Monthly Archives: February 2014

I had the pleasure of being on HuffPost Live today. I had a blast, but next time I’m doing my hair before I go on TV.

Enjoy!

I’ve spent my entire life telling myself I was a bad person. My inner dialogue has been primarily self-critical. The negative voice in my head was over-powering.

“You can’t do this. You’re not good at that.”
“Give up.”
“You’re a bad person.”
“Nobody loves you.”

It hurt me to listen to that voice. I can be quite loud. Sometimes I feel like it’s shouting at me.

My father suggested that I should give the voice a name and tell it that it’s not welcome. I feel like giving it a name gives it more power.

I realized that I can never get rid of the overwhelming negative thoughts in my head, however I can redirect them. I can tell them to pack their bags and get on an airplane. I can tell them that there’s a flight leaving for the North Pole and they’d better hurry because the plane is boarding.

That being said, something magical has happened to me. I woke up and that negative voice was gone.

Today, I believe in myself.

Today, I believe that I can.

Today, I’m aware of my talents.

Today, I know who I am and I like myself.

Today, big things are possible.

I used to believe that people that were confident had big egos. I realize now that it’s possible to love yourself without appearing egotistical.

The same way that I’ve believed in other people for my entire life, I now believe in me, because I’m pretty awesome.

It’s Pink Shirt Day today, which means it is also anti-bullying day. I was bullied in the 8th grade. I made friends with a girl named Morgan. She lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I thought it was wonderful going to her house. She had a Swatch phone which you could talk into from two sides. Her apartment was huge and she was very wealthy. At first I liked hanging out with her and going to her house. But then, she made me feel badly about myself.

Morgan, Alex and I used to hang out together. We were a trio. One day, things started to change. I noticed that Morgan was talking to Alex about me behind my back. I didn’t know what she was saying but I knew it wasn’t good. Other classmates told me that Morgan was gossiping about me. I felt uncomfortable with the situation, but I was unsure how to handle it.

I was 13 years-old at the time. I was scared. I felt vulnerable, but I didn’t know who to turn to for help. At the time, I had tickets to a Mariah Carey concert. I was supposed to go with Morgan and I believe Alex as well. I can’t remember the details. All I know is that I cancelled the plans. I told Morgan and Alex individually:

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore. We can just be acquaintances.”

To this day, I regret telling Alex this. The reason was, she was innocent. It was all Morgan’s doing. But I didn’t find this out until later in life.

So, with the information that I no longer wanted to be her friend, Morgan made it her mission to make everyone in my 8th grade class hate me. She tortured me verbally. She made me afraid to come to school and see her face. I remember one day, I was sitting in English class, and Morgan was sitting in the seat behind me. She was repeatedly kicking my foot. All of a sudden I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Get the fuck off my foot.” I said to her
“What did you say?” She asked incredulously.
“I said, GET THE FUCK OFF MY FOOT.”

My poor English teacher was alarmed by the whole thing and sent me to the principal’s office.

Another time, Morgan was making fun of me, and I caught her in the hallway. So I smacked her in the face. I was tired of being verbally abused by her.

Finally, I reached out for help. I asked my brother if he could defend me against this girl. My brother drove a 79 Oldsmobile at the time. He drove to my middle school one day and picked up me and my friends. We spotted Morgan and her crew walking down the street. My brother shouted out the window at her:
“Morgan is a hoe bag! Honk if you see a hoe bag!”
With that he honked the car horn.

I will never forget that day. My brother was tired of seeing me being abused and he came to my rescue. I will love him forever for that.

Still, each day, I would come to school with severe anxiety attacks. I was afraid to run into my bully, my abuser.

The only good thing about my conflict with Morgan was that it allowed me to become best friends with Mint. She and I bonded after I rejected Morgan from my life.

Also, a miracle happened in 2013. Alex and I reconnected and confirmed the fact that Morgan was indeed crazy and abusive. We rekindled our friendship and bonded over the crazy shit that we went through at 13.

When I reflect upon my experience being bullied by Morgan, I remember how scared I was. I thought it would never end. I believed she would always be torturing me. I was convinced that I would never get away from her. My world was so small at 13 and this bully was such a large part of it.

I feel for children today who are being bullied because it is less overt. Much of it happens over the Internet. It’s more insidious and harder to figure out that a child needs help. But trust me, they do…need our help.

If you are dealing with a Morgan out there, hang in. Tell someone that you’re being bullied. Don’t hold it inside like I did. You are strong, you are powerful, you are brave and those who love you will listen.

I have a confession to make: I racially profile people on the subway. Now, before you start judging me and call me a horribly racist person, hear me out.

When I’m on the N train headed into Manhattan, I’m often tired as a mother of two young children. Usually, it’s crowded so I do whatever it takes to strategize in order to get a seat on the train. Here’s what goes through my mind: Canal Street is coming up. It’s likely that an Asian person who is currently sitting down will get off the train at Canal Street. The reason being that Canal Street is the center of Chinatown and one of these people could possibly be heading to this predominantly Asian neighborhood.

So (and this is going to sound awful admitting this) I stand near an Asian person that I think may be getting off the train at Canal Street. I hold the pole and carefully (not too obviously) look at them and see if they are holding their bag or if they look like they might be getting ready to exit the train so I can quickly take their seat.

Let me clarify something, this has very little to do with the fact that this person is Asian. The only reason that I do this is to get a seat. I have many friends who are from varying Asian backgrounds and I love them all.

Getting a seat on the train in New York City requires animalistic instincts. We are no longer complex human beings once those MTA doors open to let us on the train. We are reduced to our primal urges. One of the first animal instincts that exists is survival.

For me, part of surviving on the train is resting my tired body and soul. I’m going to do whatever it takes to be able to ease my weary bones.

I have been ashamed that I do this for quite some time, until the other day when I confessed this to a friend of mine (Tamara) at a party. Tamara started laughing when I told her this story and said:
“Are you kidding me? I do that too!”

Now, it doesn’t make it right. It just means that this is a thing that some New Yorkers do on the train.

It doesn’t stop with Canal Street though. Let’s take the A train for example. I was discussing this with a Black friend of mine. She said:
“Let’s be real here, if you’re a White person on the A train after Broadway Junction, you are either lost or you’re going to Rockaway Beach.”

Subway racial profiling is a reality. But (for me) it’s all about getting a seat on the train.

I know from experience that the White businessmen are going to get off the two train at Wall Street and I am pretty much guaranteed a seat. So my best bet is to stand and hold the pole next to a White dude holding a briefcase in his lap and assess what the likelihood is that he will get off the train soon.

What I’m saying here is that racial profiling on the subway in New York exists. Does that make it right? Of course it doesn’t make it right!

What would be even worse is if you got angry that you judged wrong and the person who you thought was getting off the train at Canal Street or Broadway Junction stayed on. That would be wrong.

I cannot be the only person who thinks this way. But, again, I feel a sense of shame for thinking it. It’s not right and it’s a sign that there is something wrong in our society.

My whole life I’ve been told things like “you’re too intense” or “you’re so dramatic” or even “I can’t handle you.”

These words were spoken to me “you need to learn to modulate your emotions.”

I was left wondering what that even meant when I heard it. But the truth is, as I said, I’ve heard it my entire life. People seem to believe that emotions are scary and when I express anything that feels like an emotion often I’ve frightened people.

I’m not a scary person, I promise you. I am, however, a sensitive person.

When I was a little girl and I would cry, my mom would hold me and say “It’s okay Saree, you’re very sensitive. You’re an artist. Artists are sensitive.” She would speak into my ear while she stroked my hair.

“I hate it.” I would say. “I wish I wasn’t sensitive. I wish I was like everyone else.”
“But it’s wonderful to be sensitive.” My mother would tell me. “It’s a gift. Not everyone feels like you. Cherish it.”

I wanted to believe her so badly, but I was so overcome with emotion most of the time that I felt the exact opposite. I felt ruled by my own sadness, anger, guilt and so on. I wasn’t able to predict when I would cry or when I would scream.

It did, however, make me an excellent writer from a very young age. I was able to transmit all those overwhelming feelings from my heart onto paper. The other thing that helped me with being a sensitive person as a teenager was acting.

When I attended F.H. LaGuardia High School of Music and Art & Performing Arts, I was able to put all my emotions into The Diary Anne Frank or The Rose Tattoo. I now had a perfect excuse to be as emotional as I wanted to be and was actually praised for my emotional expression. This was something new and exciting. Rather than being told to stop feeling, I was encouraged to keep feeling, feel more, in fact.

Still after I entered the “real world” and realized that not everybody is an artist, writer or actor, I found myself in the same predicament. Every time I would express genuine emotions I would be shamed. I’ve even lost friendships because my “friend” didn’t understand the way that I expressed myself.

This year of my life, when I turned 34, I had an epiphany. I mysteriously turned a corner and I no longer feel ruled by my sensitivity. In fact, quite the opposite. I do feel (finally) as my mom has been trying to tell me all along that being a sensitive person is actually an asset to me.

I am sensitive so I feel my emotions deeply. This makes me a great writer. It makes me a great actor. It also makes me a wonderful listener. It allows me to be there for my friends. Being a sensitive person is a gift. It’s nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. Quite the contrary, it is something to take tremendous pride in.

Sensitivity is (above all things) unappreciated by our world. The sensitives are a rare breed of people. If you are a sensitive person, own it. Use your sensitivity to create beautiful things. And if people do not understand you, it’s okay. YOU understand YOU. That’s what’s important. Value your gift and appreciate that not everyone is able to feel so deeply. But you can.