I attended because three of my Sistas were the hostesses.
No one plans parties better than my friends. The venue, a fabulous house, was elegantly decorated with floral arrangements more majestic than those found in 5-star hotels; the food was catered by an African American catering company who has the unique skill of making country, Southern cuisine taste as good as grandma’s but look ready for a gourmet magazine photo shoot; the attendees were connected and respected.
But, I dread these types of events: the forced exchanges, fake smiles, the feeling that people are dissecting me somehow: what I’m wearing, how I’m speaking, and my “qualifications” to be there amongst them. This blog illustrates how my brain works: I’m typically not interested in small talk. What the heck do you think about this latest Trump fiasco? Natural hair? Women’s Day? Whatever. I want…
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