Tag Archives: acceptance


It is important that I say this.

It is important that we not remain prisoners of the past.

It is important that we acknowledge change.

It is important that we allow anything to become something else, and not hold it to whatever it was.

“Change” systems are the way; once something has changed, we must allow that thing to exist in a form of system is only a temporary stop; I do not want to think that is a final, instead, only an emerging form.  What would we really be if we could not change? Think of how you may have been at birth; I would assume that you have changed in some way, and isn’t that the idea, to not remain as you were, and to not continue to be judged as that?

What is it that does not have a past not meant to threaten us like ghosts we are unable to escape?

Do you really think I would want to be what I was?

I happen to like evolving, even from my parents; only my mother remains alive, and she wants me to be “saved” from , I hope, hating myself as much as she hates herself.

If you really know me then you also know I am not my mother, though she would prefer that I was. Although she would prefer me to be someone I am not.

My mother insists on dying as she is, unable to change. There is withering I can do about that, as I do not intend to die her death. I will die my own, and unlike her, I have bio idea what will follow that event.

She is convinced,

Thylias Rebecca Brasier Moss and Florida


 however, that I am going to hell; I cannot change her belief system, nor do I think I should, but I can say this, that after interacting with my father for so many years, my mother did not change as she could have.








My father! Calvin Theodore Brasier

My father!

  (half of his father seen below, and half of me)

Frizzell Brasier

my paternal grandfather

(Native American, Indian (from India), and Caucasian)

She is becoming increasingly evangelical, and has dementia that is taking the mother I once knew so far away from me.

And I accept this. Even though my own mother, 87 years old right now is unable to accept me.

And please understand that I am okay with this, I just want to live my life, and of course, I will make mistakes some fo the time, maybe even all of the time, but I will not imprison anyone in their past as my mother rimprisons herself.

I allow that all things may change, and in fact I want them to.

Go ahead and change. Go ahead and become. Go ahead and take the risk, or do you really feel that you have achieved an ultimate form of yourself?

I do not, and at 63, I continue to plod forward, ideally emerging as something better by the end of this life.

My thanks to any of you who have contributed in any way to evolution systems of Thylias Moss.

A few selfies of me, all grown up at 63:


The last time I saw her hair. She hates it, and hates herself.  Completely missed the back power movement. All that prejudice in the south of her birth, Alabama and Tennesssee, called the little black one and fully believed every denigration, even denigrated herself, wanted her child, me to have the hair she always wanted, and I do, never relaxed. no chemical treatment, except she wanted my hair for herself.  

THAT Length she craves.  

Tales of a Harlot

My mother, God love her, continues to call me a harlot.

I realize that she is ill, and this really breaks my heart.  I try to seem disaffected, but it hurts me to hear this whether or not she means it. That woman sounds like her, looks like her, but what she says really stings all too deeply.


But her face has become so leathery-looking for all those bleaching creams.  I would prefer that she could better accept her coloring..  I always have.  Guess that we humans are never satisfied.


Please forgive me for what I am about to say, but I know one reason that she wanted my father to be the father of her child. Growing up in the 1930s in Valhermossa Springs (a corruption of “Beautiful Valley” I’ve thought, ever since I could speak Spanish, but there are many ways to says “self-denigration” and she had plenty of that); plenty of ways to belittle herself in Alabama.

She was born before people learned to be “black and proud” She was so ashamed of her coloring, the darkest complexioned girl in a family of 12 children, 6 males, 6 females, and the girls all born before most of the boys, and my mother was the darkest girl, always called, the little Black One.

All that Nadinola that she continues to slather on her face, neck, fingers.  She looks striped, covered in whooshes and semicircles, the movements of her hands as she tries desperately to paint herself yellow, whiter and whiter,  


Available at Walmart and other fine retail stores.

She was little, (5 feet tall, 4’8″ tall right now) and now even darker as the bleaching creams are darkening her skin instead lightening it.  Among other things –for I know little to nothing of their love life, but I also know that my father was considered a catch, his hair and his skin tone, that mixed race identity, and he had what my mother needed: that hair, that skin.   She didn’t have it, but her child would have “good hair.”


Lawrence, Thylias, Florida

How happy she was sitting with me and my cousin Lawrence in Woodhill Park in Cleveland, Ohio! I am wearing tennis shoes that buckle, as I had trouble with the right-handed lessons. I am older than my cousin to the right of me, but much smaller.  


She speaks this way to no one else.


At this point, I just wish for her acceptance, realizing that she is not capable of giving it.  Timing is just awful… I realize that my mother is near the end of her life, and I wish it could be a more peaceful ending, but I guess that it can’t, for I have become a harlot to her, and I am not sure why, but let me tell you how painful it is for her dementia to do all her talking, and for me to bear the brunt of what she says:


These are my “official” “Harlot Days

according to my mother; trying to listen to her; trying very hard to continue to be a good daughter; right now she is telling me how Trump could be a good president.

God is in charge and she has wisdom and knowledge, but I don’t. She is saying that she belongs to God, and that is all that matters; building a wall, but not like the wall in Jericho, but a wall that will keep out harlots like me.

I’m typing as she talks,

you have to stay with Jesus Christ; God owns everything, all the silver and gold, and she is waiting to go home; she knows who she belongs to, and nothing is impossible through Him; she knows what she’s talking about, no one knows what it’s like to live under Republicans; she is dying in Jesus’s arms. All she knows is that Jesus is coming for her. She started getting hungry last week; it had been a year since she felt hunger, and she is delighted with hunger, and she will eat her fill when Jesus comes back to get her, and she could almost eat a dog, if he was  cooked well done, she is cooking a skillet of cornbread in the morning, and she hopes that I have a blessed life, “why am I talking short?” she just asked me, but I am not talking short. I am listening carefully as she changes my name to “Harlot” (Jean Harlow, Gene Harlot).

I just do not want to be called a “harlot”; “harlot” is not my name. I can’t believe that she would want to claim the birth of a harlot as something she accomplished.

I am trying very hard to be a good daughter, but there’s only so much of this “harlot” namecalling I can take.

Thank you for taking part in this brief tale of a harlot, by a harlot.

1o of the most famous prostitutes in history

a list on which my name does not appear.  Mostly famous white prostitutes, I am neither white nor famous –I’m going to sneak a “yet”in right here, because ya never know what life may require of me, and if it ever does, I will remove this post, but I am neither white (never will be, despite the efforts of products like Nadinola, her favorite skin bleaching, skin whitening product.

Not long ago, she told me that when she looked at me, she did not see herself; why not? I am indeed her daughter, and I have never disowned her, and she hates my part in 9:08, a Day in the life, of The United States of Poetry,  in which I recite a passage of my poem, “The Linoleum Rhumba” –she had an opportunity to portray the maid, and that is exactly what she was,  a maid who toiled very hard, and worked since her days as a six-year-old girl toiling in the fields, picking cotton, fingers bleeding raw, but she wouldn’t do this, as in her mind she was being asked to portray the “lowest”.  My mother always worked!  She was never a stay-at-home woman.  Sun-up and past sun-down.  

And even then before dementia took over her mind, I could not make her understand that I was saying something quite different in this passage of my poem:

I dream of my mother accepting herself. hair and all.  An accepting me, for I really am her daughter, although she disowns her very own harlot.FLORIDA PAST

 the way my mother remembers herself, and so do I.


I’ll always love my mama.  1973, “The Intruders”


Do You Have The Courage To Forgive?


I have been struggling not to hurt myself — for peace of my own mind, I have to forgive him, for I am hurt by his hurt, hurt that I am causing so I must take this path to preserve friendship we’ve had for thirty years, until we tried intimacy that (apparently) meant more to me than to him… And that made me question the 30 years that were very good, and I shared my questioning with him! –now I want to be a Warrior for Forgiveness, a Warrior for Compassion so that we’ll be able –so that I’ll be able to move to a much better place where I can live with myself, and ignore those telling me that he should never be forgiven, but that’s not the kind of heart I have, believing that in the end, it is forms of love that will prevail;  yes, the Power of Love! 

Warrior for Forgiveness!  

–the only way!

–I feel hurt, but so does he… and I’m no longer going to try to measure my hurt against his hurt. We are both hurting and without friends that we’ve been for so many years… I am 61, and he is 67 –I just don’t know how much time is left, but, as I said, I truly believe that love is stronger, more durable than revenge which in the end would only cause more hurt for both of us, so I’m moving toward forgiveness; I have to, for I can’t live with myself otherwise.

The Truth Warrior


I think many of us already know of the power of forgiveness however how many of us really practice it in our daily lives? Many times we choose to hang on to the hurt, the anger, the guilt and the pain rather than let it go and forgive the person who has wronged us. I know that it can be easier said than done however when we choose to forgive, we are doing it for ourselves.

If for example somebody wrongs us in some way and we choose to hold anger and hatred towards that person, we are really the ones who are suffering and hurting in the situation. This anger and resentment that we feel has been known to turn into disease in certain people’s lives. I know in my experience that when I had anger towards a person, I thought in my own head that I was hurting that person by…

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