SHIAVONS JAWN: Don’t let a man without a passport say you’ve never been anywhere


Robbie Pierce

Photo Illustration

Shiavon Chatman, Opinion editor

A jawn. Pronounced jôn. Noun. A person, place, thing, or event that doesn’t need a specific name. An indescribable, but memorable entity.

I’m Shiavon and this is Shiavon’s Jawn. (If these two words don’t rhyme, then you’re saying my name wrong.)

I’ve watched a lot of “Sex and the City.” I love those gentrifying 30-somethings so much. 

They taught me about men, the power of platonic soulmates and how “the one” is sometimes the one who is holding you back.

Now let me tell you about my Mr. Big. 

This guy, we’ll call him Rashaan, was my Mr. Big in every sense.

He didn’t appreciate me, he wore too much cologne and he wasn’t as charming as he thought he was. 

But damn, did he do a good job of brainwashing me. 

We went on pretty expensive dates. Concerts out of town, posh restaurants and karaoke bars with dress codes. 

He never complimented me, but the look he always gave me, made it evident I owned him.

He was falling in love and it scared the shit out of him. 

I was terrified, but I was having a ball. 

He never complimented me, but he complemented me. We had quick, sharp, sarcastic banter eavesdroppers might have taken as a verbally abusive relationship.

I later learned it was.

The banter ended and there was nothing left but cheap insults and mean quips under our breath. 

We were having a ball. 

He was older and he made sure I knew it. He had eight years on me and I felt every single one of them. 

He always made me feel like a simple minded, impressionable young girl he was enlightening. 

Bitch, please. 

Never let a man without a passport tell you you’ve never been anywhere. 

My Mr. Big was the best thing I never had (hi, Beyoncé). 

And he was my guiltiest pleasure. His heart eyes or “sheesh” replies to my Instagram and Snapchat pictures still give me butterflies and I’m not even embarrassed about it. 

I remember once I was laying on my floor in front of my big mirrored closet doors doing my makeup. 

I was bawling my eyes out fusing my tears and my foundation together with my pink beauty blender. It was very on-brand for me, to be honest. 

He had disappointed me again. I knew I deserved better, but I was going to have to want better for myself. 

My dad came in and sat down next to me.

I told my dad, “I thought he liked me.” 

He told me, “You thought wrong.” 

I made every excuse for Rashaan and I tried to justify me being sad about us for the millionth time. 

And then my dad told me something I will never forget. 

“Be nice to yourself when no one else will. Being more constructive than destructive is what makes you a man. He isn’t one, so get over it.”  

Damn, he was right. 

Rashaan taught me that choosing myself isn’t selfish, but necessary. 

It’s freeing knowing I can kick a bad habit, but indulging doesn’t make me weak. 

It makes me strong as hell to conquer and manipulate my vice into something that can’t break me. 

Don’t post those inspirational quotes hoping a light bulb goes off in his head and he suddenly realizes you’re what’s missing in his life. 

He doesn’t give a shit and neither should you. 

Be free and let him go sis. I will if you do.

This is my weekly column where I’ll keep you updated on my straight-to-DVD life, my hip-hop snob opinions, being uncomfortable in this political climate and being a black woman in predominantly white spaces.