I’ve been watching Being Mary Jane, not because I particularly enjoy it, but because I felt black girl code dictated that I support a show with a black woman as the lead and executive producer. And because I like to be one with my Twitter feed. I’d largely written MJ off as a continuation of Mara Brock Akil’s Joan Clayton, albeit more desperate and more neurotic. MJ is what Joan likely would have become.
Last week, I asked my timeline if they really liked the show because it usually left me feeling depressed. A few of my followers echoed my sentiments, while my friends stated that they liked it because they felt it was real. MJ said the things we didn’t, couldn’t say aloud. I still wasn’t sold. I thought, and still think, the show lacks the levity and support of good girlfriends and GBFFs that gets us through.
But then shit got real. Last night, MJ turned a corner. Where she had been weak before, succumbing to exes and love at ANY cost, she was finally strong in the moment when she needed her. I respected her. She turned down the advances of the love of her life because their love was no longer important. Because MJ needed more. She needed to be more than just a person that filled in the blanks, a person that picked up the pieces and sent him back home to his girlfriend while she was left to face her own brokenness.
I’ve been there. MJ voiced me. All the things I wrote because I couldn’t say them. All the times I didn’t call him. All the times I didn’t take the opening. All the times I opted to be alone rather than begin the cycle again. All the times I chose me. I still have to make that decision on a daily basis and it’s not always easy.
Then Laura Mvula’s Sing to the Moon played. That song, that album will get you through some shit. It was a perfect moment of me-ness, to include the much needed romp with a cut friend to take the edge off. For once I got it. I understood Mary Jane.