Checking In #001

This post was surprisingly hard to write. Maybe it’s because I’ve been lucky to find myself getting paid to write now. Maybe it’s cause I hit the ground running on this return to Salvador. Either way things are changing and I’m not sure what direction to take the blog. I’m also pondering an extended stay in Colombia, which would change the central theme of “Black Girl in Brazil”. I’ve also recently accepted a junior editor position with a really cool fashion blog, on top of the online teaching gig that helps maintain the nomad life I live.

The latest venture is dabbling in creative direction. I find myself falling in love with the different skills needed to pull off a scene or look. Writing is solitary. Assisting on a set is community oriented. My teenage dream was always to be a filmmaker since being an extra on the set of “The Wire”. Being on a set feels like home. This time around, I came back to Brazil with a trunk full of cute vintage clothes for my pop up thrift store. I hired the dopest photographer in Salvador and we had a cute photoshoot in Santo Antonio. A few things changed last minute but that’s what happens when your producing creative work!

Follow the blog’s instagram page to see some behind the scenes footage of the photoshoot that will be released in November.


que coisa linda! só 25 reis #glowingpain #brechó

A video posted by @_glowingpain on Oct 29, 2016 at 1:22pm PDT


vai tem calça jeans sim! #glowingpain #brechó #calça

A video posted by @_glowingpain on Oct 29, 2016 at 1:20pm PDT


algumas momentos de o ensaio de Glowing Pain Brechó #glowingpain #brechó

A video posted by @_glowingpain on Oct 29, 2016 at 1:19pm PM


Cicatrizes is a mixed media ebook written by me and designed by Maya Rodriguez. Featuring short stories, poetry, prayers, a recipe and a spell, this is a more personal look into my time in Brazil. Available for pre-order here.

The first time I died.

And everyone I had ever knew

Or had ever had knew me died as well.

Shooting into the black hole of the universe

The ego dries away like rain on the concrete

The light of the smallness of your existence is the sun

And at first it’s horrifying

But that’s just your ego crying at its loss of self.

Once you die, the fun begins.

The second time I had gone through a lot of internal monologues

“Am I doing drugs?”

Yes. Well. Kinda.

“That’s what people who do drugs say”

But it’s helping me, it’s medicine.

“Is it?”

I think so.

Well, let’s see what happens this time.

The third time the ancestors told me to take my black ass home.

I danced around the bonfire and felt the party that is my melanin

But as the song changed I got tired.

Like really tired.

And I just wanted to hold my grandma’s hands.

Or put my nose in my mother’s hair.

So my ancestors said, take ya ass home now girl.

“Okay.” I said.

And finally bought a return ticket.

The fourth time I came all over myself.

Masturbated in front of shrines in an impeccably clean bathroom.

And when someone walked in on me

-perhaps she was coming to do the same thing

We giggled like toddlers discovering their genitalia for the first time.

The second time I saw my future kids

I saw a curly haired boy peak out to me

His eyelashes beating down like wings

“Mommy, when we come down can we-“

“Shut up” I cried.

“But Ma-“

Why do you want to come here now?

Why not come as a dinosaur or come down 1000 years from now

When we’re all in space and 4 dimensional.

He said, “What’s 4 dimensional mean mommy?”

I still don’t know son.

This last time I almost never came back.

My ego must have gotten tired of me working her out so she ran away

She was chilling in the black hole,

Now that she likes the way it feels she think she can just up and leave when she wants.

But I’ll show her.

She don’t run this show no more.

I do.

And when people ask what I was doing in Brazil

On those beaches and in those woods

Chanting with those hippies, dancing in front those flames

Drinking the tea.

Doing drugs, as some would call it.

Joining a cult as one friend thought it.

I’ll just smile and tell them to read my book

There is no shame in this particular secret.


“Drenched in Light” #tbt

Words can’t suffice what she put me through. Or better yet, what she took me out of. But this is my first attempt. If you’re reading this and it resonates, set intentions to begin the journey of finding her as she’s already called you. Mama Aya asks for nothing but submission. You have to let her ride you or you’ll drown. Once you drink her and you sit you will go some place completely new. Everyone’s experience of her is different.

I’m a young black woman from West Baltimore who thought she knew the gauntlet of human suffering. Drug addicted father dies leaving an aspiring actress of a mom single and stuck with two kids, is how the synopsis of my childhood could read, but it is beautiful despite its challenges. And I believe in the respectability politics that were spoon-fed to my generation through Cosby show reruns and Saturday morning cartoons. I go hard in high school, avoiding the cute blacks boys cause pregnancy means I’m stuck in the ghetto, doomed to live out my life like a hood novel. I apply to all out of state colleges; because there is just no way I can be who I want to be in Baltimore. But money is funny and I end up in Baltimore County, at an University of Maryland School, that is NOT College Park. I fall in love, a few times. I lose my mind, often. I take anti depressants and laugh when a good friend of mine tells me their Mom has cancer. I stop taking anti depressants. I lose my virginity and a bit of my self-esteem to someone whose life would end on a corner in Park Heights, police sirens and running feet would have been the accompanying soundtrack, I imagine.  I try to shrink myself. I cut off my dreadlocks, and mourn in a Bikram Yoga studio where sweat substitutes for tears. I continue my acupuncture treatments and my friends put me on suicide watch. I study abroad in Ecuador. This accelerates my experimentation with long-term travel into a full blown addiction. I come back home in one piece physically but I can see the scars of my time in the University system beginning to keloid.

After graduating college this May, I saved my money made at my summer job teaching literacy to elementary students, booked a cheap round trip and woke up in Salvador, Bahia, Brasil. Time has always been a hard concept for me to grasp, but here, it doesn’t seem to exist. Everything here comes and goes in waves ,like Yemaya.

Anyway, I make friends here. I sit on the beach. I smoke. I meditate. I pontificate. I sleep. “I’m doing nothing,” my ego says. As usual my ego is wrong. A month into my journey here, she finally calls me. My dear friend, a black woman studying shamanism is ready to be my guide. My midwife, if you will. She and another kind soul I know led the ceremony. We are in a soft space, in a favela, right on the beach. The ocean waves crash in and slide out. To prepare myself for this, I’ve only eaten one Brazilian white flesh sweet potato. The day before I cut out off my all my hair, again. I’ve discovered that these things are apart of my ritual. No one told me this was necessary, it just felt so. Mama Aya is like that. Nothing makes sense until it does. We sit in a circle and talk. I’ve asked a million questions by now like a good college grad. I even watched a cheesy documentary about rich white people going to Peru to get “cleansed”. Side eyes aside, I knew this was something I had to experience for myself. We sit in a circle. Meditate. Set intentions. My intentions are set to heal. Heal and release all the pain and trauma that was put on me like a birthright. I’m a dark girl, and I’m not just talking about my melanin.

We gather in a circle and pray. “Our father who art in heaven…” I think about what my Christian grandmother, daughter to a mother who built her church from the ground up would say if she knew what I was doing. “hallowed be thy name…”I think about the series of prayers I wrote to my body, my heart, my intuition, myvagina and my mind. I closed those prayers in my name. I’m surprised that I can recite the Lord’s Prayer without a second thought, forgetting that things you learn in childhood are often the hardest to forget. We say the Ava Maria in Portuguese. We cleanse ourselves in sage. There are three women, including myself and two men. We all drink from the same cup. She is brown and tastes like prune juice. She smells like patchouli and breath. We sit and wait. After what feels like an hour passes I feel nothing but tired and decide that this was all hype and nothing will happen. I won’t throw up my darkness and purge like I was told. I’ll probably just fall asleep. I do just that.

Moments later, I wake up to feel the formation of tears in my eyes. I can literally feel iodine traveling to my tear ducts. Tears stretch across my eyelashes; they feel hot and sticky but fall so gently onto my face. I am not sad. I search inside my mind for some reason to cry. I know a reason exists, but I cannot find any. This makes me cry even more. I realize I don’t know who I am and that freaks me the fuck out. You could have told me my whole life story right there and I would have stared blankly. My ability to think logically and linearly is totally gone. I am a ball of sensation. I can feel everything. And it’s terrifying. I feel nausea. I want to stand up and go puke in the toilet, but I lose myself along the way. I look up and I’m kneeling in front of a toilet, dry heaving, whatever it is that’s in me, is not ready to let go. I cry and plead, but to no avail. I sit on the steps that lead into the bathroom and cry. I’m confused and in pain. I feel the depths of my solitude, like the entire universe has swallowed me up and I never even existed. I cry more hot tears. I look up to see a black figure reaching for me, it looks like death. I cry, “No!” But what looks like death turns out to be my friend. She holds my hand and leads me back to the peaceful circle. Embarrassed, but a little more grounded in reality, I realize that I am in a safe space experiencing what I wanted so badly. I laugh at my own naivety. I actually looked forward to this. There is music playing and with each song I am in a new space physically. Some songs make me nauseous and I dry heavy and belch, vomiting spirits that have been inhabiting my body for far too long. Some songs are too harsh for my skin and I cringe as my pores open wide and swallow notes. The third woman in the circle, a youngish person of Indigenous Argentinean descent is good at coaxing out my darkness. She lures them out with a whistle and cleanses me with sage once they’re gone. I run my hands down my face and body, it grounds me as the spirits escape through my mouth and skull. As they leave, I feel…lighter.

“Eu sou Indigena…” a new song begins to play. I feel my legs and hands become roots and soil and then matter. Eventually I can feel every molecule in my body and I am no longer afraid of the vastness of this fact. I accept my body. It feels amazing. I am heavy and strong. I see stardust in my shoulders and the sun in my irises. I look at myself in the mirror and smile, running my hands over my head, relishing in the sensation of my palms on my hair and scalp. I laugh and twirl and dance and sway and cry and sing. Realizing that everything is okay. Life is death like pain is joy and all apart of me like I’m all apart of it. It being the experience of life, because life is nothing more than an experience. The intergenerational trauma that I inherited has been thrown back into the universe who I trust to take care of it. It’s smaller than a period in the story that I am writing right now. The sun began to rise over the ocean. I had to lean on the window sill to keep from being pushed over with the revelation that me and my perception of this experience (some people would call them problems) are so small, they cease to exist in the blink of an eye. I blink my eyes.

“Scar Tissue” #TBT

*Every Thursday, I will post a blog post from my tumblr about the beginning of my year in Brazil*

Originally published here September 2014. 

Keloids are scars that don’t know they’ve healed, therefore they keep growing and growing. Producing skin until the original wound is covered in a thick protruding smooth to the touch layer of skin. Keloids are usually found in people with a lot of melanin in their skin, it’s genetic. How your mom healed is how you heal. How your family copes is usually related to how you cope. I have come to Bahia to cope/heal. Hopefully end the healing process mentally and emotionally so that my body can catch up and stop producing keloids.

DSC_0288 DSC_0439

My scars are along the top of my chest and some reach my navel. They started out as shaving bumps or pimples, generally gross but manageable bodily functions. They morphed into sources of shame and deep physical discomfort. The ones on my chest have actually grown more because I’ve had them “treated”. Halter tops are my go to top not only because they show of my shoulders but because I’m tired of watching people’s eyes dart between my eyes and my scars. I’m starting to think I will never be able to get rid of them. My last resort is to make peace with my body, the way it is, now. This is why I came to Bahia. 

About 4 months ago I graduated with a Bachelors Degree in Media and Communication Studies from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County.Throughout those years I…

considered suicide seriously but choose anti depressants/fell in love and dealt with it being unreciprocated/began therapy/experienced the death of the person I gave my virginity to/continued acupuncture/cut off my dreadlocs/studied abroad/had a pregnancy scare/lost valuable friendships to acts I considered unforgivable

Luckily, I spent most of my time in college utilizing the free mental health services as well as continuing the acupuncture that I began in high school. College was the beginning of my commitment to healing. It was in college that I realized how I…

use “work” as a drug/am afraid of being abandoned so I never commit/do not have a strong spiritual foundation/view my art as a tool for attention and love/used my poetry as a means of distancing myself from romantic options/don’t trust 

It wasn’t until my last semester in college after I had studied abroad in Ecuador that I even realized the aforementioned about myself. I was seeing my acupuncturist weekly and we were doing really good work and I realized my own mind was the source of a lot of my pain. Sure things had happened to me, people lied and left but I made the choice everyday to ruminate and rehash those emotions. I was addicted to the drama of it all and it cost me time and energy. I was over it. I am over it. I’m ready to let go.

Brazil is a country I’ve been obsessed with since I saw the film “City of God” in middle school. My love grew as I learned how it’s home to the largest population of African descended people in the Americas but you could never tell that from mainstream media.  The “Black Power” movement here, just started in 1980. With a new rising middle class, primarily of black people and a booming film industry Brazil made sense as a my post college move.

Salvador, Bahia appealed to my budding spirituality. I’m looking for something a little less colonized to believe in. (No shade to Jesus) and Bahia is home to various practices like Orisha and Candomble. I know of many black folk who came to Bahia to get a healing. Maybe someone here can tell me what I need to do to accept myself scars and all.  

photo credit: Asia Jones

Reckless, Helpless Anger

Here’s what you need to know about what’s happening in Baltimore.

The brutal and unnecessary death of Freddie Gray has left my city in mourning. Freddie, a West Baltimore native was believed to have been in his neighborhood when he made eye contact with a police eye officer. EYE CONTACT. Freddie was then chased and beat. 80% of his spinal cord was severed. He died in the hospital a week later. This video goes into detail.

There were many peaceful protests this past week. One peaceful protest was interrupted when drunk white Orioles fans began shouting “Niggers!” at the protesters as well as throwing objects. Thus began the “riots”. Oh no, thus began the small damage to a few cars, and a 7-11. White people have done worse damage when their favorite sports team win championships. Things got out of hand and people were arrested. But the city calmed down.


A “flyer” was allegedly circulated claiming that gangs were pulling together to “take out” cops. LOL I imagine an old white cop writing this “flyer” and recalling “jive talk” he saw in an old blaxsplotation film. Needless to say, this was not true. No such initiative was created but that didn’t stop the city from closing most major universities and business early in prep for an “attack”. They closed most of downtown and let people home early. Most people except high school students. black high school students. Police in full SWAT gear surrounded the major bus station on the West Side of Baltimore leaving hundreds of teenagers stranded in the area. They then began to antagonize them, and through rocks. The media will only show the handful of students who fought back. But when you’re getting tear gassed and told to go home AND they city has shut the busses down, what do you do?

When your city has taken money out of the public education system FOR DECADES…when your city has given all oppurtunity and grants to mostly white transplants, when your own BLACK mayor calls her youth thugs on Television.

What’s left?

What to do with all this anger?



Still love my city.

Still honored to say I’m from Baltimore.

Still screaming fuck the cops.

Still sick and tired of being sick and tired.


Ainda amo minha cidade.

Ainda assim a honra de dizer que eu sou de Baltimore.

Ainda gritando foda a polícia.

Ainda doente e cansado de estar doente e cansado.

The Black Female Domestic Worker; Part 1

It’s not uncommon to see worn wrinkled hands wiping the butts of small smooth skinned babies. Often the small smooth skinned backside is white. And the wrinkled hands? Well they’re black of course.

Cause that’s just how things are here.

It’s hard to watch honestly. At the job I was fired from about a month ago, I was one of the few noticeably black teachers. Dark brown skin, nappy hair type black. The hierarchy was as follows, the white or nearly white women were teachers, they wore blue collared shirts. The lighter skinned mixed looking black women wore pink shirts, which means they were teaching assistants. But the majority of women that really looked like me wore blue smocks and were maids, assistants and teachers all at once. They took children to the bathroom, they kept the classroom sparkling clean, they organized work, they fed kids, they did all the work. I’m sure they were paid way less than everyone else. I’m sure there feet hurt everyday.  They appeared happy and were always cordial but it was still very strange. I couldn’t help but wonder who was taking care of their kids and grandkids. Who takes care of these women when they are tired or sick or can’t give care any longer? No one.domestic-worker-jan10

(photo courtesy of