Writers block set in. I have denied if over the past 5 days, but its here. And its obvious. where I normally rush to the computer as soon as the children's snores fill the air I have been finding excuses lately. American Idol. Sweep the floor. just so tired. Late night Cheesecake Factory run. In the meantime, so many projects and deadlines are passing me by. I am not sure if its writer's block though, because I have ideas, I just can't seem to get myself motivated to write them down. Third degree writer's block, serious but not too severe.
Obama. What in the world am I gonna do with Obama. No, the actual question is what am I gonna do with black folks. I luv Obama. I get it. I see the fervor, the passion, the beauty in his poetic prose. I want to see the black man succeed, want to see two little black princesses in the White House. I desperately want it. BUT, my pocketbook would like some help with prekindergarten. A tax break or two. I want a healthier earth for my seed, some EPA restrictions, restrictions on big business. I want credit/debt relief. Repeals of the silent damage Bush and his crew have caused, where all credit card interests raise if you are late on one payment ot one card. Where subprimes have flooded and then bottomed out. Where bankruptcy is tantamount to indentured servitude. My beautiful black brother doesn't speak on these. Not that I have heard. While he is adamantly riding the tide of emotion shouting "We Can Change," Hilary is laying down explicit plans on how my baby twins can receive prek without my paying 8 grand a year like I did for the last set of kids. What's a sista to do....?
The annoying factor are the emails I get at work, declaring every black person who is not voting for obama a sellout, a high fallutin negro with excuses, a pathetic black american. One email had the nerve to state that the issues were irrelevant, experience was overrated, his blackness should be enough. The same things I would have said in my early 20's. Before I had 5 mouths to feed and rhetoric was enough to change the world. Can black folks be multilayered? Can we have more than one need, be fulfilled by more than one person? If Hillary weren't running, then Obama - even though his name reminds me of the terrorist. Without a doubt. But for me, this was her time, this was her race. And I believe that sink or swim she will get it done. She did it with the universal health care plan she fought for. She did it with balancing the budget and tax incentives. Make no mistake, Hillary wasn't a first lady that just sat in the background and waved. New Yorkers would have never made her a Senator if that were the case.
So, this election is something to behold. And I am transfixed by the growth of Obama supporters and the prowess of Hillary. And I certainly won't hold it against anyone who supports Obama. I am proud of the brother. I just wish my kinfolk would stop resorting to childish taunts and emotional rants to berate those who aren't already sold on the Obama train. It's counterproductive and oh so embarrassing...
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Martin Luther King Day
I watched the Georgetown v. syracuse game tonight on TV as I braided my daughters hair. I had tickets to the game, but forgot all about it until I flipped past it on the tube. Simply forgot. My day was shot as soon as I awoke - I also missed the Martin Luther King celebration I had planned to attend. My daughter's hair was awful, I couldn't take them in public until I did something with it. But then they got restless. Cabin fever set in. So we took them ice skating, an event which required a hat a tall times. After the skating, the feeding, the panpering, yelling, napping, I hadn't mentioned one word about Martin to my kids. Instead, I sat on the floor, braiding hair, silently pouting, upset that I had missed the one game that I spent the college basketball season waiting for with bated breath.
During a commercial a spotlight of Martin flashed on the screen. "Martin" I whispered, suddenly jarred back to reality.
"Today was his day mommy, and we did nothing to celebrate him." My hands stopped braiding. I had thought she was too young to really get it, so preoccupied with Disney and pbskids that she wouldn't even realize. Instead, I was shamed by the words of a child. "I made a book at school about his life. he wanted equality for all..." she went on, continuing to list his attributes, his accomplishments, his meaning to us as a race, to our nation. And the more she talked, the more ashamed I felt. Because, despite my desire to take credit, none of the information she recited was learned from me. Because, her school had laid fertile ground and I failed to water it. Because, not having her hair done just didn't seem like a valid excuse anymore. Because, there are so many things about Martin, about the movement, about her people that she should know already, that I keep waiting for some unknown time to share with her.
I am decended, on both sides, from slaves. And both sides have been traced to well before the Civil War. This is my land, this is my nation. We have had a family member serve in ever war since the American-Indian war (even when Black folks supposedly weren't allowed to serve). And the Civil Rights movement is just as much ours as it is anyone who holds this nation, with all its faults, dear. Why haven't I taught her that? What have I been thinking?
The truth is that the truth is ugly. And I wanted to spare her, for as long as I could. I hoped that I could shelter her reality. But she needs to know. I need to teach her and empower her with it. And the time is now.
So, I am still slightly irked about missing my precious game. But I am more touched by my daughters inquisitivenss, her blatant admonishment a wakeup call to me that it is time to teach and pass on. And I will start with Martin...
During a commercial a spotlight of Martin flashed on the screen. "Martin" I whispered, suddenly jarred back to reality.
"Today was his day mommy, and we did nothing to celebrate him." My hands stopped braiding. I had thought she was too young to really get it, so preoccupied with Disney and pbskids that she wouldn't even realize. Instead, I was shamed by the words of a child. "I made a book at school about his life. he wanted equality for all..." she went on, continuing to list his attributes, his accomplishments, his meaning to us as a race, to our nation. And the more she talked, the more ashamed I felt. Because, despite my desire to take credit, none of the information she recited was learned from me. Because, her school had laid fertile ground and I failed to water it. Because, not having her hair done just didn't seem like a valid excuse anymore. Because, there are so many things about Martin, about the movement, about her people that she should know already, that I keep waiting for some unknown time to share with her.
I am decended, on both sides, from slaves. And both sides have been traced to well before the Civil War. This is my land, this is my nation. We have had a family member serve in ever war since the American-Indian war (even when Black folks supposedly weren't allowed to serve). And the Civil Rights movement is just as much ours as it is anyone who holds this nation, with all its faults, dear. Why haven't I taught her that? What have I been thinking?
The truth is that the truth is ugly. And I wanted to spare her, for as long as I could. I hoped that I could shelter her reality. But she needs to know. I need to teach her and empower her with it. And the time is now.
So, I am still slightly irked about missing my precious game. But I am more touched by my daughters inquisitivenss, her blatant admonishment a wakeup call to me that it is time to teach and pass on. And I will start with Martin...
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Land of the Broken Hearted
I was born in the land of the broken hearted. The destroyed and the hurt. Where childhood only refers to size, not maturity, not requirement to fend for self, to survive.
I was born in the land of the destroyed. Where fathers were a rarity, an urban myth, a rarely spotted phenom. Where mama's had more than one baby by more than one man, but no man was accountable to any of them. In 1st grade Tiffany told me the basic rule - her wise eyes arched, her finger pointed in my face, she clarified my mistatement. "Uh uh, you wrong." She said when I told her that her mother's baby wasn't her brother. "He is my baby brother. Cuz we got the same mama. Daddy's dont' matter." With a bob of her ponytail, the finality in her rolled neck she defined my reality, an explanation I accepted without doubt. But her rule didn't count. I met my own brother when I was 10 or 11. I never knew he existed. But he was my father's son. what did that mean? did that count? I wanted to find Tiffany, to demand an explanation. instead he and I stared at each other. And my father bragged about having a son. I looked at my hands and wondered why God had given me this bizrre life. But my brother has been kinder to me than any other male relative I have...
I am from the land of the broken hearted. I knew my father didn't like me, but I loved him so much. He didn't smile at me when he talked. he called my mother a bitch. He said we were trying to take all his money, yet he never paid a dime of child support. I knew, because I was always being dragged to court about it. He stared at me. For minutes at a time. With no expression. Sometimes, he was nice. A minute or so. Then he would sigh deeply, frown at something that came out of my mouth. I prayed over lunch. He asked what did a prayer mean if Jesus was busy. I said Jesus is never busy, my voice shaking. Scared. "What if he is taking a shit?" he asked, laughing loudly, cigarette in his hand. My eyes filled with tears. I was so young then - 7 or 8? His girlfriends daughter, who was Jewish, tapped my knee and shook her head. When she was around, she protected me. I hated him. But I wanted him to want me. Maybe if I was cuter. Maybe if I was smarter. Skinnier. Lighter skinned. What did I need to do, who did I need to be, for him to want me? When I was six he promised to take me out for my birthday. I told him the date, because to this day, he never bothered to remember it. I got dressed, ignored my mothers request that we do something else. I was waiting for my daddy. And I waited. and waited. and waited. and the day, like so many, came and went. When I was 12 he showed up at the door. We went for a ride. Over lunch he picked up my arm. "You shooting drugs?" he asked. What? I shook my head no, removing my arm and ending his search for drug tracks. "You fuckin yet?" he continued. I stared at my food, that heavy lump just before tears, forming in the pit of my stomach. But life had taught me not to cry. "No." "You need to get some pills, just in case your fucking." his eyes locked onto mine, holding them for minutes until I tore mine away and stared at the food on my plate. "What size bra you wear?" he asked. "You got an underwire?"
I remained silent until he took me home. "The next time I see you Im putting you on the pill." he announced. My mother finally pleaded with the court to end my mandatory visits. We lost.
I am from the land of the troubled soul. Where so many children have been disappointed. Let down. hurt and betrayed. Raising themselves. Fending for themselves. My friend got pregnant when I was 11. She didn't tell me at first. I didn't find out until she was sick in the bathroom at school. Me and a lesbian girl whose name now escapes me stood there watching her throw up, our lesbian homey smokin a joint. "Look at that shit." She said, smacking her lips, her jherri curl shaking. She thought my friend was pathetic. She got suspended a month later for havin sex with a girl in a bathroom stall. Then she was expelled a few months later for doing it again, getting caught performing cunnilingus in that same bathroom and they found her marijuana in her pockets. Her ass was always in that damn bathroom. Anyway, I rubbed my friends back while she was sick. I knew then. But she didn't talk about it. Three days later she returned to school and it was done. She was pregnant again a year later.
I am from the land of confusion. Where girls beat up girls because a boy thought she was cute. Where you had damned well better know how to fight, or your ass was doomed. Where keeping a small tube of Vaseline on you was a must so a girls fingernails couldn't scratch up your face while you clawed at each other for no good reason, other than " I heard you said..." Where you better know that if you ever got jumped, you grabbed one girl and whipped her ass instead of trying to fight them all. You hold onto that one bitch to the death if possible, the others will back off if there homegirl is gettin her ass whipped. Don't try to fight them all. This is a tried and true lesson. In middle school a gang of girls promised to whip my ass. I didn't know why. I was in honors classes, trying hard to hide the fact that I was smart. Wanting so desperately to fit in. She pointed her finger in my face, a highschool girl, and declared. "I don't like your smart ass." I was scared. I didn't admit it. "Fuck you," I spit back, praying for help. "I will get your ass at the bus." she shouted. I walked through the day in a daze. By 8th period my cousin appeared. family. the only thing that could save me. " You ok?" she asked. Hell no. I thought. But I nodded, tears in my eyes. I was prepared to die. "Naw, I got this." She shook her head to her friend, they disappeared. The entire thing went away. I love my cousin. Erica. My father's people.
I am from the land of craziness. My first friend was killed when I was 11. Stabbed. Three more friends conceived and killed three more babies over the next two years. My girlfriend kept her baby when we were thirteen. And so it began. The star basketball player, was shot in the head playing craps over 5 dollars. On and on. By ninth grade death was just a constant. We weren't shocked at death, just hurt that the person had been taken from us. Friends lost to us, gone, and we were just children. But children don't know they are children. We were little people, old souls. Hardened souls. hurt and moving on. simply moving on.
I am from the land of the lost. My first drug dealing boyfriend didn't start out that way. He didn't get hardcore, didn't start slinging, until after 8th grade. It was one of two paths. Drug dealer, athlete. little boys playing men. Little boys trying to attain what there parents can never give them working fireman shift at Kodak. He kissed me behind the door in the basement of the school. We had 5 minutes until the bus. Every day. he would kiss and rub and whisper to me behind that door. Every day for two months. I was in love. He would hold my hand, try to make me miss my bus. But I wasn't ready for that. Wasn't ready for what that would mean. After two months, it faded. He looked the other way. I looked the other way. we pretended not to see each other. My heart hurt. I hated him. I loved him. I hated him. We would play that game for years.
My second drug dealing man was Puerto Rican. You wouldn't know, to look at him, but he was. He and my homegirl Kisha were my first lesson that there are black Puerto Rican's. It would take another 20 years for me to realize that there are black Every Nationalities. He was also way too much for me. I could flirt, smile and play along, but papi was ready for things I knew nothing about. He would say things that would have me ready to drop my panties and get it on. I never had such a rush of emotion, of excitement, by a simple word or promise, whispered in English or Spanish. One day the kiss was too deep, I lost myself too much. After that kiss, perfectly pressed touch and tongue flick, I ran from his ass. Avoided him like the plague. He smiled whenever he saw me, though. A slow alluring smile that thrilled and scared me. He woulda turned me out and I knew it.
My third drug dealing boyfriend carried guns. One in a holster on each side. I loved it. Would run my hands along the steel, feeling powerful, feeling like I was with a man. My father had the same affinity for guns, the same holster. I didn't notice the connection until I was grown. he was older. I was much too naive. He protected me. Until his girlfriend called me, busted him and shattered my world. The first time I openly cried over a boy. Damn sure not the last. he and I had driven along the river, parked in the car and talked. Whispered and kissed. He liked that I was smart, was different. I wanted him to go to college with me. After the big falling out he came to my house. Told me I deserved more. Told me that he wanted to look me in my face and apologize. That I was special. That he was sorry. He held me close and kissed my forehead before he left. I never saw him again.
I am from the land of pathetic. My girlfriend and I party hopped all summer. We went to the east side, where brothas were wilder and shit went down. But it was more boys over there, so thats where we had to be. The lights were off in this house party, I only knew two people there. Within minutes the a boy had yanked me into the living room, the "dance floor", grinding and swaying with the music. He was Jamaican. Damn near every boy in the house was. He had a beer in his one hand, that ganja in the other. The lights were low, the DJ's speaker was behind me. I was deafened by the music, feeling the deep baseline travel through me, it was dark, and I was having a great time. I was the only one, probably in the entire house, who hadn't been drinking. That was the difference, I guess. I always dibbled and dabbled in the life, but never fully committed. Only pretended. The great pretender. Gun shots rang out, we all hit the floor. Two brothas started fighting, someone popped another shot. A few more yells and someone pushed the guys out of the house. Someone threatened to call the police. The ruckus died down, the music started back up, and we were back to the smooth grind to the mellow groove. Several songs later the front of my silk shirt (yes, silk - it was 1991) felt damp. The party was hot, I moved to the kitchen to cool down. My girlfriend came with me, found the light and flicked it on. She stared at me before screaming. "Your shot!" "What?" I felt around for the bullet wound. "No, I'm not." "Yes, yes you are there's blood all over you." I unbuttoned the blouse, examining my torso. The blood that soaked my shirt wasn't mine. Jamaica mannnnn..... I bumped my way back into the living room, buttoning my shirt and looking for my dance partner. I found him leaning against the wall, a smile on his face. "You return, eh." Shaking my head, my girlfriend and I pulled him back through the crowd, into the kitchen, into the light. His smile grew. Nasty self. Then he spotted the blood on my shirt. The street instinct in him immediately calculated, through his high drunken haze, and he gazed down at his own torso - the bloody white t-shirt bearing the small bullet hole. He shouted, I grabbed his homeboy outta the crowd. "Shit," he yelled over and over "I cant go to no hospital man." Another guy appeared. They put his arms over each shoulder and rushed him from the house. I lost my appetite for partying and sat on the steps next to the DJ until my friend was ready to go.
I am not of this land: I try not to judge. People who haven't lived in it don't seem to understand it. My first month of college, I hated it. I hated it and them. Everyone of them. So many people living these normal huxtable lives, lives that me and mine had never known. I hated them because I didn't know that there was peace. I didn't know that people had suburban normalcy, two parent families and restated love. Not black folks. I hated them because I thought about all my folks, my friends, who never even had an opportunity, who couldn't even dream of this other world that seemed like an expectation for these people. Their normal was not only my abnormal, but my first realization that I had been locked out from the standard. By my very birth, I had been locked out. But, despite my resistance, they were kind too me. patient to me. and I grew. and my hate dissolved into confusion, melting away the hardened surface of my hurt, allowing me to really see, to envision, to dream and, more importantly, to breathe. For the first time. and I accepted a different life.
I am from the land of the depressed. Where quiet and loneliness plagued our small home, made a mother the enemy of her only child. The only person the child could turn to. Without the depression she was kind, patient, young feeling. I remember being sure I had to protect her. Removing the bottle in the middle of the night, throwing it away, tossing it out. Drifting around the house alone on the weekends, hoping she asn't dead, although there was not breath and she lay awkwardly on the bed. Terror was a constant feeling. The middle years were better. Prozac helped quiet her. But highschool was hell at home. Children are the best hiders of pain. The most social kid at school can be the quietest, most abused child. You would never know. I was the master at disguise.Again, the great pretender. home was best when I was alone. Peaceful. When she came home, I went upstairs. I disappeared. I hid. I slept with a knife under my pillow after she attacked me in the night. Kicked in my door, hurling cusses at me and throwing shit. It occurred to me then, when I was 14, that she was capable of killing me. And since noone knew how she was behind closed doors, noone would ever know the truth. So I started sleeping with knives under my pillow. So I would always have protection in case of her middle of the nights screams. God as my witness, after I kep the knife, she never again attacked me in the night. And she knew nothing of the knife, because I was forced to pull it out when I was 17, the night she tried to throw me out then refused to let me leave. Always dramatic bullshit. I was so sick of it. And she was speechless. During those times I was an ugly bitch. That's what she called me. a fat bitch. worthless bitch. fill in the blank___ bitch. Each time it hurt, but a little less. stupid bitch. selfish bitch. ain't never gonna be shit bitch. One night I went to the hairdresser. Came home to change clothes. The goal was to stay out of the house and away from her. My first time wearing my hair in a loose wrap. She smiled, an evil grin. "you look like an ant" she laughed. I ignored her. "I can't believe you would walk out of the house like that. you are so ugly." I kept walking, but then I looked at her. I wanted to spit on her. Or say something painful. But I knew that she was capable of some evil shit, some shit I couldn't prepare for. And, out of the two of us, I was the one who would be hurt. I knew that. So I just turned around and walked away. "You ugly bitch," she said to my back.
I am from the land of the broken hearted. Daily, I have escaped. Looking over my shoulder, waiting for my past to come back and claim me. Slam me back into my proper place, my real role. Out me, expose me, display my insecurities and fears, show my weakness and faults. Make me that little lost girl that I was, the lonely little girl in me. How can it be explained or described. It exists, and I lived in it for the first 18 years of life. The land of the broken hearted.
I was born in the land of the destroyed. Where fathers were a rarity, an urban myth, a rarely spotted phenom. Where mama's had more than one baby by more than one man, but no man was accountable to any of them. In 1st grade Tiffany told me the basic rule - her wise eyes arched, her finger pointed in my face, she clarified my mistatement. "Uh uh, you wrong." She said when I told her that her mother's baby wasn't her brother. "He is my baby brother. Cuz we got the same mama. Daddy's dont' matter." With a bob of her ponytail, the finality in her rolled neck she defined my reality, an explanation I accepted without doubt. But her rule didn't count. I met my own brother when I was 10 or 11. I never knew he existed. But he was my father's son. what did that mean? did that count? I wanted to find Tiffany, to demand an explanation. instead he and I stared at each other. And my father bragged about having a son. I looked at my hands and wondered why God had given me this bizrre life. But my brother has been kinder to me than any other male relative I have...
I am from the land of the broken hearted. I knew my father didn't like me, but I loved him so much. He didn't smile at me when he talked. he called my mother a bitch. He said we were trying to take all his money, yet he never paid a dime of child support. I knew, because I was always being dragged to court about it. He stared at me. For minutes at a time. With no expression. Sometimes, he was nice. A minute or so. Then he would sigh deeply, frown at something that came out of my mouth. I prayed over lunch. He asked what did a prayer mean if Jesus was busy. I said Jesus is never busy, my voice shaking. Scared. "What if he is taking a shit?" he asked, laughing loudly, cigarette in his hand. My eyes filled with tears. I was so young then - 7 or 8? His girlfriends daughter, who was Jewish, tapped my knee and shook her head. When she was around, she protected me. I hated him. But I wanted him to want me. Maybe if I was cuter. Maybe if I was smarter. Skinnier. Lighter skinned. What did I need to do, who did I need to be, for him to want me? When I was six he promised to take me out for my birthday. I told him the date, because to this day, he never bothered to remember it. I got dressed, ignored my mothers request that we do something else. I was waiting for my daddy. And I waited. and waited. and waited. and the day, like so many, came and went. When I was 12 he showed up at the door. We went for a ride. Over lunch he picked up my arm. "You shooting drugs?" he asked. What? I shook my head no, removing my arm and ending his search for drug tracks. "You fuckin yet?" he continued. I stared at my food, that heavy lump just before tears, forming in the pit of my stomach. But life had taught me not to cry. "No." "You need to get some pills, just in case your fucking." his eyes locked onto mine, holding them for minutes until I tore mine away and stared at the food on my plate. "What size bra you wear?" he asked. "You got an underwire?"
I remained silent until he took me home. "The next time I see you Im putting you on the pill." he announced. My mother finally pleaded with the court to end my mandatory visits. We lost.
I am from the land of the troubled soul. Where so many children have been disappointed. Let down. hurt and betrayed. Raising themselves. Fending for themselves. My friend got pregnant when I was 11. She didn't tell me at first. I didn't find out until she was sick in the bathroom at school. Me and a lesbian girl whose name now escapes me stood there watching her throw up, our lesbian homey smokin a joint. "Look at that shit." She said, smacking her lips, her jherri curl shaking. She thought my friend was pathetic. She got suspended a month later for havin sex with a girl in a bathroom stall. Then she was expelled a few months later for doing it again, getting caught performing cunnilingus in that same bathroom and they found her marijuana in her pockets. Her ass was always in that damn bathroom. Anyway, I rubbed my friends back while she was sick. I knew then. But she didn't talk about it. Three days later she returned to school and it was done. She was pregnant again a year later.
I am from the land of confusion. Where girls beat up girls because a boy thought she was cute. Where you had damned well better know how to fight, or your ass was doomed. Where keeping a small tube of Vaseline on you was a must so a girls fingernails couldn't scratch up your face while you clawed at each other for no good reason, other than " I heard you said..." Where you better know that if you ever got jumped, you grabbed one girl and whipped her ass instead of trying to fight them all. You hold onto that one bitch to the death if possible, the others will back off if there homegirl is gettin her ass whipped. Don't try to fight them all. This is a tried and true lesson. In middle school a gang of girls promised to whip my ass. I didn't know why. I was in honors classes, trying hard to hide the fact that I was smart. Wanting so desperately to fit in. She pointed her finger in my face, a highschool girl, and declared. "I don't like your smart ass." I was scared. I didn't admit it. "Fuck you," I spit back, praying for help. "I will get your ass at the bus." she shouted. I walked through the day in a daze. By 8th period my cousin appeared. family. the only thing that could save me. " You ok?" she asked. Hell no. I thought. But I nodded, tears in my eyes. I was prepared to die. "Naw, I got this." She shook her head to her friend, they disappeared. The entire thing went away. I love my cousin. Erica. My father's people.
I am from the land of craziness. My first friend was killed when I was 11. Stabbed. Three more friends conceived and killed three more babies over the next two years. My girlfriend kept her baby when we were thirteen. And so it began. The star basketball player, was shot in the head playing craps over 5 dollars. On and on. By ninth grade death was just a constant. We weren't shocked at death, just hurt that the person had been taken from us. Friends lost to us, gone, and we were just children. But children don't know they are children. We were little people, old souls. Hardened souls. hurt and moving on. simply moving on.
I am from the land of the lost. My first drug dealing boyfriend didn't start out that way. He didn't get hardcore, didn't start slinging, until after 8th grade. It was one of two paths. Drug dealer, athlete. little boys playing men. Little boys trying to attain what there parents can never give them working fireman shift at Kodak. He kissed me behind the door in the basement of the school. We had 5 minutes until the bus. Every day. he would kiss and rub and whisper to me behind that door. Every day for two months. I was in love. He would hold my hand, try to make me miss my bus. But I wasn't ready for that. Wasn't ready for what that would mean. After two months, it faded. He looked the other way. I looked the other way. we pretended not to see each other. My heart hurt. I hated him. I loved him. I hated him. We would play that game for years.
My second drug dealing man was Puerto Rican. You wouldn't know, to look at him, but he was. He and my homegirl Kisha were my first lesson that there are black Puerto Rican's. It would take another 20 years for me to realize that there are black Every Nationalities. He was also way too much for me. I could flirt, smile and play along, but papi was ready for things I knew nothing about. He would say things that would have me ready to drop my panties and get it on. I never had such a rush of emotion, of excitement, by a simple word or promise, whispered in English or Spanish. One day the kiss was too deep, I lost myself too much. After that kiss, perfectly pressed touch and tongue flick, I ran from his ass. Avoided him like the plague. He smiled whenever he saw me, though. A slow alluring smile that thrilled and scared me. He woulda turned me out and I knew it.
My third drug dealing boyfriend carried guns. One in a holster on each side. I loved it. Would run my hands along the steel, feeling powerful, feeling like I was with a man. My father had the same affinity for guns, the same holster. I didn't notice the connection until I was grown. he was older. I was much too naive. He protected me. Until his girlfriend called me, busted him and shattered my world. The first time I openly cried over a boy. Damn sure not the last. he and I had driven along the river, parked in the car and talked. Whispered and kissed. He liked that I was smart, was different. I wanted him to go to college with me. After the big falling out he came to my house. Told me I deserved more. Told me that he wanted to look me in my face and apologize. That I was special. That he was sorry. He held me close and kissed my forehead before he left. I never saw him again.
I am from the land of pathetic. My girlfriend and I party hopped all summer. We went to the east side, where brothas were wilder and shit went down. But it was more boys over there, so thats where we had to be. The lights were off in this house party, I only knew two people there. Within minutes the a boy had yanked me into the living room, the "dance floor", grinding and swaying with the music. He was Jamaican. Damn near every boy in the house was. He had a beer in his one hand, that ganja in the other. The lights were low, the DJ's speaker was behind me. I was deafened by the music, feeling the deep baseline travel through me, it was dark, and I was having a great time. I was the only one, probably in the entire house, who hadn't been drinking. That was the difference, I guess. I always dibbled and dabbled in the life, but never fully committed. Only pretended. The great pretender. Gun shots rang out, we all hit the floor. Two brothas started fighting, someone popped another shot. A few more yells and someone pushed the guys out of the house. Someone threatened to call the police. The ruckus died down, the music started back up, and we were back to the smooth grind to the mellow groove. Several songs later the front of my silk shirt (yes, silk - it was 1991) felt damp. The party was hot, I moved to the kitchen to cool down. My girlfriend came with me, found the light and flicked it on. She stared at me before screaming. "Your shot!" "What?" I felt around for the bullet wound. "No, I'm not." "Yes, yes you are there's blood all over you." I unbuttoned the blouse, examining my torso. The blood that soaked my shirt wasn't mine. Jamaica mannnnn..... I bumped my way back into the living room, buttoning my shirt and looking for my dance partner. I found him leaning against the wall, a smile on his face. "You return, eh." Shaking my head, my girlfriend and I pulled him back through the crowd, into the kitchen, into the light. His smile grew. Nasty self. Then he spotted the blood on my shirt. The street instinct in him immediately calculated, through his high drunken haze, and he gazed down at his own torso - the bloody white t-shirt bearing the small bullet hole. He shouted, I grabbed his homeboy outta the crowd. "Shit," he yelled over and over "I cant go to no hospital man." Another guy appeared. They put his arms over each shoulder and rushed him from the house. I lost my appetite for partying and sat on the steps next to the DJ until my friend was ready to go.
I am not of this land: I try not to judge. People who haven't lived in it don't seem to understand it. My first month of college, I hated it. I hated it and them. Everyone of them. So many people living these normal huxtable lives, lives that me and mine had never known. I hated them because I didn't know that there was peace. I didn't know that people had suburban normalcy, two parent families and restated love. Not black folks. I hated them because I thought about all my folks, my friends, who never even had an opportunity, who couldn't even dream of this other world that seemed like an expectation for these people. Their normal was not only my abnormal, but my first realization that I had been locked out from the standard. By my very birth, I had been locked out. But, despite my resistance, they were kind too me. patient to me. and I grew. and my hate dissolved into confusion, melting away the hardened surface of my hurt, allowing me to really see, to envision, to dream and, more importantly, to breathe. For the first time. and I accepted a different life.
I am from the land of the depressed. Where quiet and loneliness plagued our small home, made a mother the enemy of her only child. The only person the child could turn to. Without the depression she was kind, patient, young feeling. I remember being sure I had to protect her. Removing the bottle in the middle of the night, throwing it away, tossing it out. Drifting around the house alone on the weekends, hoping she asn't dead, although there was not breath and she lay awkwardly on the bed. Terror was a constant feeling. The middle years were better. Prozac helped quiet her. But highschool was hell at home. Children are the best hiders of pain. The most social kid at school can be the quietest, most abused child. You would never know. I was the master at disguise.Again, the great pretender. home was best when I was alone. Peaceful. When she came home, I went upstairs. I disappeared. I hid. I slept with a knife under my pillow after she attacked me in the night. Kicked in my door, hurling cusses at me and throwing shit. It occurred to me then, when I was 14, that she was capable of killing me. And since noone knew how she was behind closed doors, noone would ever know the truth. So I started sleeping with knives under my pillow. So I would always have protection in case of her middle of the nights screams. God as my witness, after I kep the knife, she never again attacked me in the night. And she knew nothing of the knife, because I was forced to pull it out when I was 17, the night she tried to throw me out then refused to let me leave. Always dramatic bullshit. I was so sick of it. And she was speechless. During those times I was an ugly bitch. That's what she called me. a fat bitch. worthless bitch. fill in the blank___ bitch. Each time it hurt, but a little less. stupid bitch. selfish bitch. ain't never gonna be shit bitch. One night I went to the hairdresser. Came home to change clothes. The goal was to stay out of the house and away from her. My first time wearing my hair in a loose wrap. She smiled, an evil grin. "you look like an ant" she laughed. I ignored her. "I can't believe you would walk out of the house like that. you are so ugly." I kept walking, but then I looked at her. I wanted to spit on her. Or say something painful. But I knew that she was capable of some evil shit, some shit I couldn't prepare for. And, out of the two of us, I was the one who would be hurt. I knew that. So I just turned around and walked away. "You ugly bitch," she said to my back.
I am from the land of the broken hearted. Daily, I have escaped. Looking over my shoulder, waiting for my past to come back and claim me. Slam me back into my proper place, my real role. Out me, expose me, display my insecurities and fears, show my weakness and faults. Make me that little lost girl that I was, the lonely little girl in me. How can it be explained or described. It exists, and I lived in it for the first 18 years of life. The land of the broken hearted.
Helping or Hurting
Is Self Publishing helping or hurting? I feel like the Benedict Arnold amongst my fellow authors, but Im gonna whisper the truth. Which is my truth anyway. And I don't think I can express a whisper through the written word anyway. But here it is, self publishing has helped individuals, has decimated certain genres, has flooded the market with mediocre product. Oh boy, I put it out there. Give me a chance to explain, before you click off. Let me just tell you what I see, through the limited lens behind my desk in my tiny world.
Traditional publishing closed the doors too tight. Air sealed the cracks. Left open a tiny pin hole by which non"mainstream" authors could enter. African American authors face definite limits in opportunities, reach, influence, etc...Enter self publishing. You can do it yourself. You can use a Print on demand shop to edit, format, provide an ISBN, etc for a limited fee. And you keep retain ownership, get royalties. You are the creator and the controller (This is an inherent lie. With the exception of Lulu nothing is free, the POD's only pay you a percentage on your earnings and vanities aren't too much better. In fact, after discounts, expenses, and other unexplained fees, most authors don't see a dime. But that's a more complicated post on a much better day than today.)
But, who tells the self published author that one of their products isn't good. The theory is that, if given a chance, a self published author can produce the same quality as a traditional publishers. And in some few cases thats the truth. But, on the other hand, many one time "i think I'll write a book" folks are just throwing out "published" material as well. And more of that type of product is flooding the market. In African American lit it appears that this flood is overwhelming the quality product. The majority of the books I read now, by self published authors, just aren't ready. They need more development, more expansion. They need severe editing. They need idea and concept work. They don't examine deeper issues. Many fiction writers, or writers period, have an understanding of mental growth or psychological analysis. Therefore they can develop a character during the book, such that his experiences and mindset flow into his decision making. That is not the case with these books, where there are paragraphs about the characters hair, clothes, body type and looks. Then the character dissolves into a stereotypical caricature. BY BLACK AUTHORS.
The characters feel empty, void. The book feels...soap operish.
Why is it alright? Cuz we're Keepin It Real. Representin. Bringin the hotness. But this fiction, our literature, is not expanding minds, is not encouraging development of imagination, is not a demonstration of the word art of which are capable...And, many of the books I have noticed this in are....self published.
So, I don't know. I don't know the solution. There are powerful authors who were only discovered through self publishing. Individually, there are great benefits. But, overall, I suspect self publishing may be hurting more than helping...
Traditional publishing closed the doors too tight. Air sealed the cracks. Left open a tiny pin hole by which non"mainstream" authors could enter. African American authors face definite limits in opportunities, reach, influence, etc...Enter self publishing. You can do it yourself. You can use a Print on demand shop to edit, format, provide an ISBN, etc for a limited fee. And you keep retain ownership, get royalties. You are the creator and the controller (This is an inherent lie. With the exception of Lulu nothing is free, the POD's only pay you a percentage on your earnings and vanities aren't too much better. In fact, after discounts, expenses, and other unexplained fees, most authors don't see a dime. But that's a more complicated post on a much better day than today.)
But, who tells the self published author that one of their products isn't good. The theory is that, if given a chance, a self published author can produce the same quality as a traditional publishers. And in some few cases thats the truth. But, on the other hand, many one time "i think I'll write a book" folks are just throwing out "published" material as well. And more of that type of product is flooding the market. In African American lit it appears that this flood is overwhelming the quality product. The majority of the books I read now, by self published authors, just aren't ready. They need more development, more expansion. They need severe editing. They need idea and concept work. They don't examine deeper issues. Many fiction writers, or writers period, have an understanding of mental growth or psychological analysis. Therefore they can develop a character during the book, such that his experiences and mindset flow into his decision making. That is not the case with these books, where there are paragraphs about the characters hair, clothes, body type and looks. Then the character dissolves into a stereotypical caricature. BY BLACK AUTHORS.
The characters feel empty, void. The book feels...soap operish.
Why is it alright? Cuz we're Keepin It Real. Representin. Bringin the hotness. But this fiction, our literature, is not expanding minds, is not encouraging development of imagination, is not a demonstration of the word art of which are capable...And, many of the books I have noticed this in are....self published.
So, I don't know. I don't know the solution. There are powerful authors who were only discovered through self publishing. Individually, there are great benefits. But, overall, I suspect self publishing may be hurting more than helping...
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Mama - 4 Children
A Black woman in DC was found in her home, with her four dead children. The sheriff showed up to evict her and she just opened the door and let the smell of death hit them in the face. She was 31. The eldest child was 17. I was horror struck.
I tried to point the finger to how 4 children fell through the cracks - school? church? neighbors? family? Each one had a believable story, a reason why they didn't suspect. Child Protective Services went to the house, but found noone home and didn't pursue. Neighbors smelled something but thought it was a dead rat. On and on and on it goes, but, in the meantime, four little black princesses lost their lives when life and its burdens became too much and mama's sanity exited stage right.
It is a testament of the human condition. People are hungry. Not just hungry, they are starving. The holiday season was appraoching when these girls died (apparently the mother had been in there with them for weeks). The depression, the unacceptable obligation and weight of it all, leads to more tragedy than we know. Our world has changed - under this adminstration, moral erosion and spiritual decay are the standard. Inexplicably cracks in sanity are appearing as our economy forces the poor to lose more. People are losing their grip and the results are devastating.
Last week, in DC, a black mother was convicted of killing four of her own children, ages 17 -5. She sat in the house with their decaying bodies. And I find it impossible to believe. My mind is numb and I feel helpless. So much I want to do, but its misplaced energy, there is no solution. A feeling like Katrina - watching the unbelieveable happen and having no way to help. Other than pray. Somewhere else in this world, someone else is experiencing that same type of depression, isolation and desperateness. She is staring at children she cannot feed, cannot provide for and death is whispering in her ear that it is the best solution. The only solution. I hope and pray that God will intervene, will light a path, will make a way...Have faith, please, have faith that tomorrow will bring deliverance from the darkness of this night...
I tried to point the finger to how 4 children fell through the cracks - school? church? neighbors? family? Each one had a believable story, a reason why they didn't suspect. Child Protective Services went to the house, but found noone home and didn't pursue. Neighbors smelled something but thought it was a dead rat. On and on and on it goes, but, in the meantime, four little black princesses lost their lives when life and its burdens became too much and mama's sanity exited stage right.
It is a testament of the human condition. People are hungry. Not just hungry, they are starving. The holiday season was appraoching when these girls died (apparently the mother had been in there with them for weeks). The depression, the unacceptable obligation and weight of it all, leads to more tragedy than we know. Our world has changed - under this adminstration, moral erosion and spiritual decay are the standard. Inexplicably cracks in sanity are appearing as our economy forces the poor to lose more. People are losing their grip and the results are devastating.
Last week, in DC, a black mother was convicted of killing four of her own children, ages 17 -5. She sat in the house with their decaying bodies. And I find it impossible to believe. My mind is numb and I feel helpless. So much I want to do, but its misplaced energy, there is no solution. A feeling like Katrina - watching the unbelieveable happen and having no way to help. Other than pray. Somewhere else in this world, someone else is experiencing that same type of depression, isolation and desperateness. She is staring at children she cannot feed, cannot provide for and death is whispering in her ear that it is the best solution. The only solution. I hope and pray that God will intervene, will light a path, will make a way...Have faith, please, have faith that tomorrow will bring deliverance from the darkness of this night...
Power of Redemption
Last week was Mary J. Bliges birthday. I don't remember any b-day's, sometimes not even my own, but Donnie Simpson announced Mary's birthday and stated that his wife reminded him. He said his wife loved Mary and woke up tlaking about her birthday. And it made me reflrect on the forgiving power of nautre, the human power of love. I remember when Mary debuted on BET and interviewed with Donnie (back when I watched BET). She was a mess, dropping s-bombs and giggling at inappropriate times. You remember the Mary of those times, always late, always high, always so pathetic. But there was something about her that felt so identifiable that our entire community just sighed, shook our head, and said "well, that's Mary."
I will always remember when she performed at the Essence festival in 97, gut hanging over too small skirt, 1 hour late. I hurt for her. I couldn't understand what she was going through and I didn't envy her. That was the third live concert of hers which I had attended, and I knew not to expect her to sing on key or even seem lucid during the concert. But I loved me some Mary.
Now, over ten years later, Mary is the champion of self love and acceptance, of striving for a clear and healthy life and mind. Who woulda thunk it. Not only that, but she still has a special place in my heart, where I wish her nothing but success. That spot only has one other occupant (superstar wise, that is) and its Lauryn Hill. But anyway, now Donnie Simpson wife is waking up singing her praises, and he is announcing to the world what a wonderful person she is. The irony of it all, the redemptive power of it, just struck me as something very special....
I will always remember when she performed at the Essence festival in 97, gut hanging over too small skirt, 1 hour late. I hurt for her. I couldn't understand what she was going through and I didn't envy her. That was the third live concert of hers which I had attended, and I knew not to expect her to sing on key or even seem lucid during the concert. But I loved me some Mary.
Now, over ten years later, Mary is the champion of self love and acceptance, of striving for a clear and healthy life and mind. Who woulda thunk it. Not only that, but she still has a special place in my heart, where I wish her nothing but success. That spot only has one other occupant (superstar wise, that is) and its Lauryn Hill. But anyway, now Donnie Simpson wife is waking up singing her praises, and he is announcing to the world what a wonderful person she is. The irony of it all, the redemptive power of it, just struck me as something very special....
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Rough Day
Today has been a rough day. Not the entire day, just dealing with my family. I was chillin until I came home and my middle daughter decided to just be miserable. Of course ballet lessons were tonight. My day care provider helped her get dressed, so she had to endure the pouting and whining too. But then I got more aggravated because she commented on my daughters size.
Now, let me first say, she is a solid child - believe me. But really, she should have just left her alone if she didn't have anything positive to say. Bringing me to a huge pet peeve of mine, folks and their "chubby" comments to my baby girl. WTF? If you gonna grunt whenever you pick her up or talk about what a big girl she is when you touch her, then just leave her the f... alone. Do you think she isn't aware of her size? Do you think we don't struggle to make sure her confidence isn't undermined on a daily basis by people and their careless little remarks. And, the adults commenting, ARENT IN SHAPE THEMSELVES. I would be wrong, right, to turn around and point at their little baby bump, ooops I mean GUT, and ask how they got so big, right?
Listen, we all see that she is thick. She doesn't overeat, she doesn't eat anymore than anyone in my house, and my other children are all underweight. We had her tested, repeatedly, watch her diet, she takes swim, dance and tennis. But, we found the answer to the weight question back in August. Simply put, she is her father's twin. Exact same body type. When he hit puberty, it simply stretched out. She has a cousin who was just like her too, when she hit puberty, perfect shape.
In the meantime, she is a little girl. Which means she internalizes other peoples comments. So, I am pissed off about it. Again. My day care provider is not the first, and she certainly didn't mean anything by it. But its hard to swallow when I know the baggage it can leave.
Then, my son is actually protesting running track. At this point, given the Christmas and the innumerable sacrifices made on his behalf for both his academic and athletic success, I shouldn't have to ask anything twice. It is mind boggling. And disrespectful. I told him to run track. he went through the list of why he doesn't want to. In the meantime, is he working out on his own? Uhmmmm, lets see. No. Is he in the running for several D! football scholarship. Yep. Can talent alone carry him at the next level, probably not. Yet, while he chills with a 400 phone on his hip, driving my car and enjoying the privileged life, he has the nerve to respond in a delayed manner when i tell him to do something. Talking about he will start SOMETIME next week. Lord have mercy on me. I am ready go through the roof.
Then, my baby grl has decided that nighttime is play time. Anything not to sleep. So, several minutes ago, she and her brother were crying like you wouldn't believe. Screaming, jumping up and down in the bed, miserable. I went running up there to discover another child out of bed (entirely different story), and the twins screaming over nothing. Turns out Miss Princess wanted her play cell phone. All of her noise was irritating her brother. So of course, he joined in the screaming to shut her up. Oh God, please give me strength....
Now, let me first say, she is a solid child - believe me. But really, she should have just left her alone if she didn't have anything positive to say. Bringing me to a huge pet peeve of mine, folks and their "chubby" comments to my baby girl. WTF? If you gonna grunt whenever you pick her up or talk about what a big girl she is when you touch her, then just leave her the f... alone. Do you think she isn't aware of her size? Do you think we don't struggle to make sure her confidence isn't undermined on a daily basis by people and their careless little remarks. And, the adults commenting, ARENT IN SHAPE THEMSELVES. I would be wrong, right, to turn around and point at their little baby bump, ooops I mean GUT, and ask how they got so big, right?
Listen, we all see that she is thick. She doesn't overeat, she doesn't eat anymore than anyone in my house, and my other children are all underweight. We had her tested, repeatedly, watch her diet, she takes swim, dance and tennis. But, we found the answer to the weight question back in August. Simply put, she is her father's twin. Exact same body type. When he hit puberty, it simply stretched out. She has a cousin who was just like her too, when she hit puberty, perfect shape.
In the meantime, she is a little girl. Which means she internalizes other peoples comments. So, I am pissed off about it. Again. My day care provider is not the first, and she certainly didn't mean anything by it. But its hard to swallow when I know the baggage it can leave.
Then, my son is actually protesting running track. At this point, given the Christmas and the innumerable sacrifices made on his behalf for both his academic and athletic success, I shouldn't have to ask anything twice. It is mind boggling. And disrespectful. I told him to run track. he went through the list of why he doesn't want to. In the meantime, is he working out on his own? Uhmmmm, lets see. No. Is he in the running for several D! football scholarship. Yep. Can talent alone carry him at the next level, probably not. Yet, while he chills with a 400 phone on his hip, driving my car and enjoying the privileged life, he has the nerve to respond in a delayed manner when i tell him to do something. Talking about he will start SOMETIME next week. Lord have mercy on me. I am ready go through the roof.
Then, my baby grl has decided that nighttime is play time. Anything not to sleep. So, several minutes ago, she and her brother were crying like you wouldn't believe. Screaming, jumping up and down in the bed, miserable. I went running up there to discover another child out of bed (entirely different story), and the twins screaming over nothing. Turns out Miss Princess wanted her play cell phone. All of her noise was irritating her brother. So of course, he joined in the screaming to shut her up. Oh God, please give me strength....
Monday, January 07, 2008
New Anthology
My short story is in a new anthology scheduled to be released in March 2008. I rarely post info about my "sensual" writings, but this is one of them. It is the first story in the anthology- which is an honor. An excerpt of my story is below ***WARNING, FOR MY MORE CONSERVATIVE READERS, NOW IS THE TIME TO SIGN OFF****
Excerpt:
Excerpt:
Fourteen days had passed. He hadn’t touched her. Tina lay in the bed listening to his heavy breathing. What has he been doing, the past fourteen days, that he doesn’t want me? The cotton nightshirt stretch across her hips, lay gently against her upper thighs. She bathed every night; lay in her nightshirt without underwear. Easy access. The sound of the television filled her ears, she fought against it, wanting to listen to him breath. Is he really asleep? In a deep sleep? Or is he just lying there, trying to avoid me?
The last time they had made love, she had broken the sexual silence. Had given in to the lust that forever rested around her hips, which needed a center focus to penetrate its core. Her fingers couldn’t do it, they weren’t enough to satisfy her that day. She wasn’t bold enough to keep a vibrator, not for any real length of time. Every time she purchased one, her enjoyment surprised her, made her feel guilty. In the middle of pleasing herself the sudden image of her dropping dead, with the dildo wedged inside of her terrified her. What if her husband walked in and found her like that? What if she died and her mother found the huge thing in her nightstand? The idea terrified her so much that she would eventually discard them.
So Tina had given in. Searched the house until she found him, stretched out on the family room sofa. Asleep. She climbed on top of him. Kissed his neck, rotated her hips against him. She still felt amazed at how quickly his body responded. He reacted immediately. Whatever had his attention, it had not taken away her ability to immediately arouse him....
He had felt so deep, even now she moaned softly, remembering how her juices had covered the table, her buttocks, and his waist. He had whispered in her ear that he loved her natural secretion, loved that he could make her that wet. He had felt so good.
But then, nothing. He hadn’t come back for more....
Happy New Year
Happy New Year! and please forgive me for taking so long to wish you a happy and blessed year. Something about winter always brings out depressing thoughts for me, probably because I grew up in a cold climate and couldn't wait to escape! Anyway, I felt myself getting so sad today, and couldn't figure out why. Subsequently, I just spent twenty minutes venting out in a poem about childhood.
Then, in an epiphany, I decided no more black. No more depressing thoughts. At least not for today. So I changed my myspace page. Pathetic, right, that the internet is so much a part of my life that changing my myspace layout made me feel better....sigh. I am afraid to change my blog colors, don't want to squash the creative vibe. May help get my mind out of the gutter though, when it comes to what my mother calls my "more racy poems" to have some brighter colors on there. I'm gonna think on this one...
My New Years Resolution : post more frequently - finish editing two completed manuscripts. Get some sleep at nights. Lose a little weight. Start every morning with a prayer. Stop salivating whenever I see Common or Idris Elba or a couple others that make the imagination spark. Remember to forgive myself daily for my many misteps, misspeaks (another madeup word) and mistakes. Be thankful...
Then, in an epiphany, I decided no more black. No more depressing thoughts. At least not for today. So I changed my myspace page. Pathetic, right, that the internet is so much a part of my life that changing my myspace layout made me feel better....sigh. I am afraid to change my blog colors, don't want to squash the creative vibe. May help get my mind out of the gutter though, when it comes to what my mother calls my "more racy poems" to have some brighter colors on there. I'm gonna think on this one...
My New Years Resolution : post more frequently - finish editing two completed manuscripts. Get some sleep at nights. Lose a little weight. Start every morning with a prayer. Stop salivating whenever I see Common or Idris Elba or a couple others that make the imagination spark. Remember to forgive myself daily for my many misteps, misspeaks (another madeup word) and mistakes. Be thankful...
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