Breaking Boundaries: Storytelling Beyond Race

My latest Suno AI song. Please let me know if you like it by giving me a thumbs-up 👍 and share

Echoes, Identity, and the Courage to Create Anyway

When I first envisioned the video for Echoes of Her Lipstick, I wanted it to feel like memory itself—soft, sad, tender, a little smoky at the edges. A love that lingers, even in silence.

When I listened to the voice I imagined a man of color as the singer of the song, he became that visual—a figure mourning the woman whose lipstick he still sees in the mirror—I found myself hesitating.

Not because the story didn’t feel right.
Not because the image wasn’t beautiful.
But because of the voice inside me that whispered:

“What will they think?”

I’m a 55-year-old white woman from Arkansas. I grew up poor, in a time and place where life was often segregated—not just in neighborhoods, but in thinking. I didn’t grow up with friends of other races. I didn’t grow up seeing people who looked different from me in person and very seldom in romantic stories or music videos unless they were carefully “matched” to a certain expectation.

And yet… here I am now, creating something that didn’t follow those old expectations.

The Fear I Didn’t Want to Admit

If I’m being honest—and I always try to be—that little voice wasn’t coming from strangers. The voice in my head came from white women like me. The ones who might quietly disapprove, or unfollow, or ask behind closed doors, “Why’d she have to use that man?” And a deeper fear, the ugliest one:

Will they think I’m trying to be something I’m not?

Will they think I’m lowering my morals?

That last one stopped me cold.

Because the truth is—telling stories that reflect the full beauty of humanity isn’t lowering anything.
It’s raising the standard.

Why I Left Him in the Video

Because the story didn’t ask for a race.
The grief didn’t care about color.
And the emotion—the real, raw ache of losing someone—was human.

He belonged there because the tenderness on his face matched the emotion in the song. Because his emotions on his face moved me. (And, yes, it is an AI image). Because love is not limited by what we look like—and neither should memory be.

And then came the comment. Just a simple comment from someone who watched:

“Where have you been hiding? You have amazing taste.”

That was all I needed.

What This Means for Me Going Forward

I’m not trying to be a political voice. I’m not trying to provoke. I’m just trying to tell the truth in art—even when it’s messy. Even when it pushes me out of my comfort zone.

If that broadens my audience beyond the bubble I grew up in—good.
If it makes someone feel seen who usually isn’t—even better.
And if it rattles someone who’s never had to think about these things before? Well, maybe that’s the start of something new for them too.

So I left him in.
And I’m proud that I did.

Because this is who I am now—
A storyteller.
A late bloomer.
A lipstick dreamer with something honest to say.

Final Thought

If you ever find yourself second-guessing your creative choices because of what people might whisper—listen harder to what your heart is shouting. Mine was shouting.

“Tell the story anyway.”

💋
Lisa
Married in Arkansas

Embracing Joy: The Yard Sale Queen’s Legacy

My legacy?

I want to be remembered as the woman who proved you don’t need a gold card to live a golden life. I turned folding tables into treasure chests and early Saturday mornings into royal processions.

That joy doesn’t come with a price tag. That beauty lives in chipped paint, mismatched mugs, and stories passed hand to hand. That hustle, heart, and humor can make anything feel like home.

I hope people say.

“She didn’t just hunt for bargains-she hunted for meaning in the things others left behind. and baby, she found it.”

I want to be the reason someone pulls over for a yard sale sign – not just for the deals, but for the hope that something wonderful is waiting.

THE YARD SALE QUEEN’s LEGACY

by the Queen, with love (and a little glitter)

I wasn't crowned with diamonds bright,
But with sunhats worn and morning light.
My kingdom stretched from street to street,
Where folding tables kissed my feet.

I chased no riches, owned no malls,
But found my gold in garage walls.
A faded doll, a vinyl tune—
A tea cup shaped like a crescent moon.

I built a life from stories tossed,
Gave value back to what seemed lost.
And every coin I chose to spend
Revived a dream, reclaimed a friend.

Let them say I ruled with flair—
With lipstick, laughs, and windswept hair.
I taught that joy, not price, defines
The treasures tucked in others’ finds.

So when I'm gone, don’t hang your head—
Just throw a sale and shop instead.
Play funky beats, bring out the snacks—
And toast the Queen who lived with clap-backs.

A throne of crates, my crown of grace—
And bargains left in every place.
A legacy of laughter, keen—
That’s the mark of a Yard Sale Queen.

From Dreams to Tragedy: Remembering Tammy’s Story

Here is the real story. Names were altered except for Tammy’s.

If you would like to listen to this story, click on this video down below.

At the nearby nursing home, we were both enrolled in a CNA course. Their free training program to become a certified nursing assistant would last eight weeks. That’s where I met Tammy.

I envied her. She was tall, blond and gorgeous. She gave off the impression of being well-organized.

Around 10:30 one morning, Mrs. Rogers gave us our customary break. Tammy stayed with me as the other girls walked outside to smoke. She wore one-inch heels (not that she required them), matching trousers, and a soft pink shirt. She pulled her golden hair high into a tidy bun. She never overdid it and always looked put together. She carried herself confidently, or so I thought.

“Would it be possible for us to speak alone?’ She trembled when she spoke. Fighting tears.

“My father hates me, and I think I was adopted.” She cried. “I don’t look nothing like my parents.”

I was at a loss for words. All that came out was “Oh my.”

“For this job, I asked my mom for my birth certificate, but she refused to give it to me.” She lowered her head and really broke down.

She described to me how she was treated like an outcast by her family. Her father paid her no attention. Two of her children lived with their fathers. The other two with her parents. Her calls went unanswered, even by her closest sibling. It seemed as though she had no one.

All that external beauty vanished as she spoke. I saw her soul – wounded and shattered. At the age of 23, I was clueless about how to console her. So I just sat listening.

After three weeks or so, Tammy invited Miranda, another girl, to hang out after class on a Friday. Miranda drove us home in her pickup truck. Tammy and Miranda’s sister, Sherry, rode in the back, while I sat with her in the front. The home roads meandered through steep slopes and curves. Miranda drove at a casual 80 miles per hour, as if she were racing. I held on to the door rigidly.

Tammy, meanwhile, was standing on the truck’s bed, joking, shouting, and laughing while waving to strangers in their yards. She did not fear anything.

We eventually got to her place. We chatted and laughed late into the night. Tammy had abandoned the program that following Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I continued with the program.

A few weeks later, I happened to see her while at a neighbor’s house. She was on her way across the freeway to the mailbox. On the dusty road where we both resided, I waited for her.

“How are you?” I inquired.

“I’m doing well. How about you?”

I said, “Good, good,” and then I stopped. “Hey, I wanted to tell you about that day those girls from the nursing home gave us a ride home.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Miranda was driving eighty miles an hour?”

“Really?” Her gaze expanded. “I could have been killed.”

I gave a nod. “But neither of them finished, so I don’t expect them to come back.”

Tammy grinned. “Well, I have some positive news. I called one of those psychic hotlines. She told me that I would meet a tall, dark stranger before Christmas. Given my boyfriend’s black hair and other features, I believe it to be Tom. Perhaps we will soon tie the knot.”

“That’s fantastic,” I smiled. “I’m glad for you.”

After a quick hug, she walked back down the gravel road to her house.

Christmas hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a December day that was abnormally warm. I was preparing to go to work, dressed in my whites. While my brother and his friend Robert changed the oil in his car, I sat on the couch, smoked, and looked out the front window.

“Hi!” my brother exclaimed.

I watched Tammy’s red Cavalier zoom by in slow motion. As usual, she waved her arm out the window.

After extinguishing my cigarette, I turned, and suddenly there was a crash.

“Holy crap!” Robert shouted. “She was struck! She was struck!

“She got hit! She got hit!” My brother yelled.

I ran outside and sped towards the highway, trying not to lose my breath. Already, cars were backing up. In an attempt to free her, my brother and Robert had opened the passenger side of her vehicle.

The small automobile was forced into the ditch after an RV crashed into the driver’s side. The grass was littered with white envelopes and mailboxes.

“I didn’t see her,” the RV’s driver repeated and paced.

I saw her body lying on the ground. In an attempt to console her, Tom’s father knelt next to her. Her golden hair matted crimson. Her little body was broken and trembling. Her eyes never opened.

I went cold. That could have been me. She was just 29.

Wake up. Wake up.

Paramedics arrived. A chopper touched down. They flew her away. I never saw her again.

I stood there contemplating. Drained. She met her tall, dark stranger, I believe.

This is a real tale. Every name was altered, with the exception of Tammy’s. She had an incredible amount of potential and was authentic. She had an ambition of working in a trauma unit at a hospital.

Now, the dream seems tragically fitting.

I’ve carried this with me for years. I regret not having done more. When she most needed hope, I wish I had prayed with her, shared my faith, and introduced her to Jesus. Being young and recently baptized, I was unsure of how to proceed.

However, I have prayed to God for forgiveness. Don’t wait if you ever find yourself with someone who is lost. Speak up. Say a prayer. Share the truth.

You could be their only hope.