, but I am a walking work of art, drafted by history, and brought to life by my mother,
The daughter, of the daughter, of the daughter, of the daughter who grew in the womb of an indigenous masterpiece.
Admire me.
About Me
My name is Maila, pronounced my-lá. I have a plethora of nicknames but you can call me Mai (my). I’m a 21 year old, Afro-Dominican young woman, born and raised on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in New York City. I’m a full time college student (double majoring in Latin American & Caribbean Studies and Globalization) with a part-time office job, just trying to find my way through life.
Why De La Sol?
First and foremost as a native Spanish speaker I am fully aware that De La Sol is grammatically incorrect. I picked the name as a play on the Hip-Hop group ‘De La Soul’. Sol is the Spanish word for sun, which just so happens to be one of my favorite things. Ever since I can remember I have had a deep love (borderline obsession) for the sun. I love how it lights up our world (both literally and figuratively), I love how it changes colors when it rises and sets, I love how warm it is… I could go on and on but I’ll end my list there. I love it so much that when I was 15 I began sketching a tattoo of the sun that I eventually got when I was 19. In essence the name of my blog is “Of the Sun” because though some people are of this world, I am of the Sun.
My goal in life is to be a human manifestation of the Sun that our planet revolves around.
That’s pretty much all you really need to know. Happy reading!
Black Lives Matter
I feel like a lot of people are misunderstanding our modern day black and brown power movements. We’re not trying to say that black lives matter more than non-black lives, or that our naturally curly/kinky hair is better than naturally straight hair, or that melanated skin is more beautiful than lighter skin tones. What we’re trying to say is that our lives are important too, our natural hair is just as good, and our darker skin is also beautiful. For almost a thousand years the world has been solely praising/appreciating/advocating for European lives and aesthetics, and we are simply trying to tell the world that we too deserve praise and respect.
We are not aiming to compete with any other race/ethnicity, or belittle anyone’s phenotypes. We are trying to tell our brothers and sisters that we are beautiful the way we are and that our existence is valued just as much as anyone else’s. If our messages of self love and appreciation make you feel threatened or insecure, it is probably best that you take some time to address those feelings and evaluate what about us loving ourselves makes you unhappy and try to build some self-esteem that does not rely on other peoples self-hatred to thrive. Remember, it’s not Black Lives Matter more, it’s Black Lives Matter too.
Forever Thugnacious 