Jen A. Durand's Blog: Thoughts Best Kept Silent, page 5

Pride V.S. Fear

Sometimes I find myself in the field behind my house. Laying among the clovers and blades of fresh cut grass. My thoughts revolve around my life. The things I have done and the things I want to do. There are two overriding emotions at war within me.
Pride in all that I have done and the accomplishments I have made. Fear of failure and stumbling on the boulders of life.
The pale blue sky calm me. Chirping birds, and barking dogs are like music. The pride is fed by the successful completion of a task or challenge. The fear is fed by the expectations of my family, my own need to meet their expectation, and my wish leave a mark on this world.
I have been going through this cycle of interviews, sending out job applications, working, writing, editing, blogging, babysitting, and constantly evaluating the path I have opted to take.
Risk is this memorizing thing. It draws me in like a moth to a flame. As a child I was withdrawn. I liked being in my own head and reading about philosophy, history, emotions, and mythology.
I loved to think about what adulthood would look and feel like. How I would work, pay my bills, date, and live the single life before settling into a successful marriage.
When you are a kid you do not think about the seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, and years of struggle and failure. You don't think about the stress of taking a risk. Putting yourself out there and failing.
Now I have left the welcome bosom of school to enter the world of reality and I miss school. Not necessarily the the debt or the hair pulling exams. I miss learning. Working with people not concerned with money, but about the way they could impact the world. Fiction is often better then reality. (Hmm, Right?!). 
Reality this week was beautiful, frustrating, scary, depressing, and barely like anything I planned or envisioned for my future. Next week will be the same. And the week after that. And the week after that week. And for the rest of my life the plans I make are little more then a cold comfort.
But I will keep dreaming, writing, and planning. I will keep trying, failing, succeeding. I will do it because giving up is easy and as I stated before. Meeting the challenges I set for myself and successfully passing my goals feeds my pride. It needs to be stronger then my fear.
Best Wishes,
Jen A. Durand, Founder of Durand Publishing
P.S I have decided to giveaway free copies of one of my titles available on Kindle, Kobo, and Nook. In order for a reader to qualify. The reader must join my mailing list on my website www.DurandPublishing.net and leave a review on either Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or Amazon. Remember Reviewing is Caring.

Free Giveaway

Hi All,
I have decided to giveaway free copies of one of my titles available on Kindle, Kobo, and Nook. In order for a reader to qualify. The reader must join my mailing list on my website www.DurandPublishing.net and leave a review on either Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or Amazon.
Best Wishes,
Jen A. Durand, Founder of Durand Publishing

P.S Remember Reviewing is Caring.

Fiction Is Essentially My Therapy

When I am writing or reading a story. I am dropped into this world or this life with some stark differences from my reality. When I am reading I am this silent observer or the receiver of this barrage of sensations and emotions. When I am writing I am the creator of a world where anything can happen and often does. Most of my readers will notice that my stories tend to have common themes. Shared connections.
One of the themes is family. Growing up and even now in my adult life, family is the corner stone of everything that I do. I was taught to honor my parents. Care for and look after my siblings. Work towards a future with the ability to sustain and provide for children.
My childhood was not an easy one. My parents divorced. My father was unfaithful and my mother was bitter. They were the two biggest forces in my life and my childhood was marred by their inability to at the very least immunize their children from the ensuing war.
I love my parents separately. Together they generally combust, unless in public, unable to engage in the simplest of conversations without digs and barely camouflaged anger.
My mother has never really let go of her hurt. Fifteen years later she is still the scorned woman.  A fact she is loathed to admit, but is unable to deny. 
Intelligent, caring, and completely driven by the success of her children. My mother is a force of nature with only two or three blindsides. Most of them revolving around her romantic entanglements.
When I write about Mothers I usually take the qualities I love most about my mother. Her ability to throw a meal together out of nothing. Her love of children and her traditional caribbean influence. My stories reflect her push for her children, not only to succeed, but to start pushing out those grandchildren she thought would at least come from the oldest of her brood by now.
More often then not the mothers in my stories are fierce, independent, and a source of comic relief.I also explore the qualities I do not love so much about my mother. Her stagnation when it to the end of her marriage and her anger in the way it ended.
In Wintr's Homecoming, readers are introduced to Jinx Wintr. The not quite orphan. Her father was in the shoulder's in which their family stood. He had a bond not only with his wife, but also with the child. When he dies, Jinx's mother falls into this trap of the Mate bond and becomes this despondent shell of a woman. Leaving her daughter to deal with feelings of abandonment and searching for a new family while avoiding such things like romantic love. Jinx saw what love did to her once vibrant mother and when confronted with her own mate seeks to avoid the pain of such loss by running away from it.
When I write about Fathers I also focus on the qualities I admire in my father. His conviction, boisterous personality, and warmth. I was a daddy's girl for most of my life even after the divorce and love my father in spite of what I consider to be personal failures on his part. The fathers in my story can fall on two spectrums even within one story.
Take for instance, Prince's Heart. Vashti is the illegitimate daughter of a King and spent most of her life as a slave. Her father is this cold hearted dictator. He does not care for his children but focuses on his own wants and needs. He offers her freedom by serving her to his allies as a prize in exchange for continued peace and protection.
The flip to this is King Cyrus. Vashti's father in law. He is this large war forged King. He has the love and respect of his children and shows her the qualities of a father she'd never experienced in her own life. Cyrus is there for his children and while he may not be the best husband, the family bond is a strong one.
My father continued to see the woman he cheated on my mother with. They have a daughter together and live in the same house. She and I have a contentious relationship at best. Not because she was the "Mistress" or because I consider her to be the reason why my parent's relationship failed. But because she as a woman embodies all of the traits I dislike in other woman.
We have a history of actions taken on both sides that have culminated into a situation in which it is best if we do not acknowledge each other. She is not my stepmother or stepparent. She is, in my mind, one of my father's failing. Their continued relationship has and probably will continue to confound me until the end of time.
When I write, this is also explored in my stories in shorter snippets. In Prince's Heart, Vashti shares stories of how she was treated by her own stepmother. 
In Cold Sun, Talia Gage is on reincarnated life number four. Her previous lives were marred by murder and betrayal. In her second life she was killed by her father's second wife. Driven by jealousy and greed, she killed Talia in an effort to elevate the standing of her own child.
Writing for me is not only an expression valve, but also a way of exploring my own feelings. It is why writing is such a personal thing for me. I am reveling parts of my soul and trying to create reality within the fiction. Order in the center of Chaos.
The characters I create are embodiments of what is around me. The good, bad and okay is embedded in the scenes and dialogue. Completed Works:The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:Wintr’s Homecoming: Secrets Jaguar Nights: Lies Pearl Moon: Betrayal Shadowy Lights: FearCold Sun: Obsession
The Virgins Club:The Planner The Fixer
Lipstick DiariesShy Meets BoldWicked Meets Bad Boy
The Prince’s Heart
Things Left Unsaid
Closing The Deal
The Young and The Powerful Witch’s Reflection

I Am A Black Woman

        I have four siblings. Three sisters and a brother. A father, mother, numerous aunts and uncles. I have the type of family where nothing is perfect but the love is like steel. I was taught from a very young age to value family because even if I lose everything tomorrow. All I will have left is my family.

        We are diverse in personality, opinions, economic status, and education goals. But we are the same in that our skin is always black. We go to sleep black and we wake up black. Our lives are dedicated to living peacefully and setting examples for future generations.

        Today I woke to find streaming on my newsfeed more stories of violence and death. I woke up to hear that seven children will never see there father again. Four children, states away, also lost their father just days ago.

        I teared up because i was not shocked by the news. Surprised that these men were shot. It seems like a weekly occurrence. We hear about the treatment disparity for people of color. The stereotypes they are subjected to in their interaction with the police and with the justice system as a whole.

        We read stories in which the police, our protectors, are able to disarm and deescalate situations with suspects. How arrest are made daily without the use of deadly force. We read stories in which judges sentence men of color to years in prison for crimes men of traditionally european descent only get months.

        I live a life of love and service. My motivation each day is to wake up and contribute to the world in some positive way. I do this through my writing, through my actions, through the way I interact with people.

        Why? Because when I step through the doors of my home I step out into a world filled with preconceived notions about me.

        Strangers have no idea who I am and what I am. They only see the clothes I wear and the color of my skin. Based off of this they reach conclusions perpetuated by whats portrayed on television and in movies.

        For some reason initially before I speak they do not see a well educated soft spoken woman with drive and  an easy going personality. Before I open my mouth most people expect for me to be loud and brash. To speak in ebonics and be angry.

        I live in a world where those with the same skin as me are looked down upon and told that they are less then. As a black woman I am always aware of the danger I could find myself in by making the wrong decision. I know there is a system set in place meant to keep me from utilizing my full rights are a human being.

        This is not paranoia, but acknowledgement of the world I live in. It is not a safe one or a fair one, but it is one in which people of every ethnicity should feel properly protected.

        I have four siblings. Three sisters I would go to hell and back for. A brother I would give my life for. We were raised by two naturalized citizens and told constantly to reach for the stars through education. "The way to succeed in this life is to get an education, work hard, pay your bills, and respect the law."

        Education cannot stop bullets. Working hard cannot stop bullets. Paying your bills and respecting the law will not stop bullets. Respect does not mean submission.

        Respect by definition is a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements. Submission is the action or fact of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person.

        I have respect for police officers who wake up on a daily basis and do their job with responsibility and loyalty to the community they are tasked with policing. I have respect for the police officers who understand that as arbitrators of the law, they are also responsible for following those laws as well as enforcing them.

        I do not submit that the police have an automatic authority over me. Not when I have not broken any law. Not when I as a citizen have the right to a trial and am innocent until proven guilty. It seems that when you have the skin color I have all to often the police officer is not just the arresting officer. He is also the judge, jury, and sentencer.

        This country that I love is not following the words and ideals it was built upon. All the people on its shores are are not free from persecution. Its people are not free to live and chase their dreams. Instead minorities are constantly told to assimilate and cede parts of their identities in the hopes they can live in peace with the majority.

        I do not write these words to bash, but to say I am a black woman. I am a daughter. I am a sister. A Godmother. I am human and one day I hope to be able to add Aunt, Mother, and Wife to that list. I am black, but I am not intrinsically violent. I love and yes sometimes I get angry. But that does not make me a monster or something to be feared. That makes me human. As a human being I have a right to leave my home and return home safely at the end of the day.

        I have a family and they are human beings. Those men and women also have a right to life and to live through an interaction with the police. Why does it seem like some find that concept difficult to accept? Why do some feel as if that is a point to be argued? As if life is something so fluid it can be poured down the drain by anyone?

Shedding the Tomboy or Maybe embracing the woman?

Growing up I loved shorts, jeans, tee shirts, and sneakers. Combs were the bane of my existence, and makeup was something my mom put on when she was trying to impress. My looks were secondary to everything. I cared more about the thoughts in my head and the books I carried around like a security blanket. My mother often despaired and was often exasperated by my refusal to play the role of an ordinary girl. My decision to attend my senior prom spurred her into taking me shopping immediately.

When I went to college my mother saw the state of my closet and went shopping. Unable to allow me, her daughter, to wear a series of graphic print tee shirts and the same five pairs of jeans. I was never the girl who cared about the brands, the names, the style I wore. It just was not something I thought needed that much thought.

Insecurity did not strike me until I was older. I started to question myself and the way I presented myself only when I went to law school. There I was, this girl who had spent her life working towards a goal, and not knowing what to do with herself now that she achieved it. I wasn't prepared for quiet that level of adulthood. The thing I feel that people do not say enough is that there is not specific moment when you are in possession of all the answers.

That first year I met people who were at the same level at me, while also being light years ahead of me. Most of them had lived their lives before attending school. They had worked in the public and the private sector. Nothing they did to me, made me question myself, but being there. Listening to them talk about their travels, their past lives as workers or business owners, and seeing how confident they were on the path they were taking made me stumble.

I wasn't in Kansas anymore. I was in the big leagues, and thinking I was still in the stands being a spectator. At what should have been the confirmation of my ability to succeed, I was suddenly looking in the mirror and not seeing someone who was enough... Pretty enough. Thin enough. Lady enough.

I started taking more care with the clothes that I wore and leaned to really apply makeup. I did more with my hair then just combing it into a crown braid. I started and limited the time I spend wearing heels. I started smiling less and feeling less comfortable in my own body. I was finally becoming the woman my mother wanted to be and losing the part of myself who cared little about what others thought. And just enjoyed being me.

Eventually maintaining the superficial façade of confidence wore on me and I started to crave for the carefree way I lived before. So I made a change. Something I am typically resistant to, but otherwise happy to do when it meant I could go back to not having to spend hours in front of a mirror. Or worrying about whether I packed my pressed powder.

I stopped looking at other woman and thinking that I should be like them. I stopped comparing myself to those around me who looked like they stepped out of a magazine. I started doing what was fun again. Wearing the clothes I found to be comfortable and just putting a dash of color on my lips. I realized that the me I liked the most, was the me who laughed because she remembered the time she fell on her ass while heading to class. Or the time she slid down a dirt hill after the perfect first day of her sophomore year of high school, lowering her cool cred by at least five points.

Laughing Out Loud

Growing up my mother used to complain how she would here me "Heheing" in my room late at night. She said she always knew when i was up because I could never contain my mirth. I used to her she should just enjoy having a happy child. The older I get, the more I change. My opinions diverge from that of my parents and the more I learn. I still laugh late at night. Sometimes because of a funny show or movie. Sometimes because of a good line in a book. Sometimes, and this is an admission that could lead to speculations of insanity, I laugh at the random memories that I remember out of nowhere. I have recently been told that I have a tendency to have a default smiling face. Which came as a surprise to me because I always thought I switched between "Resting Bitch" face and "Pure Exhaustion" face.Then I thought about if some more. I grew up with a lot of love but also a lot of chaos. Laughter was my way of coping. I tend to only keep good things in my life and leave the bad on the curbside. My father likes to call it avoidance. I like to call it taking a hardline.For me, my happiness is paramount to anything else. Sacrificing it for another is not an option, because without it there is only a downward spiral. This means that I watch the people I allow into my life. I pay attention to the things they say about others and the way they treat others. It is not coming from a place of judgment, but from a place of awareness that not everyone is looking out for your best interest. But people are always good about telling you who and what they are. It is your job to see it and decide it if this is the type of person you want in your life.The way I see it. It is like being a conscious consumer. Most people pay a lot of attention to what they buy and how much they spend. The more money involved, the more thought they put into whether they want it, if the quality is worth the price tag, and the enjoyment they would derive from it. Why wouldn't you put the same amount of thought into the time you invest in relationships? Time is precious and finite. I prefer to spend it doing things I enjoy with people who I enjoy. *And hopefully they enjoy me as well. Lol! ;)

Remember the giveaway of free copies of "The Prince's Heart" Available on Kindle and Nook. In order for a reader to qualify. The contestant must sign up for my monthly newsletter, follow me @Jinxs_Corner on twitter, and leave a review for any one of the titles listed below on either Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com. The Giveaway will end on September 14, 2016 at 9 pm eastern time zone. Only Four books will be awarded.

Building Yourself and Your Business

Quite by nature my words were the only way I could express myself. I would write to relieve sadness, stress, anger. I would read to be happy, to laugh, and to forget reality. I used to tell anyone who would listen that my dream was to get a book deal and make a million dollars. As I grew older I continued to write, but stopped being outspoken about getting published. I lost some of my vision and turned towards a more practical future. Raised by working class parents who worked to live and survive, not to pursue their dreams. I began to internalize this belief that "dreams" are for others. For those with the money and the time to pursue them. I had to work to provide for my family and ensure our survival.
So I went to college and I got my Bachelor of Science. I worked hard and went to law school. Received my Juris Doctorate. During those years I still wrote, but they were saved files on multiple thumb drives just collecting dust. I told myself that those stories were not good enough for mass consumption. That writing fiction not grounded in the enslavement of people with my skin color would not secure any future.
Then one day after a particularly bad week I finished this story. Wintr's Homecoming. It is a paranormal fiction romance about a plus size girl with brown skin and a loud personality finding love with a man from her past. The passion I felt about this book and the excitement I felt when I thought about it caused me to act out of character. I sent the story to a friend. In the past I attempted to get some stories out into the world through traditional publishing, but I was met with rejection. Not unusual for anyone seeking to publish in this literary world.
Wintr's Homecoming was like this baby I could not put to the side. So I started to look into self-publishing. I thought about the material I wanted to put out into the world and the books I wish I had more access to when I was younger. I started looking at the books that I read and came to the conclusion that waiting for others to pick up the mantel and write books that represented brown girls, teens, and woman in more then only the typical stereotypical light.
Since the day we start reading, all of us are introduced to the typical literary structure of this classic european character, who drives the story forward. They go on adventures and are usually accompanied by side kicks, often of the minority persuasion, who support them in achieving their goals. This is reinforced by book after book and unless you are raised in a socially conscious home or attend a socially conscious school readers are indoctrinated into this world were minorities are only viewed as supporting cast for the other.
When we did read books about people with my skin color it spoke about the disenfranchisement of the blacks. A worthy subject to be sure but it does not hold the same appeal as books like "The Hunger Games, Twilight, and other young adult books novels based on adventure, romance, and action. How is it that even in books where the author is creating characters whom challenge the establishment, whites are the savor of all. This is not to say I do not read and love those books. Because I do. What I am saying is that would appreciate some diversity. If I were not always required to relate and idolize a pale skinned woman or man for heroic tendencies.
I in no way mean for this to be a condemnation but as a letter to writers with a platform to consider. Why the greek tycoon falls for the blond, red head, or brunette? Why are their so many descriptions for pale skin and a finite number of descriptions for brown. I want a world when I walk into a library, coffee shop, or book store and I see people of all creeds reading fictional stories driven forward by main character's of any race.
It is happening, but it is not happening fast enough. Companies are not the risk takers and innovator's they used to be. They are driven by dollar and rarely consider stepping outside of their comfort levels to attempt bringing social change if there is not a recognizable and definitive commercial gain to be had. I started Durand Publishing because I wanted a platform for myself but also because I have reverted back to childhood in a way because I am now once again willing to take a risk. I want to grow this company into something where our customer bases is as diverse as the world we live in and our characters help to connect racial lines in a new way.


Completed WorksThe Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:Wintr’s Homecoming: SecretsJaguar Nights: LiesPearl Moon: BetrayalShadowy Lights: FearCold Sun: Obsession
The Virgins Club:The PlannerThe Fixer
Lipstick DiariesShy Meets Bold
The Prince’s Heart
The Young and The PowerfulWitch’s Reflection

Curvy, Voluptuous, Rubenesque, PHAT, Thick, Sexy, Beautiful?!

         I love books. I love reading about adventures, falling in love, drama, and lasting friendships. I love writing about those things just as much. Those books had a part of shaping my perspectives on life and may have given me a skewed view of reality. But the older I get the more this familiar pattern begins to jump out at me.        Why is every heroine this leggy blonde or brunette bombshell. Every man the classic GQ model? Where are the girls and woman that resemble me? Where are the men who look like my father or my brother. Are we only ever good enough for the second lead?        The other day I went to the club with my friends. It was a large group of law students, medical students, nurses, and other working professionals dressed to impress. We were celebrating the birth of two absolutely gorgeous women turning 26 and drinking. We danced and sung along to the music. I was a driver, so I was sober but enjoying myself when a guy slipped behind me and started dancing.        I played it off. It had been a while since I could come out and I did not have want to ruin my night by getting caught up in something that was not that serious. Normally I have a pretty strict personal space rule. Eventually he whispered in my ear, running his little game, and he was pretty slick so I gave him my number. In my mind I was not really expecting a call or text.        But he text me the very same night wishing me a good night. (Sweet). Then he texted me the next day to check in. (Nice). He won himself some points for those texts, but he almost found himself on the block list a couple of times. He would text sweet things, them make reference to how thick and sexy I was. As if those things were not usually synonymous. As if the very fact that I have a little extra junk everywhere means I cannot have a cute face and a pretty nice body. Those texts made me stop and think.        Why was that? Why is the fact that I am cute so comment worthy? Maybe that his way of flirting. Of expressing his interest. But in the larger scheme of things, all to commonly there is this constant stream of media reinforcing this model thin body type. And it does not just stop on the television screens or the movies. It is also in our books. It is spoon-fed to us everyday.        What we should look like. The role we should pay. The personality traits that should be exhibited to the outside world. These things are constantly being reinforced and disseminated. The woman and men who are deserving of adventure, love, the crown, and all of those other things we love for our books to immerse us in. Are all too often lighter skinned with classically Caucasian features. But then when we try to reach around to search for something more. Too find artistic representations that better match our reality. Not just according to skin tone. But size. Or hair texture. Or family.        The hardest thing is trying to find books for my younger brother. Finding adventure books for a young dark chocolate (Lol) boy not mired in the lifestyle of drugs, or gang violence. Something that does not feed into stereotypes, but teaches him to reach for the spotlight with the same consistency that is passed on to the whiter population. This blog entry is not meant to be a reprimand but it is a comment on how ingrained white privilege is in our society and how privilege should extent to everyone and everything. I would love to pick up a book and see a Turkish girl, Korean girl, Nigerian girl, Ghanian girl blessing the cover of some of my favorite paranormal romance books. Or to read about a girl who weights at least 160 completely dry.
Jen A. DurandAuthor of The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series and The Virgins Club, www.Durandpublishing.net
Completed Works
The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:
Wintr’s Homecoming:Secrets
Jaguar Nights:Lies
Pearl Moon:Betrayal
Shadowy LightsFear
The Virgins Club:
The Planner
The Fixer

You Never Leave High School

       This sentence is probably the saddest thing I ever heard. Unsurprising considering how much I hated High School. I utter those words –or in this particular case write those words and the first thing people say in response “Were you unpopular?”. The answer to this is “No!”. I was not unpopular. I was not popular.       I was content socially. I had friends; I probably had enemies/haters. But to be honest, I truly did not care. High School was this thing I did because my parents, as stated in an earlier blog, had an expectation of college from me. High School was that stepping stone. I was nerdy and quiet. I did not belong to one clique. I just fluttered around oblivious to the etiquette rules associated with being apart of a particular social circle. I had friends, some of whom I still speak to, and did the whole prom thing.       Those parts of high school were not horrible. They were fun. What was boring… What was truly annoying… Was the political structure within high school. Everyone is campaigning to be the head of their social circle and to ensure they are not the bottom of the food chain by creating a victims. Gossip was like food and privacy was none existent. Drama was in great supply. Friendships could be made and broken in the span of a period. High School was exhausting and when I left I thought I had escaped the rat race.       College was relatively uneventful. I went in with mindset that I was only there for four years and needed the grades for graduate school. I did not really buy into college life. I had my friends. Participated in a couple of movie nights. Went to a couple of plays, there were very few solo cups in those days. I was not the one to hang out on campus or go to the parties later busted up by the cops. That just was not my seen and I had a low tolerance for things I thought would create unneeded drama. Graduation was a great day in my life. I had survived four years of repeated high school relatively unscathed and without a fistfight or police interaction.       Grad School or should I say the “greatest gossip mill known to man”. Grad Students live for gossip. It feeds their souls and provides them with much needed entertainment. No one is exempt from the wheels of that mill. It swallows people whole. The amount of backstabbing, fake friendships, and fake smiles can drown people. The hidden grenades can blow a leg off. Or blow off your face.       The few people I do allow into my space always say the same thing when I mention just how cliquey people seems to be, “You Never Leave High School.” Jeez, I hope not.       When did the need to have something over others become so consuming? We stopped seeing people as people and started seeing them as threats? I have no desire to wallow in other people’s misery or their drama. I do not need to trade in the lives of others.       High School for me. Was good people. Bad and good teachers. Exams. Homework. Friends and a little innocent romance. Drama was kept on my television screen.

Jen A. DurandAuthor of The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series and The Virgins Club, www.Durandpublishing.net
Completed Works
The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:Wintr’s Homecoming:SecretsJaguar Nights:LiesPearl Moon:BetrayalShadowy LightsFear
The Virgins Club:The PlannerThe Fixer

I Am Not Your Mother

           The other day I was having a conversation with some friends. We were all in a newly renovated home, eating appetizers, and talking. 5 women. All of them educated with careers, or businesses. 2 women in separate committed relationships, and 3 single women. All of us laughing as we caught up.           We talked about food. Life. School. Men.           The woman in relationships complained about their significant others. Shared funny stories of the lover’s mishaps. The single girls spoke about how hard it is to be apart of the singles club. To find a man, and not a boy. We spoke about how the men with the education to match our own seemed more interested in finding a caretaker then a partner.           Growing up, we as woman are socialized to believe that we are the original jugglers. We work, cook, clean, birth, and raise the children. Men work and fix things. Occasionally they will ordain to give their wives a break and take their children out on a “welfare” check in.           This cycle is reinforced in our men because mothers tend to dote on their boys. Rarely is it expected that men learn to cook. Rarer still for them to learn how to sew a button, or mend clothes. It is unheard of for a man to take his wife’s name. Uncommon for a man to be told that it is okay for him to quit his job and raise the children.           It seems as if the better educated a man is, the more they want a wife who has all of the qualities they admire like beauty, and intelligence. But the list does not stop there. They have this expectation that these woman also need to know how to cook, clean, and care for them in a manner very similarly to the way their mothers did in the past.            We are expected to be an accessory, nursemaid, and willing to table our ambition for the good of the unit. Try telling a man with a Masters, PHD, Medical degree, or a J.D to take a beat and sacrifice for the unit. Tell him that the children need him at home and pulling the duty. That you will continue to work and ensure the families financial success. There will be hesitation. Yet that same man would take for granted your decision to be home with your shared children.            We have all worked hard for our jobs and our successes. Getting those degrees were not walks in the park. Paying those loans can give people nightmares. We have ambition and want the recognition of a promotion. So finding a man with a hustle that matches our own and does not expect us to take the back seat to theirs is hard. Not impossible. But hard.            We commiserated on the dates that ended in disaster and the men who approached us sideways. We shared the list of qualities we admired and the traits we know make it hard for others to live with us. We laughed as we joked about our turnoffs and turn-ons. But in the end all of us agreed we are not looking to be a grown man’s mother.
Jen A. DurandAuthor of The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series and The Virgins Club, www.Durandpublishing.net
Completed WorksThe Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:Wintr’s Homecoming:SecretsJaguar Nights:LiesPearl MoonBetrayalShadowy LightsFearThe Virgins Club:The PlannerThe Fixer