a.Kai's Daily Journal

The Little Ladies

2009-03-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

My children's series - The Little Ladies, is finally making its debut to the world. I am excited and genuienly humbled at the same time. I have had a number of projects floating in the air for sometime now, to see them settling down into tangible books is like watching dreams become real. There are aleady 5 books per series, and there are three series, so each book will be released as the paint dries...

We were going for a classic look with African American children, the anti hip hop, anti exagerated imagery that we often see. Something timeless, kind of a "Mary Jane" vibe, capturing their childhood in pencilled colors that make each book have a "memories" sensation. I know we captured it with this logo.

I will update you upon the completion of the first book...until then, here is the series logo. hope you like.

Chris Brown and Rihanna

2009-03-07T07:52:00.000-08:00

Chris Brown and Rihanna. I tried to avoid discussing this. In fact, I haven't stated my opinion to anyone really. I guess its because I don't have an opinion. Not really. Not an opinion about who is right and who is wrong. Life just ain't that simple. I am glad it wasn't my child - son or daughter. But, beyond that, I haven't felt an overwhelming need to damn anybody for their decisions, reactions, etc...until recently.

Picking up on the most recent developments - Rihanna went back to Mr. Brown. Ok, that saddens me. Greatly. I don't know what he did or didn't do, but I do know that women in love believe in change, in redemption, in regret. I saw the TMZ picture, in which her face was busted up. She definitely caught a couple of 'bows, I don't know who threw them. But, no matter how she got her ass whipped, at the end of the day she was left alone on the street. Meaning, if he didn't do it, he left her after it was done to her.

He left her.

So returning to a man who fled the scene for whatever reason, leaving me busted up, seems unimaginable to me. Don't leave me. Have you ever been to LA? Puleeze!! And her decision to marry him (allegedly) makes me wonder about her state of mind, her idea of love, her idea of self worth. She expresses regret about hurting his career - but what about her healing process, her career, her heart? What is she talking about?

At what age do we teach little black girls that they are to bear the brunt of their partners flaws - cause they can't put down a brotha who was making it? When do they begin to understand that they are expected to stand by a black man in the media, no matter what?

Was it when we forever damned Robin Givens and subsequently determined that the pageant contestant (whose name escapes me) deserved to be raped/or was lying, as we poured community support of Mike Tyson- whom we now know is capable of anything. Was it when our community ridiculed Anita Hill, a university professor and well educated women, because she was speaking against Clarence Thomas, who we now also know is capable of anything. Or maybe the message came through loud and clear when R. Kelly was allowed to go so far as piss on underage girls then sing about it and call himself the "pied piper" (the man who lures children away from their homes with music) and STILL got the black community's support. How about everytime we by Cam'ron's album after he rapped about raping Nas's then four year old daughter.

How many woman that you know - even now - expressed anger or outrage that Rihanna took down the image of Chris Brown. OK - no takers? I will raise my hand. When it first came out, I was saddened that this young girl from the islands had destroyed the image of one of OUR boys who was making it. Yep, I that was the very first thought. Why did she call the police? Why didn't she handle it in house, I thought. What about his career. No way he would have done this - WHAT DID SHE DO TO CAUSE IT?

Just as soon as the thoughts crossed my mind, my more mature self had to correct me. What the hell was I thinking? Why had my mind immediately gone to crucifying her and protecting him? Mother of a similarly aged son? Maybe. But more likely, this is what black women do, what we have been taught to do. And our little girls suffer.

Have we put any reigns on the terrific mysogyny in the music flooding the radios and infiltrating our children's minds. Nope - instead its cute when our little girls start gyrating their hips, imitating video hos, and learning at the young age that their role in life is to be the disgusting sex dream of some man who hasn't earned or developed respect for himself or anybody else.

That is what we are. It is a mistake to say that we, as a community, aren't hip hop. We are. the world has given us that label, they have extended it to be synonymous with our culture. So we are compared against it in every thing we do. And Chris Brown and Rihanna's generation have grown up with that type of backward thinking being ingrained in them as standard since they were young. Apparently, also being dipped in the music business as young people didn't help things much.

So Rihanna went back to the man being charged for the bruises on her face and who left her alone at the crime scene. Did she wonder why he asked to marry her now - what the "legal implications" of being his wife would be, how those marital protections better protect him against prosecution? Did anyone explain to her that whether or not she wanted this role, there are millions of little girls watching and learning from this situation - so even if he is innocent, her decisions have a wider reaching and broader effect. Did anyone tell her she is gorgeous and talented and while infatuations are fleeting - deep abiding love is everlasting and that love will never, ever, render her with a busted lip and two swollen eyes.

DOES ANYONE TALK TO OUR LITTLE GIRLS???

I am sad. I am sad that any of this happened. I am NOT surprised. For some reason, young couples "play fight" alot. I don't like it. I have spoken to my young cousins about this - when they haul off and put their girl friends in a head lock, or play punch - the insunuation always moving quickly from playing to overpowering. When that is the standard, how do you stop yourself from punching her in the heat of the moment when its serious? And, truth be told, all of my male relatives that "play" that way - who had girlfriends that allowed that bullish- eventually body slammed, punched, or somehow physically hurt the girl in the heat of the moment. EVERY SINGLE ONE.

I don't know what happened. I don't want to see Chris Brown do time. I don't want to see him lose endorsements, or have his image tarnished. But that isn't my decision to make - that was on him and his people. And I don't want to see her hurt, don't want to see any young lady be the brunt of this type of scrutiny.

But, the immediacy in which she returned and in which they "married" (if true) is the real tell tale here. Maybe both have something to hide. Maybe not. Maybe she is being manipulated, maybe not. But if it's love - love gives space and time to heal, love doesn't demand a quick resolution to a recent disaster. And love doesn't leave you on the streets of LA with a busted lip and two swollen eyes and indications of an obvisous ass whipping.

I hope that one day, Rihanna discovers true love. Then she will see what a nightmare this entire situation really is...

The 30's

2009-03-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

Something about the 30's changes the body in mind in inexplicable ways. If I wasn't experiencing it, I wouldn't believe it. I understand so many things now that I couldn't conceive of before. Things no longer need to be black and white for me to accept them, and I don't have to know every detail to believe. In fact, often times now, unlike my 20's, I prefer not to know.

In my 30's I work harder to maintain inner peace. If its messing up my vibe, I don't want to hear about it, know about it, learn about it, see it, etc... The confusion of the 20's has disappeared, I am more certain about what I will and wont tolerate, about what I care about and what I don't. Will I still have a fit if my children act up in public, probably not. I no longer care as much about what other folks think, as much as I care about the well being of my kids and their needs.

But the downside of 30 - I can't eat like I used to. LOL. I can feel everything I ingest. Its kinda gross, actually. I cant eat pizza at all anymore. Cereal is out. I am lactose intolerant, but used to ignore it. Ice cream, simply not worth the nightmare reaction. I can't take it anymore. The last slice of pizza I ate, i dreamt about being sick. And the next 2 days I was. The oils are out. The sugars and juices and minimized. when I drink too much juice I can taste it, my mouth feels coated with grime. Seriously. When I eat too much of anything, I get lethargic. I feel disgusting. I love cheesecake. But now, I glance at it and think about the aggravation, and it no longer seems worth it...so the 30's have also brought on a bizarre love of lettuce and H20. Go figure...

Hope Restored

2009-03-02T14:23:00.000-08:00

I quit. At least, I intended to. I don't know why, really, there was not one thing that I could put my finger on. But a culmination of disappointments turned into an insurmountable lump of disappointment resulting in putting the pen down. And being unable to find the energy to pick it up.

Not a conscious effort, I found myself just out of enthusiasm. Novels circled my brain, new and creative storylines that I found intriguing. Then, I would simply glance at the mounting pile of manuscripts already gathering dust on my shelf and, instead, click on the television. I have watched more television in the last two months than I have in the past 5 years.

It occurred to me - its a "kinda" writing depression.

The wind beneath my sails drifted away. The internet socializing thing led to disaster. People aren't who they represent themselves to be. I should know that, but am always surprised and disappointed to find out the opposite. I am a little too open. Still. Too believing. Still. Unable to spot crazy, when in hindsight the maniacal truth was in my face the entire time.

Why is that relevant? - well, on some levels, it shouldn't be. I forced myself to socialize in an effort to meet other authors, to make alliances, to better my art. And I have done that. So many amazing opportunities have come to me because of that, and I don't want to begrudge them. I love writing reviews, I love editing for folks, I love receiving an email requesting I participate in an anthology, read or speak at an event, consider working on a future project. That has all happened because of interent socializing.

But my personality is prone to overlook the 100 wonderful things and be devastated by the one or two bad things. So a couple of mistaken relationships were entered into. And then my current projects are in publishing limbo. So I am having to, for the one millionth time, consider self publishing. Lord knows I don't want to. And the not wanting to, in and of itself, is crazy. There is no discernable reason why I shouldn't. Self publishing, especially in this market, has limited downside. Why wouldn't I want to have 100% ownership of my own material, why wouldn't I want control over the look and direction of my work?

What is wrong with me?

Like trying to find a needle in a haystack, too many things hit me at one time and, for the first time in a long time, I just stopped. Sat still. Watched television. Thought. Wondered if I could stand to not write for a while. Then, when I tried, I found that I couldn't write, I couldn't resume the discipline of writing for simple writing.

And I quit. For a sum total of 20.5 hours.

I decided I was done. The work I had would never see the light of day, and I was fine with it. I had a decent run. Screw it. I give up.

I hadn't told my husband. Sunday he was pressed to go to church. I hadn't been in a few weeks and I missed it. Pastor Jenkins preached Hebrews 12 and entitled it "Keep Running." Yep, an entire sermon devoted to not giving up. And, since we arrived so early, I heard the end of the prior service too - so 2 sermons - on not quitting.

When I arrived home after church, a story I have been waiting to form, which previously felt blocked from me, just filled my mind like a flood. It was the craziest experience, I couldn't capture all the new characters and ideas they were coming so fully formed. Then a good friend sent an email - asked me to edit her next project. Of course I would do it for her, even if I wasn't writing anymore. As I answered her email, another email popped into my box, asking for my participation in an upcoming young adult anthology. Can't pass that up...

Then I spoke to my editor about a project of mine he was working on and he started hitting me with the Spoken Word, which made my heart jump a little. He challenged me to return with something and I was blank. So you know what that meant, off to the blog to pull up some old pieces, and get back into my poetic/spoken word vibe so that I could challenge him. Then my photographer and theme creator for my teen series called - he and the models finished up a photo shoot and he was ready to show me. What? Photo shoot? Models? I didn't even know he had started moving forward.

And, just like that, my pity party was forced to end. Just like that the writing machine kicked back in all around me and the treadmill began to slowly start its rotation. I am like the Bee movie, I guess, the machine has to keep cranking - who knows the outcome.

Which reminded me of all these blogs I have out there lingering, people who have loyally tolerated my writing temper tantrums and silent spells and still take the time to read me. I don't deserve you and I am humbled for you. thank you so much. I have some new things coming and they are fresh and unique and I hope you will like them.

So, I am calling an end to my self imposed writing retirement. Pastor said we have to stop comparing ourselves to others, have to do what we are called to do. I know the calling, I was just frustrated that it wasn't happening how I wanted it to. I was frustrated that I allowed internet socializing to distract me, that I didn't keep up the necessary borders to not get sucked into the fb/myspace time killing traps.

I am finally relinquishing the manmade goals, I am going to keep writing and see where it leads...

Invincibility

2009-01-30T20:47:00.000-08:00

So I was driving home weighing my options. About my life. About books. About the hustle and grind of promotion, the uncertainty of publishing, the disappointment of representation, the merry go round of authorhood.

And Lauryn Hill's voice came over the airwaves. Actually, it was Lauryn and Tonya Blount, but Tonya is one of those heavy singers I can't quite tune into. I normally tune her out (I am so so sorry if that is rude to admit). So anyway, Lauryn's voice in The Eye Is On The Sparrow swept through my car and across my heart. And it reminded me of that late '90s time period, when Sister Act came out, when the Fugees first dropped. When I first encountered Lauryn Hill.

Bear with me if you have heard this story before. My then boyfriend, now husband, was part of a hip hop group named Arctic Circle and they were the opening group for a little one hit wonder hip hop trio called The Fugees. The one song was the knock, no one knew much else about The Fugees. And Lauryn was rocking the Sister Act braids on the cover of the album, so that was the female I was looking for when I met the band. During sound check, we met the other band members. I didn't see the little girl with the long braids. But this other young lady, maybe a year or so younger than me, with short afro puffs, was listening to The Arctic Circle's sound check and dancing in the middle of the club. By herself. With her arms wrapped around herself, eyes closed, and a magnetic smile. Charming. She just seemed special. I remember, standing there talking to another band member, noticing her and feeling inspired. Trying to figure out who she was and why didn't I know her, especially since I assumed she was someone from my small home town. An hour later, when she and The Fugees ripped the stage in one of the livest shows I have every experienced, I realized who she was and what they were going to be, without doubt. And there energy bounced off of me, spreading a feeling of invincibility.

Today, that memory sprang upon me. That feeling of inspiration. That was a time in my life when my husband and I really believed we were going to conquer the world. There was nothing in our way, but opportunity. The rapper of the Arctic Circle, Mike, was, and still is, a creative genius, and we would sit around his apartment for hours brainstorming, creating, strategizing. I remember when my husband and I went to Home Depot and, on a dime and desire, built an entire music studio. Developed a line of greeting cards with Mike. Created entire albums. We were laying the way for a future paved with gold.

What happened to the person I was then? When did living life become an obligatory thing wrapped around expectation and dreams became something secondary to fiddle with and tap into when time permitted. I have let my dreams down. I have let me down. I have succumbed to the desire for stability instead of courageously stepping on faith's principles that what God has for me will be for me.

Today, I longed for inspiration. And I am listening to His Eye Is On The Sparrow over and over again as I type this. I might trash signing with a publisher altogether. I am probably forever through with the agent search, the publishing search, the author search. I might simply write, self publish, promote, and let the chips fall where they may. I might just get back a touch of the inspiration I had in the'90's, a sprinkling of the determination and strong belief that I could conquer the world. Maybe if just a drop of that falls on me I will be content to use my gift however I can and let it touch who it may, even if it is only a handful of folks. Maybe that's all I was ever meant to be. Maybe that's all I was ever meant to do.

The dreams may have only been dreams, designed to tempt the soul but always escape my grasp like vapors in the night. Maybe my writing will be that small, barely noticeable scratch along the glossy paint job of the literary world. Maybe it's time I accept that. But I have to move forward - even if its just me, myself and I, me-agent, me-publisher, me-promoter.

The yo yo effect, the back and forth, the hope and damning disappointment, the staying still is killing me...

At Last

2009-01-21T07:11:00.000-08:00

I am smitten, in love with my first family. Our first family. The United States of America's first family. At Last, thank you, God, At last. A sight I didn't even know would amaze me, a miracle I never realized would overwhelm me - I am so blessed just to be able to behold this, to be able to be alive on this day. The day Barack Hussein Obama became our 44th President of these United States.

At his side, a beautiful, well educated, hard working black woman - being loved before millions. Michelle, how many little girls lives will you change? I modeled my future after Claire Huxtable, my dreams of who I could be defined by a fictional character (and I will always adore Phylicia Rashad for giving life to my dream). But you, You are real. You are the truth. You really do exist. A black woman of professional ranks with dignity and grace to raise Tell me something, when have you ever seen a black woman being loved by a black man like this.

Thank you, God.

Beyonce', whom I also adore, gave a rare emotional performance that summarized love, hope, fatih, belief and overwhelming joy. Yesterday was a day beyond days. At last. At last. At last.

Choose Your Words Carefully

2008-12-30T21:09:00.000-08:00

Did you know that words have power? Spoken words. Written words. They have real power. Not in a mystical, Harry Potter, kinda way. But there is an energy that flows from your tongue, past your lips, to another's ears. And based on that energy, on the way it is received, on where the receiver is in their own journey of life, you can affect another person. Just with your words.

Last night, I watched the power of words hurt my child. A person, who shall remain nameless, but who is visiting for the holidays, told my daughter to shut up. Yep, she said "Shut Up." And my seven year old recoiled as if she had been hit and visibly bit down on her lips to keep them shut. Now, my "visitor" was in the middle of a game with my other daughter. My eldest girl kept talking and pointing out the error in my visitor's strategy. So the shut up flew of the tip of her tongue in the heat of competition.

But it still hurt.

I was going to respond, whip out my barrage of word counters and strike back on the person who had inadvertently hurt my daughter. But then I remembered. Words have power. And once put out there, you can't take them back. You can't press rewind and delete, can't retract them from the hearers head. It's done, once it leaves your lips. Once its written on paper. Once it has been received, it is forever in the sphere of thought, the realm of interaction. It is a one shot deal.

So I chose silence. I met word garbage with silence. I chose a metered tongue and a measured mind. And I spoke in soft tones to reassure my talkative child, to lightly dismiss the "snafu" and return her to a state of comfort. And I reflected on the power of words.

Don't believe me? Try it out. I tell my daughters they are beautiful everyday. They smile each and every time, as if it is the first time hearing it. We tell them how special they are, how thankful to God we are to have the opportunity to raise them, so on and so forth. I used to do this with my eldest son. And while he claims he doesn't remember it now, I know that those positive words were daily seeds of encouragement, counteracting the doubt and hate imposed by the world. I know that my son knows my love for him, unquestioning, more than anything else. I spent years speaking love to him.

Conversely, I don't have to spank. A disciplined word, a harsh tone, will reduce my children to tears. There is power in communication, power in the spoken word. Similarly the written word can invoke pain. When my son became upset with me he sent a text that he was going to "unfriend" me from facebook. And I responded right back via text with how mean his text was and a few thoughts of my own. And we hurt each other, bruised each other, via the electronic written word.

Think about the words you utter, before they leave your mouth. Think about how often your children hear you gossip, complain, whine, negatively compare, berate, belittle, etc. Understand the power of your tongue, of your word, of your pen and how it affects not only you but your seed and generations to come. It is imperative that you be careful with your words...

Veni, Vidi, Vici - Period!

2008-12-24T06:46:00.000-08:00

It's very simple. I want my headstone to read "Veni, Vidi, Vici." And the period is the most vital. In fact, maybe the word should be spelled out. Yes, this is what I think about on Christmas Eve, my death. I am sorry about that, folks, if you need more Christmas reflection, then this ain't the post for you. Christmas normally has a way of seriously depressing me, although, as I write this, I am not depressed in the least. Rather, I am feeling somewhat reflective.

But I digress. Chisel it into stone. "Veni, Vidi, Vici." DO NOT FORGET THE PERIOD. I deserve no less. I Came, I Saw, I Conquered. Period. This life of mine has been a ride like most have never seen. Yet, I am still here. Still in good health, still pushing forward. I birthed four beautiful children, was blessed by God to raise an additional magnificent soul. I have seen the beauty in pureness, the miracle of God's seed. It's a rare blessing, the kind of experience that verifies, if there was any doubt, that He is Omniscient and beyond comprehension. The smile of a baby can warm the coldest soul, melt away the spiritual ice, and make you recall love only dreamt of. And I have felt it. I have lived it. I have had the honor, over and over and over again, to cherish it.

And I have lost. Lost plenty. Loved ones, finances, career dreams, bits and pieces of me. I lost some, others were stolen, a few were robbed of me. Yet, every morning, I find a reason to smile. And pray. And pray. And smile.

I have known loneliness that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I have had it wrap around the very essence of my core, whispering lies to my spirit like bread to an undernourished child. I feasted on self hate, self doubt, self loathing, just me and my loneliness. And it embittered me to the core, until suicidal thoughts danced daily through my mind, convincing me that everyone who had every known me would be better off if I saved them the shame, spared them the embarrassment, and removed myself from this realm.

Yet, I am still here.

I have been poor. Lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner for months, kind of poor. Rotating the same three pants and shirts kind of poor. Daddy won't pay a dime of child support while traveling the country and living on yachts kinda poor. Have no idea if we will eat today or tomorrow, and have noone to ask, kind of poor. But, poverty made me stronger. Better. Able to cope. Able to adjust.

Now, I am able to be poor with grace. So poverty no longer holds me hostage. Despite financial gain, I am able to live without expectation, to know that God will handle it, to have already seen His blessing in just my current day living. I have conquered it.

What brought this up? Well, you already know, if you read my posts, that most of my thinking is completely random.

This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to Jasmine Sullivan's "Bust The Windows Out Your Car." To me, she is like Lauryn Hill mixed with my favorite songstress of angst, Alanis Morrisette (although Alanis no longer sings from such a dark space). Alanis Morrisette's album Jagged Little Pill is still, to this day, the purest expression of woman pain I have ever heard. And then I realized, I haven't had to listen to that Alanis' album in some years. I haven't tapped into that space in some time. There are still gaps, memories I wish I could plug, spaces that I would like to fill, but I have already paved and caulked more holes than anyone person should have. And that made me feel good. Empowered.

Leading me to this simple conclusion. When it's all said and done, and my last day has dawned, I'm out. Two fingers, a peace sign and a nod. And I won't be looking back. I have already lived fully, loved hard and completely, and given the best of me, as much as I could. My seed is sprinkled on this earth, and from the roots of this tree, grounded in God, there will be flowering seeds for generations to come. He has promised me this. And while my projects may not be complete, and I am constantly trying new things, my life is complete and I, finally, am complete.

So, that is my last wish. Send me out with a period and no mourning phrases. Don't want no big show, could care less about all the drama. Tag me with three simple words to summarize a life beyond measure - Veni, Vidi, Vici. Period.

A Wonderful Midnight

2008-12-06T12:44:00.000-08:00

Upon completion of Sistah Souljah's latest novel, Midnight, I sat back and sighed. It has been a while since it happened, since I was unable to put a book down until it was completed, craving the next step, desiring a positive future of the beloved characters. But I clung to this novel like a newborn to its bottle, unable to release my fascination of the world Sistah Souljah masters, flips upside down, complicates, and then serves back in easy fashion.

Would it be disrepectful to drop a "damn," in at this point? As a writer, a book reviewer and an attorney by trade, I am rarely left with just an expletive to express myself. But my response to the intricate and expert puzzle that Sistah Souljah weaves, a tight knitted pattern of beliefs stretched taut against the conflict and confusion of American society, was one word, breathed out in a long sigh. Damn.

The immediate feedback wasn't as strong as I was hoping for,leading me to delay buying and exploring Midnight. I think we, the readers, were hoping for another flashy Winter Santiago, and at the same time dreading another story about another drug game fiasco.

The literary world has changed since The Coldest Winter Ever. Thousands of lesser copycats mingled with so many poorly constructed street tales has, in some way, dampened us. Made us more skeptical and less willing to believe or even care about the street life. How could Sistah Souljah reenter the quagmire, writing in the same style, from the same point of view, spitting the same ole same?

She couldn't. She didn't.

Let's deal with some of the skepticism first. The main complaint that I repeatedly hear is that Midnight's experiences are unbelievable for a 14 year old. Firstly, I have to recall that readers compare the story to their own experiences and I am so glad to know that so many readers cannot relate. I, however, can. At age fourteen, two of my girlfriends had babies, I had already accompanied another one to the abortion clinic. Public transportation wasn't even a question, I moved around to school, after school functions, part time job and life. The boys in our world were already on their hustle, survival was already an issue. At age 14. I lived in upstate (western) New York, in a much smaller city named Rochester. Light years behind the fast paced scramble that is NYC.

But to say that Midnight, who had to operate as the man in his Muslim household isn't believable at 14 identifies the clear separation in class and economics in this country. It also tells how those who have had better fortune can't relate to the maturity others have to reach to survive.

I find Midnight not only credible, but his story endearing and his struggle startlingly real. And his youth is apparent in so much of the book: still hustling ball games with his friends, strategizing to go to the movies with girls, rolling blindly into parties, unable to ask for help to his many questions, taking forever to put two and two together about Bangs, still being open and able to love Akemi. That type of love couldn't and wouldn't be available to him at an older age, when skepticism sets in and makes love a ridiculous thing.

BTW - since when is 14 young in the hood? And since when is 14 young in Brooklyn? I'm just trying to understand.

The next complaint I heard was that the book is offensive to African Americans.The story is told from the point of view of an African immigrant from an influential Sudanese family who finds himself in the Brooklyn hood. His viewpoints and experiences of African Americans are limited to those stuck in the same neighborhood as him, as filtered through his 14 year old mind. And it occurred to me that, on so many levels, I relate to his struggle.

Is it easy to be a devout Christian in inner city America? How diligent must one be, trying to live according to the Bible, when no one else that you know expects or even understands that type of discipline. When your peer group actively ridicules devotion. How much more difficult would it be to live as a devout Muslim here, having come from a society structured around religion. Wouldn't any 14 year old boys statements be general and broad, encompassing the "world" as he sees it. And, despite himself and his moral compass, he still finds himself considering love with Bangs, rescuing Bangs in the only way he knows how. Considering resting his beliefs and marrying her and protecting her anyway, despite her family having so severely tainted her. He still longs for her in a way that he doesn't for any Sudanese woman, although he adores his culture. In the end, his love is for a woman with an artists eye, a woman like his mother, a woman preserved and loved and cherished by her family, despite the difference in culture.

Let me digress here - Do we preserve our baby girls? Are African American young girls affirmed, uplifted, protected - as a general rule? Honestly? Is it automatic that before you step to that her, you better come correct to her father, make sure you make it through her brother and be able to provide for her. If your answer to that is yes, then lets back up for a second - maybe you don't recall R. Kelly. The "pied piper of R&B" - proverbial young girl lover who our community discusses, our comedians joke about, and everyone shrugs and plays his latest joint. Or, how about Cam'Ron, taking his rap dis to the level of threatening to "bust off" in Nas' four year old daughter's face, without outrage from our community. Media images, music, comics, many aspects of our culture boasts of misogynistic intent, disregard and disgust for our young girls.

That is the beauty of literature, reading what is stated and what isn't. Midnight's blanket statements about my people are less offensive to me than the bookstores whose shelves are full of stereotypical nonsense, published by Black people.

Read real literature. Think on it. Compare it. Expand and grow, agree and disagree. That is what good literature is intended to do.

And no matter what you say, you can't deny that Midnight is true literature. It is a wonderful study of inner conflict, love, expectation, loyalty and trying to live devout. It remembers the purity, the unspoken uniqueness, of real love. Midnight is worth the read.

I Am King

2008-12-04T21:10:00.000-08:00

As you may have noticed, I enjoy being a fan. Not a groupie, mind you. I find nothing more annoying than someone droning on and on about a perfect stranger and their greatness based on a carefully constructed persona. Groupieism, at its worse, is nothing more than acceptable obsessiveness, i.e., possible stalker.

But, I do enjoy being a fan. I like cheering for folks while watching their careers blossom. I often look at it from a managers perspective - if Gabrielle Union was my client, how much would I actually have been able to get the studios to play her for the role in Daddy's Little Girl. What about Idris? How much did they pay him, and how much more could I have gotten him? Where is Nia Long and why were she and Gabrielle the only leading starlets for so long? These are the types of thoughts I have.

But, then there is Puff. Despite the name changes, P. Diddy I believe being the last one, he will always be Puff to me. And there is something so familiar about his energy that I like to see him succeed, even when I complain about the artist depleting label that is Bad Boy. Puff is an entity unto himself. And, what I think I love most about Puff is that he is a fan of the music. A lover of hip hop. So his exaggerated persona keeps money in his pocket, but, at the end of the day, the man works hard and seems to love hard (his work and life anyway, I have no idea why we keep hearing about all his baby mama drama).

What I have found amazing about him lately is his genuine affection of Barack OBama. While we were all touched, Puffy seemed to take it to heart. He did Bill Maher and radio, and his excitement was undeniable. Here was Puffy, someone who did everything they said a black man could never do, visibly in admiration of Barack. Because, at the end of the day, despite how many gains we made, Barack shattered a glass ceiling that was invisible, but certainly there.

Now Puffy is at it again. A new scent - I Am King. A new advertising promo, of black man greatness, i think? And Puffy is excited, energized, hearing the OBama call and answering it in his unique, open market and raking in the dividends, way. Either way, I enjoyed the clip below, and decided that I would share with you:

Diddy Blog 35: "I Am King" Mini-Movie

No More Sex Tips From Me

2008-11-23T15:27:00.001-08:00

So, I am done. Finished. I have decided to end writing erotica for the sake of erotica. It isn't who I am. It isn't what I am about. I wrote my first erotic short story as a dare, kinda a challenge to see if I was really bold enough to do it. Ya'll, the story was outrageous...I will still never fess up to it!!lol. That first time was hard, I swallowed with embarrassment when a publisher called and wanted to do something with it. I wondered how it would effect my life, my children, my reputation. I wondered what spiritual price I would pay for all the young underage girls and boys who had no business reading it, but somehow got their hands on it, and led to experimentation at a young age because of it. I wondered whether I would go to hell. I wondered how much responsibility was mine.

But nothing happened. Well, that's not true, folks wanted more. People requested I submit. While I had been struggling to get anyone to read my well researched, time consuming, mind bending inspirational young adult fantasy fiction, the erotica went to print without a blink of an eye. And the guilt felt less. In fact, I became numb to it. I read established authors sensual scenes and thought, with more arrogance than I'd like to admit, "hell, I could write that with my eyes closed."

And, on so many levels, that's just what I did.

I closed my eyes, shut off the "research and write" journey, and pumped out mindless screwing and relationship drama. Well, that's not actually true. The relationship angst is very real, the inner turmoil and struggle blatantly true. I fleshed out the characters, I loved them. I felt them. I hurt for them. I invested time and energy and emotion. I gave my novels 100% of my pain.

Of pain.

And then, just when I was finished my debut erotic novel, after the 12th sex scene, that every "sexual free" homegirl of mine blushed three shades after reading, something in me stirred. It just didn't feel quite right. Yeah, I can write the hell out of a love scene. But, that's not what I was called to write. And, in the end, after all the sexing and the pain, the resolutions weren't grounded in any type of faith or spiritual belief. Worldly problems, worldly solutions. And for that, I was convicted.

So, in the end, I don't even think it was the sex, per se, that was a problem. Well, that's not true either. My sex scenes go aaall the way there in a very intimate way. But I think the problem that I had was that I found myself jumping hurtles to avoid writing in spiritual matters - i didn't have my characters pray. I didn't demonstrate how faith changes things. I didn't write healing in marriage or relationship. In my work, the pain led to relationship death. And in my own life, God has shown me the opposite. There is forgiveness. There is renewal. There is replenishment. And I didn't put that in my novels.

I am taking a new approach. First, I am resuming my young adult fiction, both traditional and inspirational. I have hired an illustrator to finish the development of my childrens and middle reader chapter series. Those are priority. They were written years ago and ignored. Second, my adult fiction will be infused with my spiritual beliefs, rather than the obvious resolutions. While sex may be apart, it will not be blatant, can't let your momma read it, erotica. It will be relevant to the character's development - mistake - recovery.

It's a disservice to readers to not provide multidimensional reality. God changes things,even for"worldly" characters and situations. Karma is always there, the basics of the universe always apply. I literally rewrote scenes to take out blatant prayer and belief - why? Because I wanted to insure mainstream publishing. An easy way to jump on the main platform? And I could have continued. But three different events happened within 3days. God sent 3 clear messages. And I won't dare ignore Him.

What I didn't expect was the backlash. Fellow authors feel offended, they believe that I am judging them because I am changing my path. This, I simply don't understand. Also, I am being told that I can write it all, I just have to be true to me. But the truth is, most folks would be less likely to by a picture book for their daughter by the same person who is a nationally recognized erotica writer, just on G.P. alone. Don't agree? How well did Madonna's children's book do? huh? Yep, that's what i thought. Pen name, you suggest? Yeah, I had a pen name, but at the end of the day, I don't want to hide. I will use a pen name for "separation" of works, because readers expect a certain type of work from certain authors. But a pen because I am cloak and dagger sex writing is disingenuous...lawyer for the federal government, mommy, wifey and parent by day, luscious sex writer by night. I just don't want to do it that way.

And, at the end of the day, this is my journey. My struggle. My fight. My decision. I am not judging others and I still very much like writing scenes that are good (scenes that just won't see the light of day, lol). But I have to reconcile my writing with the life I want to lead and the seeds I want to plant. When my 16 year old son tells me all about the erotica stories the young girls at his high school read aloud during lunch, and how they were practicing giving head or taking it from the rear based on some character they read about, I want to be pretty confident that they aren't taking sex tips from me(pen name or not)....

So, for me, and me alone, this is the write, oops, right, decision.

24 Hour Reject

2008-11-10T19:24:00.000-08:00

Today was a first. I received an agent rejection letter in less than 24 hours. Really, it was actually stunning. My luck with agents is nil, which is why I am putting an end to the search, but normally there is a request for more information, some sort of positive feedback. Or, if not, I will get a nice note - kind of a "not right now, but keep in touch" type of thing.

I got neither of those today.

I submitted a query to an agent who is up and coming. I researched her, read all the background articles on her accomplishments in the industry. She was apparently looking for the same genre as my manuscript. Anther good sign. I sealed up the query and sent it, figuring I wouldn't hear anything for a month or so. Enough time to steel my heart against the rejection and maybe have something else in the works.

But 24 hours?

There, in my inbox, was her response. And it was an automated, thanks but no thanks. I felt confused , somehow, stunned. Did rejection have to be so sudden and blunt. Geesh, its a pretty good manu, if I have to say so myself. And yes, I know rejection is part of the process, that's not my real gripe here. My gripe is that she read and responded within minutes. My work so resoundingly struck against anything she remotely wanted that she hit the "reject" response without even blinking. (No, I don't know any of this for a fact, but what else could it mean.)

Okay, so I am over analytical. My friend calls me hypersensitive. I call myself smartly cynical. Either way, all three of my anal tendencies slammed to an abrupt stop at the less than 24 hours response. What do you think, is it better for rejection to take a little time?

Obama's Paid the Price

2008-11-06T18:31:00.000-08:00

There is a price to be payed for greatness, a tremendous cost for change. Obama's courage and fortitude demonstrated strength under fire and challenged the masses to believe in chance. We heard him, were touched, moved, believed. Amazingly, the Unthinkable happened - and he is the President Elect. That accomplishment inspired the world, changed a nation and sealed our souls. What is the price to be paid and who carries the spiritual burden of such a tremendous inspiration? Unfortunately, the burden of greatness is high, the cost of having a calling can be painful. And it is a price Barack and Michelle have decided to carry on behalf of us all.

What makes Obama magnetic? The obvious humility. The pure belief in bettering the people, in healing a nation. A person who possesses that type of desire for the common good is NOT the same personality type who fancies himself president. The ambition and drive to become President is better suited for an arrogant type, for a person who has been groomed for the title, for the status of American royalty. Barack was not groomed by the establishment.

Additionally, it is obvious that the Obamas love each other, enjoy each other, are invested in the idea of family and unity. Running for this office put Barack on the road for close to two years. That is month after month after month of traveling the country, touching base with his family only by phone, seeing his wife intermittently. That means trying to keep a family together despite never ending criticism, never ending scrutiny, never ending ridicule and never ending hate. This was exactly opposite of where he and Michelle would ideally want to be. Now, as the President, their remnant of privacy will disappear, the safety of their precious family is more at stack.

And being President is less financially rewarding than the life he and Michelle could have led without this Presidential "stuff." Between the book deals, being Senator, and Michelle's "Claire Huxtableness," the Obama's were alright. They could have been comfortable millionaires, sending their kids to private school, living the privileged life, cutting a check at Thanksgiving and Christmas, paying face time to community service. It was theirs to claim. And they put it all aside in an effort to make a change.

They believed in change.

And their belief changed a group, which changed a town, which changed a city, which changed a state, which changed a country, which changed the world.

They changed the world.

And they made the sacrifice. They gave it all up to do what was right, step into the calling that was supernaturally prepared for them. They sacrificed. They paid the price. And they will continue to pay the price, as the stress of the office presses upon them and their family.

We have to remember, in all of our celebrating, to hold them up in prayer, to offer up our support, to contribute in any. We owe it to them to meet their challenge, to think a little less about self and a little more about uplifting the community. We owe it to them, for the joy they gave us, for the spiritual salve they placed over our generational wounds, for the future light they sparked in our children, to help in anyway possible.
We owe it to them to make their sacrifice worth it.

Change Has Come

2008-11-03T18:20:00.000-08:00

Last week my son called me at work. It was a 1pm call - either he needed something, or something was seriously wrong. I picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Hey, baby. You okay?" I held my breath, waiting for the reassurance he has given me time and time again.
"Hey Mom. I'm good," he chuckled, his new man voice surprising me, yet again.
I sighed in relief and tucked the receiver against my neck. "Good. Wassup?"
"I just wanted to tell you, " he paused, and I could hear people all around him. "I voted today."

And my heart stopped. And my eyes watered. And my baby boy made me proud.

He has listened to countless lessons about the path to vote, the deaths and pain and lynchings and catastrophes, the dehumanizing conditions to deny the vote. I dragged him to the polls with me as soon as he was able to comprehend. But you never know if it sticks, if the lessons you spent hours sharing actually matter. Now he is at Ohio U, living the football player's dream. It was possible that home and our values could fade into the back drop.

But they didn't. He voted. And his first phone call was to me. And you know what else he said?

"Ma, just think about it. The first time I ever get to vote for a president and its for a black man."

Imagine that. Can you believe that? What world do we live in where something so impossible has now become the spine of my belief, the one resounding hope that America is still the country that I love, that MY family has defended and built over the past 400 years? A black man is running for president.

But, here is the beauty. He ain't just a black man. Would I feel this way if Jesse had stopped his grumbling and pouting and joined the fray? What about Michael Eric Dyson, or someone equally credible. Would my heart stop every time they spoke, would I pray as diligently for their family. Would they have so completely captured me?

That is the beauty of Barack Hussein Obama. He possesses a magnetic poise, a strong internal calm, that makes him more than an intelligent black man running for president. It makes him a leader of leaders. It makes his calling undeniable, his uniqueness magnified. Obama inspires me to be better. Do you know how rare that is, to hear a stranger speak and want to meet his expectations, rise to his level of dignity and poise? That is what he does for me.

Michael Baisden made a dynamic point a few days back, after watching the DL Hughley first show catastrophe on CNN. Michael decided he wasn't going to blow the brother up or attempt to harm his credibility or his platform. Michael said that watching Obama taught him how to administer his opinion without trying to destroy the man's opportunity, to challenge D.L. to be better without ruining the wonderful having a CNN platform. And I understood him.

Obama makes me want to be better. He makes me want to focus on changing the here and now, on working toward a real future. He challenges the masses to be intelligent, to be respected, to expect to be treated equal, to expect to be heard.

I understand why Michelle seemed so hesitant in the beginning. Would you want to risk that wonderful gem of a man to the world? Would you want to open your arms and allow the vileness that we are now watching spew forth from the Republican party taint the beautiful creature that is your husband and your children's father. Undoubtedly, she knew what we are now learning, that Barack is special, and she knows how much is at stake, is at risk.

Please, people, understand that they didn't have to do this. They didn't have to risk this. They didn't have to look at the fate of the Shabazz family and the King legacy and take the chance of walking in those footsteps. They could have silently affected change, living the privileged dream. But they stepped forward and put a face to change, a face to belief.

DO you understand that there will be no defeat tomorrow? I want him to win, I desperately hope he wins, but if not, do you know how many dreams were born, how many seeds were planted, how many minds were changed because Michelle and Barack trusted in God and stepped forward by faith? Can you fathom the interracial child of the next generation who no longer feels out of pocket, the brown black girl who sees Michelle's unequivocal beauty being appraised by an adoring husband, the white little boy who realizes that African Americans are more than a hip hop video. Barack and Michelle have put a face on an idea that no one could really grasp before. What a remarkable thing.

AND, although McCain's camp has been acting fool, please let me repeat a point Michael Basiden made today. White America stepped forward and supported a black man for president. Think what you want, but with only 13% of the population, black folks did not get Obama this far. No matter how you try to fool yourself, it wasn't all us. Not even close.

Tell the truth - did you ever think he would get this far? Were you like me, who thought he was cute, ambitious, and just throwing a lil kink in Hillary's game, because the race was hers to lose? Then, Iowa happened. He actually won. And I thought - a state of white folks voted for him? Who is this brother? I know I wasn't the only one. Tell the truth.

Then, regardless of liking Obama or not, Hillary started acting a fool. Actually, her tactics were worse than the crap the "Mavericks" are pulling now. In fact, the McCain party is running her rhetoric as I type this, on "robocalls" to the public, because her hateful speech was so poisonous. I was so disheartened, in fact I was downright hurt, I believed in the Clinton's in an unprecedented way. But, Obama never blinked an eye, never lost his composure, never tripped over himself. And, against her hateful fire, he began to gleam - the leader in him strongly emerging.

But please just think about this point - whether he wins or loses, America has changed. White America, in the millions, looked past color and saw him as a leader. And voted for him. Think about that. Black folks, who were the least likely to support him in light of their everlasting love of Bill, dropped the heavy banner of self doubt and stepped forward into the light. Barack and Michelle have affected change, more than most of use can say in a life time. And that change has finally come...

Another Halloween

2008-10-31T20:33:00.000-07:00

This was one long day. First of all, my children's school was canceled - who knows what for. So my older two joined me in a Halloween parade with my youngest two. God bless preschool teachers - the young women work SO HARD. They dress the kids in their costumes, organized them, and away we went...but one thing. I sent my son in a Transformer costume. He turned up at the parade in a ninja outfit. As long as he wasn't crying and fussin, I could care less. But my older two, who had picked out the costume for him, were fit to be tied. I guess the Transformer costume is higher up on the food chain.

After work I went to the grocery store for candy. Yes, I am last minute like that. Anyhoo, this poor women was in line with a screaming baby, while I was still shopping. 20 minutes later, when I joined the line, she and the screaming, screeching newbie were still there. The baby sounded colichy (sp?) and the mommy didn't have his head covered. Also, I bet she was new at breastfeeding and hadn't pumped any milk to tide him over. These are the tricks to a quiet child that a seasoned momma knows. I sympathized with her. She had a months worth of food in the cart and was stuck, without help. But the old folks around me pissed me off. Shaking their heads, peering at her with disdain, mumbling that if she would just feed the child their precious ears wouldn't have to be assaulted. It was ridiculous. And you know who talked the most trash - the workers. How about doing your job so poor new mommy doesn't get stuck in line for 30 minutes, instead of rolling your eyes and sucking your teeth. I was too through. Been there done that, but I stand up for my mommies in training. It ain't easy and you can't knock it till you've done it. So I told the clerk - who was childless - that people like her make it difficult for young mothers. Yes - she and I had words. What has happened to our society where mommies and children are held in contempt? Pure foolishness.

I digress....

My evening was made 100% better by the Trunk or Treat event held at Riverdale Baptist School, Upper Marlboro, Md. An event for the family - the children's ministry and volunteers back the cars in a neat row which creates a "main street effect and "tailgate" with Halloween candy. and the volunteers went all out - putting up Halloween decorations in the trunks with baskets and gadgets and lights and pumpkins and distributing candy trunk by trunk. The event was free - though it would be nice to contribute a donation. It completely eliminates the door to door stranger thing, without removing the fun, outside, walking with costumes and interacting with people, "neighborhood" feel. It was an absolute joy and blessing. We had such a god time, and it was such a parental relief, that I think I am going to send them a thank you card with Another donation.

We survived another Halloween - with minimal aggravation and actually had a great time.

Tibits - Blogging Return

2008-10-27T19:12:00.000-07:00

Please forgive me, fellow bloggers, for the inexplicable delay. My senses are bombarded with Obama and McCain, the Wall Street crash and now Jennifer Hudson's family pain. The outer world is invading my inner world and I think I am experiencing sensory overload.

First things first. Has D.L. Hughley lost his damn mind? Now, I have been a fan and I assumed from the McClellan endorsement clip that D.L. was going to present a Bill Maher/Chris Rock platform of witty and clever commentary. And what did he do? Took the phenomenal opportunity of having a CNN platform and gave us lewd, crass, unfunny jokes playing off stereotypical humor. On his first show on CNN. 9 days before the most important election of our time, when we need to have on our "meet the new folks" face, he presents Black ridiculousness on an international scale. Thanks D.L., so happy you took one for the team.

And, I didn't want to get political, which seems impossible now a days. But, please folks, don't believe the hype. The "assassination" plot was two Neo Nazi fools, whose plan was ridiculous. This is the same tactic Hillary used several months ago, alluding to assassination to deter votes for OBama. Same as the Arkansas chick who carved B into her face and claimed she was assaulted. This is a wonderful time and a horrible time, because poor white america is losing its mind. Ya almost got to feel sorry for them. They are the ones being hit hardest by the economy, loss of jobs and opportunities, foreclosure, etc...but they just can't get past race. The one glint of hope of superiority. They would rather lose it all than recognize that BOTH CANDIDATES HAVE WHITE MOTHERS. OBama is not simply a black man, he represents us all. It's pathetic and disappointing.

Jennifer Hudson's loss devastated me today and last week. There are simply no words, no expression, nothing that can be said....

On my ride to school this morning I discovered my 3 year old daughter has the same taste in music as me. Which is bad, because she shouldn't even be listening to the same station. But I get tired of kiddy music sometime. Her favorite jam - Rihanna and T.I. get your paper. Seriously. She has Rihanna's part down. And I think its hilarious, but I know she is going to bust out singing it in church or somewhere equally inappropriate and I am going to die of embarrassment.

It feels good to blog again. I have other thoughts, many actually, that will probably begin to leak from me again. In the meantime I am gearing up for election day - getting ready to celebrate (God willing)

Capital Book Festival

2008-10-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

I had the time of my life this Saturday.

As some of you know, I contributed a letter to the Capital Book Festival's annual anthology - this year entitled How We Love: Letters. I read my letter in Borders at 12:35 pm before a sizable audience and for the first time felt like...an author.

The Capital Book Festival was well done, just a phenomenal experience, actually. Nikki Giovanni spoke. Tananarive Due participated on a panel and signed, along with numerous well respected authors. Donna Hill was there, Wendy Coakley Thompson, Collette Haywood, Breena Clark, Tina McElroy Ansa etc... I got a chance to meet and talk to so many authors whose work I have admired for so long.

The book festival is organized by Kwame Alexander, a respected poet who has the captivating Zhupendra line consisting of breathtaking pieces. While I listened to Tananarive Due and Christopher Chambers speak, my daughter was volunteering in a bubble blowing contest with Author Uncle E, author of the Diggle, Boogie and Lolo kids series. And although I missed her reading (because mine was at the same time) my fellow Hamptonite Sahar Simmons read her wonderful children's story "Briana's Neighborhood" at the Kids Zone.

What I learned:

1. There are some BEAUTIFUL BLACK FOLKS in PG COUNTY. I still love it here.

2. Grace: When I rushed to meet Tananarive Due she did not hide from me, like someone fleeing a pathetic fan, instead she greeted me with a pleasant smile and an open spirit. Such a wonderful experience. Please know that I will purchase everyone of her books from now until...Also, and more importantly, she didn't even flinch when I erroneously stated the title of her compilation with Blair Underwood - Its "In the Night of the Heat" and, of course, I stupidly said, "In the Heat of the Night." An error that I realized later. But she never even blinked. So much grace.

3. Professionalism: Folks were on their A-game. Authors, self published or not, presented professional, eye catching, engaging product. The children's authors came "for real." Sahar, Uncle E, Charisse Carney Nunes - they were engaging and fun and exciting. I had to DRAG my daughter from the Kids Zone to hear me speak, she had no intention on missing Ms. Nunes set (we own her "Hair" book). Under the tent, folks were networking and selling and promoting and giving advice like you wouldn't believe. Just a very positive vibe.

4. Making it work: The festival slated Donna Hill, Wendy Coakley Thompson and Collette Haywood opposite Nikki Giovanni. Those ladies just rolled with the punches, continuing the panel, recognizing that a small audience is still a purchasing audience who wants to hear what they have to say. Similarly, some people went over time while others didn't show, but the programs ran smoothly. Omarosa debuted her upcoming book and she brought folks in with her charm and personality, starting with a small audience to a packed tent. Making it work. It was an honor to watch.

5. Next year, I want to be in the mix with my product in hand.

The Journey

2008-09-18T21:17:00.001-07:00

The problem is in the journey. That is my opinion anyway. You start out with the idea of being an author. For some reason you believe that it is glorified, glamorous. You will write a great story, with the cleverest catch or subplot. Everyone will love it and read it, right. Wrong. Most of your friends will nod politely, but they will never crack the covers. Then you believe you will easily land an agent and get that wonderful deal, with upfront cash that lets you right for a living. Ha. That is the few and far between. Instead, agents reject every version of the manuscript you can think of, and getting through the three rounds of committee makes publishing unforgivably impossible.

The journey. The honing your craft, while other writers that don't seem to even know the English language, journey. The submitting and publishing to every imaginable anthology but unable to land a major deal, journey. And one day, it clicks. Out of desperation you write a story on a whim that is not in your genre, not something you are even proud of, and guess what. It's a hit. Folks want more. And you have sold your soul for the game.

Well not quite that dramatic, but your lofty ideas about edifying the common good and glorifying literature at its best, take second place to finally tearing through the bureaucratic malaise and getting a book deal. Which is how I found myself writing erotica.

As Blair Underwood writes in Casanegra's Acknowledgements, "Often, the journey is not as politically correct as some would like and sometimes the journey is sordid, dark, and even erotic. Nonetheless, the odyssey must be embarked upon for one to discover and embrace the peace that lies within each of us."

The journey. The journey. The journey. I shake my head and sigh. I am miles away from the inspirational fantasy fiction I first drafted and rewrote and tried to shop, to no avail. I wrote it free- without thought of selling confines. It is unrestricted and unbound. Now I write with the publisher in mind, scripting fully aware that the product has to be sold and following the script for that sale to happen. In the beginning, I simply placed pen to pad and let the story unfold, without regard to publisher's desires or potential earnings.

The journey. I am coming full circle. I am remembering how to listen to my heart and write what I love. I am learning to love my works enough to carefully shop them. I have stopped giving away work for free in a desperate attempt for validation. I now know that my writing, all of my writing, has worth and value and I treat it as such. I have matured. I have transformed, through this twisted journey.

Loved Me Most of All

2008-09-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

Loved Me Most Of All

My family is a talented one. Or was. Depending on how you look at it. September is a rough month for me - my birthday is shared with the most tragic event in US history. A day I really thought I was going to die - my job having been only two blocks from the White House as the plane missed it and plowed into the Pentagon instead. And the two most important people in my existence were born in Septemeber, my grandmother and grandfather, birthdays 9/9 and 9/4, respectively. And they are both passed on.

So the month of September finds me alone, remorseful, longing and missing. This Sunday it was magnified. As I drove home from church, the old gospel song "Tomorrow" filtered through radio waves. My Uncle Joe, the youngest of my grandparents 9 kids, and undoubtedly the favorite, used to sing that song like an angel. The culmination of a multitalented family, he attended college on a music scholarship. His pure falsetto could make a grown man cry like a baby, his rich alto made women act a fool. And he sang Tomorrow at my cousin Teddy's funeral. When Cousin Teddy was mysteriously killed in a car accident in his 30's. Another unthinkable devastation.

The song came on the radio, my mind flipped back to Uncle Joe, to the patient love and creative influence he had on my life. On how I adored him. He played the guitar, I listened, hummed along learned music. Later I picked up the piano. Wanting to compliment his instrumentation. I thought of his melodic voice. And my heart split in half, remembering, with a start, that he dropped dead two years ago, walking into church. Inexplicably. Something I often fool myself into forgetting.

Those who loved me most of all are all dead.

And I am left here to grapple with life, trying to cocoon myself in their memory, in their abounding love, to face each day, each moment, despite not having them. And sometimes, it really hurts.

{Posted at www.myspace.com/discoverkai}

Alicia Keys

2008-09-12T20:46:00.000-07:00

Alicia Keys is making me proud and she is doing us good. It is sad that her movement is slightly overlooked. Movement? Yes, movement. A movement of Black female empowerment. Black female respect. A belief in black love.

You disagree? Think I am overstating? Figure she is a simply a singer and performer, nothing more?

Answer this: Ever notice that every video features black men and women of full Black beauty. Ever notice the subtle references and innuendo's to our culture, past and present. Ever notice how every brother, street or not, represents the belief of black men, of their innate beauty and power. She makes it a point to capture those images, to radiate them.

Consider this: Ever seen her naked? Ever seen her expose herself, despite the talent (ala every other artist in the industry)? Ever seen her background dancers or singers half ass naked. No, instead her characterizations are of that faithful girlfriend, loving woman, supportive and special, believing in him more than he believes in himself?

It's purposeful.

Alicia is taking the road less traveled. Now, I luv me some Beyonce, so please don't start the comparison. Beyonce brought Black women affirmation and "luvin being a lady" back in a way that no other artist has since, maybe, Pam Grier. But Alicia has tapped into more of an idea of community, a belief and displaying of black love and romance, a ground belief, in powerful black women and men. She radiates that message carefully, without preaching, with every single release and video.

Unbreakable. Fallin. Women's Worth. Teenage Love Affair (delightful play on Spike Lee's School Daze - and she must have used him to direct, because they do that annoying sitting still/walking camera trick that he insists on using in all his works) and, now, Superwoman.

Superwoman has a Chaka Khan/Whitney "I am Every Woman" vibe, over a much more mellow piano riff. But the video goes a little deeper. Alicia portrays different facets of Black woman - the welfare mom in college, the African sister trying to get an education, the working mother and an astronaut. She acts out the skits with segments of her playing the piano interspersed. But then an amazing thing happens. The faces of the actual women who Alicia is enacting merge over her image. Jada Pinkett Smith (who, looks surprisingly similar to Alicia) and Joan Higginbotham, are among the four.

Joan Higginbotham is a NASA astronaut, I see her picture 100 times a day at work. (i work for NASA). She has spoken on Center and participated in a number of goodwill projects. She is beautiful and intelligent and...well... an astronaut. And Alicia provided her an international forum of recognition. The video is seamless and flawless...and I am so very proud. Of both Alicia and the ladies she recognizes.

Pay careful attention to Alicia...she is a movement in her own right.

Casanegra - Perfected Fiction

2008-09-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

I am finally reading Casanegra.

Sad, I know. But I originally bought it because it had Blair Underwood on the cover, front and back. And that was reason enough. Didn't matter what was between the covers, actually. If Blair is affiliated, I am supporting.

Let me back up. My Blair love runs deep. LA Law deep. Just like authors, actors can change reality, spin fiction into real life clarity. And Blair's character on LA Law made me believe I could litigate, could be the sole black attorney in a see of white. Didn't he make it look good. Between him and Claire Huxtable, I would not be denied.

And who can deny his acting prowess. Wasn't Just Cause stunning. Scary actually. I was so into the "poor impoverished black man" theme, I didn't see the sick twist coming. And who else could play the love interest of Miranda and not make me jealous or with the interracial angle. Only Blair. Why? Because what women could blame ANY women who got her hands on him?

So, I purchased Casanegra and shelved it. Didn't really want to crack its covers and be disappointed. As you know, i don't trust many reviews, so I was skeptical. Tonight, while I tried to capture the different story lines floating around my head, I retrieved it. Figured a good read would free my mind. And I must say, I am delighted.

Clever delivery and manifested suspense with the careful crafting of each line, Mr. Underwood, Ms. Tananarive Dur and Steven Barnes put together a wonderful piece of work. The writing is superb, the type that makes the writer in me aspire to create snazzier (word?) metaphors and simple but complicated undercurrents. The first 30 pages have been literary heaven for me. I am on roll this summer. First Octavia Butler's genius, now this. I'm thrilled, refreshed actually, and I haven't even gotten to the meat of the story.

So far, Casanegra is proof that there is a benefit gained by perfecting one's writing. How careful use of one adjective can change the entire intent of the sentence, of the character, of the flow. How character description extends beyond clothing to understanding how the characters think and interact. I believe I am, once again, falling in literary love. (I will update you when i complete the book.)

Confident Sexy

2008-08-27T18:57:00.000-07:00

I was at Target tonight. Standard run. Toilet paper, body soap, mouthwash. And I am so tired, staying up nights writing, thinking, remembering, recording.

So, suffice it to say, I am not looking my best. Lack of sleep hit me today like a ton of bricks. And I think I only ran a comb through my hair once today, when I first left the house.

Why is it that on days like today, when I am literally hiding from every attractive man I see, men won't leave me alone?

It's odd and annoying. But I think I have figured it out. They are attracted to the confidence thing.

See, on any giving day, when confidence is low because I have convinced myself I am: ugly, fat, uninteresting, boring, fat, fat, fat, big nosed, big lipped, fat, fat, fat; I don't tend to make eye contact. In fact, I often glance right past Mr. Attractive, hoping that he doesn't notice me and certainly won't record my image to memory.

But, on days like today, when my spirit is alive and my energy is humming, I could care less how I look and who sees me. A smile on my face plastered by deliriously naughty thoughts, I strolled through Target without a care in the world. Not a thought to my "haven't been combed since this morning" bob, or the slight bags under my eyes. And the response to my grin and my swagger? a couple of offers to help with my bag - a "like your smile sister" and a stare down. Despite my self absorbed state, even I had to pay attention. At one point I started to wonder, what do men look at?

They certainly don't judge us the way we do. That is evident by all those couples you see that make you wonder - how? Men must be pulled in by something all together different. I don't know what, exactly, but for now I am placing my vote on that confident sexy thing. That swagger. If that is the case, I have to work on showing mine a little more often!!

Streamlined Black Bookstore

2008-08-19T05:38:00.000-07:00

APOOO recently posted an email to our Yahoo Group - how many Black Bookstores have fallen in the past year, and how many rose in their stead. It was depressing! I thought Karibu was the only chain to collapse...and let me tell you when Karibu went down the DMV (affectionate term for DC/MD/VA) was devastated. And, as many of you know, they did NOT fall apart for lack of support or business. Nope, many of us were making it our business to visit them on a regular basis, despite the major bookstores. Remember - this is the DMV and I live in Prince Georges County, where the wealthiest enclave of African American's in the country live. And there were at least three stores in PG that I can think of off the top of my head - Bowie, Forestville and PG Plaza. And the PG Plaza stores was expanding to contain a coffee shop and lounge area. Karibu had black support, their demise was internal.

So Chocolate City - the real one, by definition - has been left black storeless (correct me if I am wrong, cuz I would love to find a new black store home) until recently. Asante Books opened in Forestville Mall, Forestville, MD, which I try to visit a couple of times a month. And, in my desperate need to touch base with some semblance of what Karibu used to be, I visited Baltimore this weekend to tap into Urban Knowledge bookstores up there. It is rumored that they may be expanding to the DMV.

First of all, the "new black bookstore" doesn't really have a heritage/deep/blackness vibe. Nope - now its hardwood floors, highly polished shelves in new cherry wood. And that's it. Four walls, many shelves. In and out. It's more cost efficient, I am sure. It requires you change your expectation of the store and what purpose it serves. Karibu was a culture submersion for my children - (as if they need more blackness living in Mitchellville) but still, the books were a rich reflection of the cross section of a peoples. The clerk read books to the children on Saturday mornings - mine and several other sitting around listening. Want to find that rare chronicle of African American farmers, go to Karibu. Want the newest in erotica - from a self pub - go to Karibu. Want some romance or street lit from a small up and coming pub - go to Karibu.

That's not what the stores are now. And the dominating wall in Urban Knowledge is street lit. From the beginning of the store to the end. Think of a narrow square store - something like a Subway but not as deep or wide. So you can see the entire store at a glance. The far wall is jammed pack with every street lit cover imaginable. So much so that its hard to tell them apart. After a while all the titles just began to blend into each...one fly sister in fur, next to another naked, next to some sisters standing together looking seductive. Over and over again, ya'll. Over and over again. Other titles are in there too , some romance and regular fiction sprinkled through...but you have to search to find them around the glossier "bling" covers.

My husband said, "since when did the bookstore turn into a collection of club promos? This is ridiculous." I chuckled at first. Then, it didn't seem so funny. But they have to stock what will sell, right?

Urban has other books - a very small nonfiction/historical section on another wall, erotica hidden in the middle floating shelves - to their benefit they are very careful about keeping the erotica separate - and the teen/children's shelves by the register. And when I did a book signing there last month, the clerk kept the teens away from both the erotic and street lit titles that they had no business touching. She pointed them to the teen section - pointing out that there is teen street lit. Who knew? And I have to say that Urban has the best black teen selection I have ever seen in any bookstore (including the chains) - HANDS DOWN.

The children's fiction was disappointing, the offering was sparse. Did that stop my little Miss Queen 1 and 2 from scooping the few books and setting themselves right up at the only table in the store - which I know for a fact is for author signings - and begin reading? Nope. And the clerk didn't mind, but then again, he didn't even bother to look up when we entered. And the store was empty. On a Saturday at 2pm. In the mall.

I set about looking for Mocha Chocolate - trying to ensure good product placement, or get to moving books to better visibility, since the clerk wasn't paying enough attention to care. It took me a moment to find, most of the erotica is buried on the floating shelves in the middle. He eventually pointed them out to me - but then I was irritated because I had broken him out of his trance and couldn't move the books at my leisure.

What's the point of this post? Black literature has changed. Black clientele has changed. The economy sucks. Buyers are hitting Amazon with new fervor. Desire of Black buyers is streamlined with the majority calling for one genre. While I was there folks weren't looking for a black mecca of culture, they simply wanted Dutch 3, by Dutch or Terri Woods, depending on where that mess stands; In My Hood II, by Endy; Girls from Da Hood 2,3,4,5,6, etc.; Still Wifey, by Kiki Swinson. Wahida Clark. J. Tremble. Over and over and over again I listened to the BMore audience ask for the same books, wanting to discuss the same plots. (I am sure different regions have different demands-in DC Mocha Chocolate flew off the shelves like free candy)

But Black bookstores are in the awful position of trying to maintain some integrity and sell books. Trying to keep overhead low, while having to sell books at a higher price. And a compromise is being made for survival - can you blame them - leading to a new, streamlined store - that feels less and less like Black literary home.

An Author?

2008-08-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

I've been languishing. Oscillating between that space of elation and utter disgust. Its kind of an internal pout, a silent temper tantrum. I just don't understand this author thing. Well, I do understand it, but that is exactly what is making me swing the emotional pendulum between satisfied and disgruntled.

Let me back up, I guess. I always wanted to be an author. I am sure that is not news to you. Everyone always says, I used to write when I as a child, I live to write, I made up imaginary stories, etc. Well, let me tell you I had a brand new typewriter (no word processors yet) and I would sit at that thing and bang out STORIES. Serious stories. Just like my seven year old is doing now (although she is putting pen to pad). And just like her, I had already read Chronicles of Narnia and was starting on, but not completely understanding, the Hobbit. When I finished my book I made cardboard covers onto which I pasted my construction paper designs.

I was going to be an author.

Nobody told me that the author game is a hustle, dependent on your grind more than your ability to write. No one said that all those years I spent honing my craft were irrelevant, when the buying public has taken a "rap" approach to literature- the more ignorant and gully, the more likely to be bought. Nobody told me that being an author was no longer a special title bestowed upon those who transcended the literary "good" and wrote engaging "bests," rather something anyone with an idea could pay for and create.

I am disillusioned.

Was I searching for exclusivity? No. Well maybe. I guess the answer is yes. Not directly so, but I thought that being an author would consist of receiving a 100,000. check from a publisher who allowed me to dream of distant lands and places, research and create wonderfully thick works of fiction. I would tour the world and drink fine wine - experience life, write literature. How very foolish of me. That is the reality for some. But the layers of writers and hustlers between that level and myself is SOOO thick, how can I pluck through the cardboard ceiling?

The writing game is just like the music industry. Maybe worse. And who cares if its good, interesting or stimulating - the honor is that you sat down and wrote it, its real quality is insignificant.

SO I felt discourage for most of the day. Wondered, like all self absorbed indulgent writers, whether I should just tuck away my pen and put an end to writing. What is the point?

But then, at 2 in the morning, and idea hit me. And, as usual, I couldn't fight it, couldn't tuck it away to get a good nights sleep. Instead, I sit here now, typing away, writing out my angst and releasing "author" frustration. I guess there is no real answer to my dilemma, but one. Despite my cynical take and the low possibility of success, I have to write. It is buried deep within my DNA. So a writer I am. An author...well, we'll see.

Beat It!

2008-08-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

I discovered today why childcare is worth 450.00 a week. Yes, I pay $450.00 a week. Which is why I am the only non Benz driving sista in my neighborhood. That and the other expenses surrounding 5 kids. But I digress.

Where was I? Ah yes, I discovered today why childcare is worth $450.00 a week. I should say that my kids are getting the best preHarvard care imaginable and will be on their way straight to ivy league - that is if they don't get burned out and began to hate school. But that's not it. I purposely didn't put them somewhere overly academic at too a young age - been there, done that. When my eldest daughter was bringing home an hours worth of worksheets a night, not including the weekly scriptures that needed memorizing, and she was in Pre K, I decided to never go for the - "we teach Spanish and French and cursive and long division before they can spell their names" programs again.

SO now my kids are in a learning-play environment. They're talking better, motor skills are phenomenal, counting and learning and identifying some words. Potty training has finally been accomplished (they are very late): my only feasible excuse is that as twins, they just didn't seem to be in a rush to do anything that didn't suit the two of them. Making speaking to other people (because they seem to know what they are saying) and potty training and all those socially relevant things low on the priority totem pole, because all they care about is each other.

I normally pay an extra $200.00 a month for them to participate in Music learning - singing and instruments and dancing and rhythm. It seems that my extra money is either well spent, or completely unnecessary. Today I was riding home listening to Michael Baisden talk about getting his book hustle on. And I was lamenting how I am published in over 10 works at this point, but am still, in my own mind and against my own standard - which is always nearly impossible to reach, stagnant and failing.

In the midst of "everything is everything" I heard...."Beat It, Beat It . no wub gedo bedat Beat It. No dem bowdy boty, no its jut rit. It dudn't mabber who wrong or rite, just Beat It, jus tBeat it."
While my daughter sang my son bopped along, eyes closed like his sister was spittin fire - Gladys Knight/Alvin and the Chipmunks saanging.

Ya'll, I hollered laughing. There is no better moment in life than when your 3 year olds discover Michael Jackson (music only) and sings his classic like their life depends on it. It was one of the moments that I knew in an instant I would remember for the rest of my life. One of those pure indescribable joys that reminds me of how wonderful God is to send such delightful and unpredictable presents as children. Michael Jackson's Beat It? Are you kidding me? I loved it!!

And my 2 grand a month total - well, for just that experience it is worth it. But one of the teachers at their school is SOOOO busted for listening to the radio while on the job!

The First 50 Years (Bernie Mac)

2008-08-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

50 years. What if that's all we get. 50 years. sigh...

Bernie Mac died today. My husband told me as I was sitting at the laptop, throwing down a Chick-Fil- A salad and trying to type out the rest of this Urban Fiction tale that has overtaken my mind. He kind of said it "at" me - the way he often deals with death, just flinging the information out there. And I was startled, then saddened. Overwhelmed. Isn't it amazing how someone who never met me could have a profound affect on me.

Which got me to thinking. Should I be sad? Or should I really observe Bernie Mac's life as a testament of what a person can do in a mere 50 years" He first broke into my consciousness when he took over Def Jam. I will never forget it - he walked out with his graffitti'd sweatshirt and jeans and told the audience "I ain't scared of you muthf..." Which was saying something. The Def Jam crowd was rambunctious and raw, and could be cruel. After he took over the stage he did a skit that sexing was nothing more than 50 pumps and incorporated DJ Capris into his skit. The most magnetic performance of that night. and with that a star was made.

It reminds me of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" song. That was his moment. If he flopped, it was all over. But he not only ruled the moment, he seemed to be ready for it. Bernie Mac had a "it's about time for ya'll to see me" energy that invaded the air. And that spring boarded into an unbelievable amount of successful ventures. Kings of Comedy, The Bernie Mac Show, innumerable movies, including Mr. 3000 (which I loved), Guess Who (with Ashton Kutcher) and, of course, Oceans 11, 12 and 13. His filmography lists incredible upcoming movies- 2009 was going to be a successful year for him. There is Madagascar 2, Soul Men, Pride, The Robin Harris Story, etc... He accomplished SO MUCH in 50 years - and only an estimated 15 years in the industry.

Can any of us say the same?

If God has limited me to 50 years, what can I list? My five children, my marriage, Georgetown Law Degree, NASA employee. That's the sum of me? That's what I took the first 34 years of life to do? What about the piano, the ability to write, the seeds that God planted in me. How many of them did I nurture and grow into something that would affect lives, change lives, make a difference. Who else have I touched, have I inspired anybody?

Now I am not saying that Bernie Mac was a saint or didn't make mistakes. He just flubbed a performance at a benefit for Obama a few months ago, in which he made some "stereotypical" statement that Obama separated himself from. And some people find his comedy crass. But Bernie Mac made people laugh. After a long day, a hard day, his show could lighten your mood, his movies could draw you in, his comedy could make you forget your troubles. Even if it was for a brief moment.

And that's what I admire. Have I pushed to reach my dream, to provide someone with reliable product that allows them to lose themselves in another world, another reality, and expands their horizons? When I die will people across the world know that I existed, will they look at my life and, though sad for my departure, be amazed at what I accomplished in my first 50 years?

That is the mark of a blessed life, I think. One that leaves people stunned by positivity achieved in such a brief time period. And I am saddened that I will not be able to enjoy future Bernie Mac, hurt that he had so much more to give us and it has been cut short. But I also believe that he made his mark in a unique way, transforming the Black comedic landscape in a way never quite accomplished before. Bernie Mac worked his first 50 years, like he worked that Def Jam stage. Unafraid, energetic, ready to jump into the moment and make it count.

Can the same be said of any of us when we reach the 50 year mark? God, I hope so...

Reviews, again

2008-08-08T21:01:00.001-07:00

When posting book reviews, can they all be a 4 or 5? I mean really. Lets think about this. Is EVERY author that honed in their craft and experienced with the subject matter to churn out perfect or near perfect books. It just seems impossible to me.

You have heard my rants on this topic before. I gave someone a 3.5 and they were upset. I thought it was a good review. On the other hand, I have purchased book rated 4 and 5 only to sit there in utter boredom, pushing through the dense read, adamant that I am going to complete it, if only to get my money's worth.

What is the standard. Is the English proper? Was there a plot at all? What about character development, plot consistency, writing credibility, use of creativity, etc...

To add insult to injury, how can the reviewer rate a book a 5 when her review is filled with typos, grammatically incorrect references and poor language. Similarly, what about the book reviewer who reveals the entire plot of the book, eliminating the need for the reader to buy it. If this reviewer grants it a 5, I tend to be a little bit suspect.

I have a poor review that I am drafting for a new writer. And I feel bad about it. Not the review, because I think I am being as fair as possible. But bad because she is going to be upset about a less than 5 rating, even though it is a less than 5 book. And its unfair to her because her reviewer (me) actually CARES about literature and maintaining some basic standards in written work and will not award a 5 because I have been paid to review the book or am a home girl. So, while her book is probably equivalent to some other currently rated 4 or 5, I am giving it a 3 or 3.5, because, in good conscious, I can't give it any higher. I wouldn't want the reader to spend their money without knowing the truth. That the action was predictable, the sex boring and more dry, the plot meaningless. Murder without remorse, sex without consequence, drugs without a price, partying without a burnout, a book with no layers, levels or emotions. Isn't that what separates a "person who just wrote a book," from an author. And shouldn't the author be given a fair opportunity to identify the short comings in her efforts before devoting resources promoting the book?

Either way, I am fighting the give it a 4 or 5 and one paragraph saying nothing review. I read one today that said "after getting through the beginning of this book, it was a great read." Huh? If you had to "get through" it, like it was a densely populated forest, then the book couldn't have been a 5 (which is what it was rated). I am just tired of it. Thinking of instituting a rating system so reviews can have a valid meaning and actually serve as a guide, instead of a way for authors and soon to be authors to pat each other on the back and build support for their own upcoming releases.

Social Services

2008-08-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the DC Department of Health to procure birth certificates for my twins. Although the rest of the modern world knows better than to step foot in a government agency and orders these simple documents online, I thought I would spare myself the additional time and make the visit.

So, as in all things social service related, the lines were crazy. And nonsensical, stretching across the office as people tried to fill out their forms and hold on to their young ones. Then, a woman next to me, undoubtedly my age or older, whipped out her cellphone (ignoring the signs stating all phones were banned). After a few seconds she spoke loud enough for us all to hear her, because she obviously didn't have any tact.

"Ma, was you married to my father when you had me? Oh, so you never did get married. Not to Naya's dad either. I am trying to get my birth certificate. Here, in DC. Oh, I wasn't born in DC? Where I got to go then...?"

I am not making this up. It actually made me sad, she didn't even know that she should have known. And she didn't even know to lower her voice.

Once she walked past an African woman who had been filling out the form for the longest tapped me on the shoulder. "I was in line in front of you," she challenged. I grinned a little, thankful for my early thirties calm, a few years ago she and I would have had it out. But I graciously stepped back and let her lying self cut the line. 30 minutes later she tried to convince the clerk that her expired visitor visa was a valid government issued document to receive her daughters birth certificate. It was enjoyable to watch her get bounced out on her ear.

Another clerk had a sign on the wall that read - "I can only please one person a day, and today is not looking good for you. Tomorrow is looking even worse." and next to that sign she penned another one saying, "and I touched the hem of His garment and was made whole." She should be fired for so many reasons. Her attitude was just wrong wrong wrong and the Holier than thou wrong!

But, to tell the truth, the place was better some other I have experienced. I just find the entire experience dehumanizing, every single time, no matter which government it is (state or federal - have you tried to get something done at SSA lately). To pass the time I enjoyed my latest Donna Hill novel and relaxed. And tried to forget that I was sitting in a government building waiting over an hour for a birth certificate.

Terrified

2008-07-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

Have you even been terrified? Not frightened or simply shocked, but truly terrified. That frenzied feeling of horror and lost control as you watch the foundation of your world shatter, but are unable to gather the pieces and create some vague resemblance of reality.

That happened to me today.

My daughter loves candy. While everyone else was eating hamburgers at her godbrothers cookout, she insisted on a piece of candy. After dinner mints, the kind that are chalky chewables. I assumed she would chew it. She didn't.

While sucking on it, she tried to reach for something and speak at the same time. The mint became lodged in her throat. In a ludicrous moment of panic, I held her arms above her head, hoping she was just coughing. She began to jump up and down, frantically trying to dislodge the course blockage. Our good friend who is a nurse just happened to be on one side of me and her friend, a day care provider was on the others side. Their backs were turned.

"Is that child choking?" The daycare provider swung around and snatched my baby before I could make a sound and began to administer the Heimlich. She swung Jada over her arm, face toward the ground, and began pumping her stomach and talking frantically. The rest of us were all simply frozen. I stood there in shock, watching this women pump my child in an attempt to induce vomiting. Then, just as it occurred to me that my everything, my child, could possibly die, the mint popped out amid a slew of saliva.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I couldn't breathe. It took everything in me to not fall on my knees crying and thanking God. Everything I had to regain some sort of composure. Tears silently fell as I held my daughter, and thanked the woman in a distant quiet way. Distant because my brain hadn't quite released the fear I had just experienced, like some sort of aftershock reverberating through my soul. And the vibrations became louder and harder as the reality of what could have happened seeped into my thawing mind.

I held my daughter closely, I couldn't let her go. I couldn't believe that I had found myself so helpless, that when my daughters life was on the line I raised her hands above her head. I raised her hands above her head. What the hell? I have been meaning to take CPR since the birth of my daughter 7 years ago, yet here my baby twin found herself choking and I wasn't prepared. 5 children and I had let that type of necessary training fade away with other "must do's."

Terrified. That's what I was. And still am. I am still crying as I write this. I process pain so differently than others, because I have experienced so much of it and such a young age. Things and circumstances and relationships that most of my closest friends know nothing about. Wrapped up the pain, twisted the ends to keep it contained, and pushed it deep down.

But events like today, they unravel the tiewrap containing my hurt, poke holes in the ziploc of my emotions. Because terror continues long after the situation has been rectified. Like when someone breaks into your house. Afterward, you feel a new vulnerability, a raw festering wound, worried that it can happen again, that next time you won't be so lucky, that your sanctuary has been violated.

That's how I feel right now. My sanctuary of oblivion allowing me to believe that we were impervious to day to day catastrophes, has just been obliterated. And I sit here, still shaken, fighting the residue that terror has caused.

Submission

2008-07-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

I have wondered for a long while at the power of submission. Submission. What a dreaded word. Women are taught to never submit themselves to a man's will or his power. That submission is equivalent to slavery, a demeaning forfeiture of all self esteem.

I remember when I was interviewed on Literary Pizzaz, blog talk radio, about six months ago. W e spoke about relationships and I talked about submission, the power of submission that I had discovered as a wife and a sensual woman. One of my Internet supporters was livid with me. She threatened to remove my poetry that she had posted on her website and denounce my name for having said I sought to submit to my husband. Her site encouraged love and acceptance, with an accent on lesbian relationships. I had offended her to the very core.

But she later admitted that she didn't hear the entire show, she had tuned in at the point that I spoke on submission. So she didn't hear my take on it. While my take was still not pleasing to her, it was much easier to swallow, I think, for her.

So here it is: submission. Oddly enough when I say the word I think of power. Lust. Sensuality. Yearning. Satiated. Fulfilled. Submitted.

For me, submission is not a yielding of my power or personal gains. Submission is comfort. It is being in the presence of a real man, who loves me and protects me. In appreciation for his cover, for filling that space that only a love can, I offer him respect, in the best way I can. I encourage him and uplift him. In exchange, he provides for me and his family, supports my personal flight, and is the alpha to our pack. It means I can rest, and share my load with someone will finds me special enough to carry my burden. Submission. A different kind of definition.

So, I think we are right to teach women not to submit in a literal sense. Because that is not the purpose of the submission I am talking about here. The submission I speak of is akin to Terry McMillan's long awaited exhale. Its the acknowledgement of finally finding a stable and secure love and allowing yourself to rely on him, to lean on him. It is welcoming him into your arms late at night, into your body whenever he yearns for you, because your essence yearns for him. It is an unspoken appreciation, a deep well of partnership in which a trusted bond is strengthened.

Submission.

Kindred - Literary Love

2008-07-15T21:46:00.000-07:00

I fell in literary love. Again. But the first time in years. I haven't had a literary love fall in years. The first time was Toni Morrison's Beloved. The fifth time I read it. Yep, on the fifth time the story wrapped itself around my brain in one comprehensible montage and I was overwhelmed by the creative masterpiece I had experienced.

Then, a more recent literary love fall occurred three years ago, when I read Anita Diamonte's The Red Tent. I was smitten. Consumed. Enraptured.

Both of these women took words and pen and created a world unto itself - in which the stories are so multi layered that a critical analysis yields so many different valid points and perspectives. It is an artist who can take the written word and swirl it into something so complicated yet so simple, capturing your mind with the arc and swerve of the characters and life's circumstance.

That's really what I always wanted to be. A literary artist. Someone who could take words and fit them together in such a way that it formed a simple maze, an easy logarithm. An engaging read which leads the mind to keep thinking, to continue calculating, to formulate endless what ifs and possible scenarios. Like the Harry Potter Series, like I Am Legend, like Star Wars...

I have strayed from that.

I read Octavia Butler for the first time. The novel Kindred. I have to sigh after writing the title, I am smitten. Absolutely in love with this masterpiece, a carefully drawn sci fi of a woman who inadvertently time travels to the antebellum south. The book may replace Beloved in my heart as an all time must read. But the beauty is in the simplicity, in the telling of the story without an agenda, without clearly defining right from wrong or labeling good and evil. The archetypal characterisations don't fit and aren't here.

In Kindred, Dana is drawn to the past to save Rufus, a young white boy whose family owns slaves and who will be Dana's great grandfather. If he continues to be careless with his life, without Dana's intervention, he will die before Dana's many times great grandmother will be conceived, annihilating Dana's family.

That's the premise. But it is so much more complicated than that. How about the fact that once Dana saves Rufus, he is drawn to her. He loves her. But not in a sexual way. However, he finds himself inexplicably in love with Alice, the young girl who is her great great grandmother and looks exactly like her. Who he rapes, but loves, but rapes and eventually ruins (thankfully, the reader never gets details of their love life). And, upon Alice's death he tells Dana that she and Alice were one to him.

Therefore, if Dana had never saved Rufus, he would have never fallen in love with Alice in the first place, which turned out to be the cause of all Alice's problems. And while Dana thought she was saving both Alice and Rufus, was it her inclusion that actually ruined both their lives (Rufus fails to take a wife, so smitten by Alice).

This is just one of a million scenarios in which the brilliant story captures the mind. But my other favorite thing about this book is there is no obvious black theme. No Spike Lee type announcements, no Roots clarity. It even bests Beloved in that it doesn't delve into every dastardly result of slavery to prove the point of how awful it was, demonstrating every horrific imaginable scene.

Instead the horror is simply portrayed in the day to day, in the simplicity of a society defined by slaves and slave owners. As horrible as Rufus father may seem, we come to understand that he is just a man in his times. Just as is Rufus. Their understanding, their logic is different, is formed from the very fabric of America as it was then. Similarly, the slaves were who they were, people in a horrific circumstance. Their coping, their manipulating, their attempts at dignity were simply what they were. There is no over done moment when Rufus or his father denounce the woes of slavery, there is no fantastic moment when a slave becomes an empowered symbol of liberty. Instead the story lets the characters be, and Dana is forced to adjust to the cloth in which she has been sewn. This modern 70's woman becomes a slave in every form of the word, it was the only way to matriculate. And she is faced with choices and situations that boggle the mind, rendering all her education and high ideas useless in the face of a basic need to survive.

I've gone on too long. As I tend to do when I am in love. Again. Kindred is a wakeup call to me, a charge to return to the genre I believe I am called to write - speculative fiction. It is time to leave the "luving" writing alone - the easy stuff that passes the time- and begin my research to churn out the classic that lies deep within me. Somewhere.

Ashanti and Singing?

2008-07-05T13:59:00.000-07:00

Can Ashanti really sing? I know, your first thought is who cares. Just like me, whenever her name comes up, I draw a blank. Thank God the days of listening to her and Ja Rule damage the air waves are threw. The whole creation and success of "Murder Inc." made me ill. Call me a "hater" if you'd like, but I just thought they were the clear representation that the music industry no longer cares about talent or hard ambition - all you need to be is a drug dealer with an in.

Ashanti's particular rise to stardom was disturbing because ...well..she couldn't sing. At all. It was like listening to Britanny(sp?) minus the ability to dance. Doesn't that leave you with nothing? Pretty girl, yes. But so are a million others who can actually hold a note. But here is why she really irked me - Christina Millian - exDisney star- had a contract with Def Jam. She released a very cute song for teenage girls (something like from sundown to sun up or something). Video was appropo. Then she made the fatal mistake that changed music for the next 5 years. She did a duet with Ja Rule. And it was a tremendous hit, his first huge hit actually. So, what did Def Jam do? Entered into a contract with Murder Inc (which I think it was a subsidiary, not a joint venture) and gave Ja Rule and Irv Gotti (what a foolish thing to name yourself. Try reading some history books, jerk) full cache to what ever they wanted. And they happened to have Ashanti in their camp - (who, we later found out, was having an affair with Irv Gotti, although she was a baby).

Long story short. Def Jam dropped Christina. Murder Inc replicated Christina's sound with a lighter watered down version, Ashanti, put over the old Biggie "One More Chance" beat. And voila'!! A manufactured hit. Containing an infintessimal amount of talent. And they kept coming, duet after duet, sing song after singsong making me finally turn away from "urban radio" and look away in embarassment at award show after award show. When the Grammy's bowed down and awarded the nonsense, I felt sorry for every true musician out there.

And then - between 50 Cents and NY District Attorney's office, they were able to obliterate the choke hold Murder Inc had on the music industry. And after regurgitating years of nonsense, true musicians were once again given a platform...

So, I say all of this to say, that I haven't missed Ashanti. About a 3 months ago, this wonderful song began playing on the ready. "The Way That I Love You." It starts out with a beautiful piano run tha treminds me of a waterfall and then a girl soulfully singing about being replaced by the man she loves. I loved it immediately. My husband and I agreed it was a hit, wondered who the girl was. A new Mary J? Another soulful Kisha Cole? Maybe Sunshine Anderson was getting another chance.

The more I heard the song, the more I loved it. I had to find out who it was. Today, as I was driving to work (on a Saturday - don't ask) Big Tigger played it. I was jammin, muisic loud and singing hard and then he announced that it was Ashanti's latest hit.

Huh?

Wait...Huh?

I wanted to hate the song, but I have spent months trying to find the singer. Now, I find it impossible to reconciliate my intense dislike of her music with this song that I love. Could it be that she actually could sing all along? Was she another Murder Inc victim (like Charlie Baltimore and Veda - geesh, Murder Inc was the worse), just doing what she was told to be in the spotlight?

I don't know. This is all the time I have allotted to this particular issue. Because she is still very low on my totem pole (would much rather talk about Hancock, uhhh Will smith, some more). But, I have to admit, I found myself amazed today, that a singer I despised for so long was unknowingly able to turn me into a fan...

Bet On Will Smith

2008-07-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

Will Smith and the Fourth of July. Its not longer a bet, its a guarantee. How he did it, I don't know. But yesterday, the movie theater was PACKED with white and black movie goers to see Hancock. But not just white and black hip hop heads - from the very old the the very young. Will has transcended race and cultural biases in a way that even Denzel has not quite mastered.

People were pleased to see him. THe old white couple in front of me (and a couple of seats to the left, giving me a good view of their faces) were simply delighted when he came onscreen. I am telling you, it is a shocking thing to behold.

At first I was a bit un impressed with his decision to use Charlize Theron in the movie. I find it difficult to swallow that she is South Afrikan - born and raised during apartheid, folks. So, when she received an award and gave her beloved country a shout out a couple of years ago, my like for her quickly faded to dust. I know, I know, we are loyal to America, and look at all its dirt. But its a stereotype I have a hard time dealing with-and when i look at her she is the picture of that Arian supremacy thing.

However, Charlize played the hell outta this role. She and Will took it up a notch...that's all I'll say without giving away the plot.

But WIll has done it again, I loved Hancock. Just when it felt predictable, they threw in a round of monkey wrenches that turned this into a special film. And seeing the brotherman superhero - in genuine Will Smith wonder - damn...how much more can this man do to make a sistah proud...?

Love Detached

2008-06-26T19:29:00.001-07:00

Can a woman make love, without loving? Is it possible. Can she let a man into her body, whole and full, yet keep a piece of herself separate and untouched. It seems possible, downright easy in theory. To spot a man and lay eyes on his physical. Your mind turns over the possibilities. You don't want much from him, he doesn't even have to talk actually, because it is just a momentary fantasy before you go about your day.

But what happens if you indulge that fantasy. If you take the time to get to know him a little bit, like him a little bit, enjoy him a little bit. If he possesses the qualities to link with your humor, inspire your mind, pique your curiosity, is it already too late? Is uniting simply the final merging of something that a woman has already accepted deep within herself as a mate of sorts, so, no matter what, separation will be painful.

My younger friends don't seem to have this problem. At least, they don't admit to it. One girlfriend in her twenties didn' t seem to have any connection to the men she engaged, she did the deed and kept it rolling. I luv her dearly, but she is what we term "a ho." Not judging, I told her that to her face. We were trained not to be that - this early 30's group of woman friends I have. The ingrained message was to be the opposite of it.

To open your heart and love him and have him love you back. So, I believe, it is hardwired into us now. Making life like my early 20's homegirl impossible for my young but aging 30 something friends. And when one of us does try it, does engage in the meaningless fling, it inevitably turns into "something." Its not just "friendship" sex - I don't know anyone who has been able to pull that off yet (in my age group, I reiterate).

There are exceptions to every rule, but can a women love "detached" like a man...I am beginning to believe that the answer, unfortunately(depending on how you look at it), is no.

Scorpio Eye

2008-06-23T20:47:00.000-07:00

I wrote a story about a Scorpio. The story has been in the works for some time, I am writing it for a publisher looking for Scorpio stories. Now, I seem to attract Scorpio men - their eyes tell it all - if a Scorpio who wants you, when he looks at you his eyes send fire. For real.

But, the Scorpios of my past have been in my past for a while. So I haven't thought about them or their ways in a while (but they have some interesting ways). Anyway, while writing this story, I decided to look up the Scorpio horoscope to get a better character analysis and draw out a more realistic story. While I don't believe "in" horoscopes, I glance at them from time to time. So, before I submitted the story about this raw Scorpio man that turned my main character's world (and body) inside out, I did a character check. This is what I found:

Magnetic, elusive, sexy and determined. That’s you Scorpio!....That cool aloofness is just the surface of your complex nature, and is by no means bad. Below the surface of your cool exterior is a scorching and passionate fire. You know it and others sense it too...You turn heads whenever you walk into a room — you are the strong, silent type, and you have a magnetic aura...It’s well known astrologically that the eyes of a Scorpio can hypnotise. Whether you know it or not, this is your most powerful physical trait.

Well damn. Ain't that some horoscope. And, let me tell you, its right on point. Scary how accurate it is, actually. And the character I wrote, was just like this, and his eyes were the center of the story. I didn't do it on purpose - I just took their premise (romance based on November-Topaz) and ran with it. And created a raw, sensual, sexy, promising, beautifully sculpted, fully accurate Scorpio.

Now, my horoscope on the other hand- Virgo - read as boring as paint drying. It didn't talk about any of the fire of a Virgo, just spoke about being organized (which I am not), clean (which I definitely am) and annoying to everyone but the Virgo mind (which, I probably am). But what about the Virgo passion, the Virgo strength and eyes that hypnotise? Don't I have some passion, some alluring trait that keeps bringing these Scorpios my way. Or are Virgos really just analytical thinkers and is my so called "passion" a figment of my imagination?

Hmph. I am pretty sure I can match a Scorpio's passion any day.

Either way, I just had to share that horoscope and take a minute to think of my past Scorpio "friends" whose eyes certainly hypnotised. Or whose eyes I avoid to this day, so I don't get into trouble. LOL

I hope the story gets published so I can share it with you, and let you determine whether I properly summarized the Scorpio man and whether you think my story is entertaining. Until them, I will keep on writing and avoiding those hypnotic Scorpion eyes...

Only the Weak Love?

2008-06-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

Is loving someone a symbol of weakness? The first response is the easy no, but then again, it is possible. We try to date without luvin. Try to "play" without luvin. Try to immerse ourselves in the physical without luvin. Share secrets, dreams, hopes fears, but must do it without luvin.

Why?

When someone whispers the words "I love you" their power evaporates. Its like those words send up a sign that they are the weakest link, the one who couldn't hang and actually exposed their soul instead of playing by the rules of masks and feigned emotions.

Isn't the deliver of love the more powerful of the two? Isn't the one bold enough to put it out the the champion, because they know the inherent risk and lose themselves in the current of emotion, anyway. Allow themselves to follow that unique sensual rhythm to its intended destination, whether the receiver is capable of accepting love or not.

I remember a man told me he loved me once. Up until that moment, I adored him. After he said it, I thought him weak. Clingy. Turned out and useless. I began to be rude and cold. I didn't think of it then, never made the connection. It wasn't until I was older that I realized he repulsed me because he loved something that I could not - me. He saw beauty in something I could not - me. And because I couldn't understand, didn't see it, I turned my judgement on him instead of aiming that beam at myself. So he was the stronger, the one more whole, the healthier - and he was better off without me. He wasn't weak because of it, he was strong and sincere. I was weak because I couldn't accept it.

Fulfilled

2008-06-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

Talk about a whirlwind three days! My son graduated from St Johns College Prepatory High School in Washington DC on Friday, June 6, 2008. I had to type it out that out, just to chew on an unbelievable accomplishment.

My son was not academically inspired. That is to say, he can do whatever he put his mind to, but so often academics wasn't it. He was bored for a long period of time and the teaching metods used didn't really inspire him. He had a burning love though - sports. So the deal was utilize a modicum of his intellectual talent in the classroom and he would be allowed to participate in sports.

By middle school, sports was no longer an option, it was a requirement. It was the balancing act, the equilibrium to the ho hum environment in school. He played the saxophone, performed in both short films and commercials, participated in numerous sports outside the staple football and basketball, science and math clubs, etc... We kept him busy, to say the least. And it wasn't easy - sometimes it was downright painful.

But we never gave.

Friday a 6'2" 195 lb man walked up on the podium when they said "Gerald Moore." For a split second, I didn't recognize him. I still see this child that I fell in love with, this adorable creature who God had blessed with something special. When they called his name I had to tuck that babyb oy into my heart and accept the grown man before my eyes - who is confident, accomplished and prepared. I fought back tears because I always knew this day would come, but never quite believed it would just land on top of me like it did. That this leg of our journey would end so suddenly. That the vow I made to God to raise this boy and love him as protectively and as fearlessly as He told me to do would be fulfilled.

I am fulfilled.

Thank You God Almighty, for blessing me with your precious seed. For allowing me the opportunity to stand in the gap, to learn how to love, to learn how to parent and to selflessly give. Thank You Father for showing me that his achievement is worth every bit of sacrifice, that each inspired word of love came from You, that Your prophetic visions kept me pushing forward and moving him toward where You would have him to be. Thank You and for allowing him to forgive any misstep or harsh word I spoke while trying to discipline him and navigate him through this booby trapped life. Forgive me Lord for those times I lost faith, through up an exasperated hand, ignorantly swore that I was on my last leg. You fed my spirit, Father, counselled me and demanded I return to what you had called me to complete. It is an amazing thing, God, to seed Your child become a health person, a strong individual, a calm spirit, a true believer and follower of Your principles. It is only by your simple Grace that I was allow to see such a miracle, be part of such a miracle, ejoice in such a miracle - and I thank you, Heavenly Father, I thank you with everything that I am or ever will be...

APOOO TRIBUTE: SOFTEN MY SOUL

2008-05-13T22:01:00.000-07:00

A Place Of Our Own (APOOO) National Book Club featured my all the mothers whose babies didn't make it. They are still mothers. A special thanx to Yasmin of APOOO for posting this story, although it didn't quite fit the mold. I really appreciate your support and encouragement - more than you will ever know!

Tribute: Soften My Soul

To me, the miracle of motherhood is not just the delivery. It is not limited to the overwhelming rush of magnificence that a baby was created within you, or granted to you. No, the miracle of motherhood, of parenthood, is the change of heart that occurs when you learn and accept that you are fertile ground. When your soul softens, first accepting, then anticipating a tiny new life.

Why is that a miracle? Because there is a unique transformation that occurs, that prepares for life to change inexplicably. I know friends who swore they hated children, until that tiny seed was deposited in them. And something pure sprouted from the knowledge of being with child, from the revelation, from the onslaught of thankfulness at the thought of becoming a mommy. They became some of the most genuine caring women I know. Even I was tied to my career, ambivalent about sacrificing my freedom and money making potential, until I was told that my baby was dead. And in that infinitesimal moment, everything changed. My essence cried out for her, my soul wept and my spirit prayed for this child I had never seen, heard, touched or felt. And that is when I became a mother.

The story below, and this tribute, is for the mothers who lost their babies before they made it through. For those women who gleefully accepted the call and opened up their innermost depths of love, but for whatever reason the child was lost before, during or soon after childbirth. They are still mothers. A mother weeps and mourns and suffers a tremendous loss, even if the child was lost in utero. She is still a mommy. She still very much loved and very much lost. She remembers her baby every single day. And, while the ending of my story was rare, I felt that agonizing loss for a short time and I will never forget.

So this tribute is for the mommies that were not able to carry to term, or who encountered death soon after the wonder of life. May God bless and keep you.

CLICK HERE to read the rest of this intimate and poignant tribute.

******

Aisha K. Moore, Esq., pseudonym a.Kai, is a published poet and novelist who enjoys writing inspirational, fantasy, sci fi (speculative fiction), commercial and adult fiction. Her Discover Kai Poetry Collection is an intimate monthly log of experiences, emotions and reflection that consists of six published collections, including Cherished Beginnings, Intimate Musings, Internal Indulgences and Peaceful Resolution. She is a contributing poet to Step Up to the Mic: A Poetic Explosion (Poetic Press). Her poetry has been recognized in a number of magazines, book clubs and literary circles and is posted on a number of websites and blogs.

Her inspirational short story, Second Chance, has been published in True: Vol. 2 and her short story, The Marks, was published by The Writers Cafe Press in the anthology Light at the Edge of Darkness. A third short story, Mikkis Anniversary, is included in the anthology If It Aint One Thing, Its Another. She is a guest reviewer for RAWSISTAZ Book Club.

A wife and mother of five, Aisha graduated from Georgetown University Law Center and is licensed to practice in both Washington D.C. and Maryland. She is employed by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) where she works in employment discrimination matters. For more information, visit her at www.discoverkai.com, www.discoverkai.blogspot.com or www.myspace.com/discoverkai.

Pathetic

2008-05-12T21:39:00.000-07:00

Wait a minute!! This is unreal and sooooo funny, yet sooooo disrespectful. I kinda don't know how I feel about it. Did you see the clip of LeBron James telling his mama to sit her ass down? Oh no - well here it is:

Now, a good boy NEVER cusses at his mother. But what was she thinking? Has the good life made her yearn for days of whipping ass and acting a fool? Jumping all into the mix with a bunch of 6 footers? Apparently, Kevin Garnett recognized her immediately, he tried to shield her with his body. Imagine if he hadn't, if he had knocked her to the ground in the fight. Lawd Have Mercy, it woulda been ghetto night for real then!! Lebron would have Had to try to kill him.

Now listen, as a sports mom who, in the early years, cussed out a few detractors, I get it. I know what its like to be in the heat of the game and see or hear someone attacking your son. Before you know it you could fly off the handle. But she is no longer in little league. We are talking Lebron. I think that huge black man can handle his own. And we have seen overprotective moms unintentionally undermining their "babies" credibility when they jumped into the mix. One example: Vince Carter. OK another example: A.I. and really, A.I. moms wraps it all up, with the nice heavy mink in the middle of the summer over her jersey...wheww, she used to wear me out wondering what theatrics she was going to pull next.

But back to the point. Does LeBron get to tell his mama to "sit her ass down." And said it with no hesitation. Is the paycheck allconsuming, all empowering, that she actually went and sat her ass down?

I'm rambling I know - but this, I think, is the point. Mama shoulda stayed out of it. That is without question. The NBA shoulda have given a long - let these men be men - speech to her after watching other mama's turn their NBA sons into jokes.

HOWEVER, once emotion took over, and she did enter the fray, LeBron should never be in a mind frame to cuss at his mother and get away with it. He didn't seem shocked at all, as if he had slipped in the heat of the battle. Meaning, she was well within her rights to hit him upside the head at that point. But she didn't. Instead she meekly backed away. And he returned to the game, seemingly unperturbed that he had just disrespected his mother in an unfathomable way. AND THEN - GET THIS - HE WALKED OVER AND APOLOGIZED TO PAUL PIERCE. What about his mother? mannnnn please!

So, both were wrong, but LeBron was dead ass wrong. I am sure mama will be getting a nice new car or a piece of jewelry to make it all good. And since he obviously is running that household, she will take her gift as a sincere apology, instead of realizing how telling and pathetic the entire scenario actually is....

My Baby Boy

2008-05-10T06:41:00.001-07:00

It seems that time has passed me by, or I wasn't paying attention as it swooped around me. Somehow the little boy that I love is a full grown man. Tell you the truth, I didn't see it happen. Its amazing how your eyes focus on what your mind tells it, even when he hit six feet and I was looking up to talk to him, I still saw my little boy!! It wasn't until he said to me, "Mom, you aren't as big as I thought you were," with a little smirk that I realized he had outgrown me. Of course I invoked the "I'll get on a chair if I have to knock you out" theory with a laugh, cuz size and height have nothing to do with mama rule!!

So, he graduates the first week of June. He graduates. Lord Have Mercy, my baby boy is graduating from highschool. And we are planning a cookout the night of graduation, followed with a day of minimal rest (because his friends are hosting cookouts that we are expected to attend) and then he is off to the beach for a few days. After the beach, we pack him up and off to college he goes. Since he is on a football scholarship, they want him to report for the first session of summer school in June. And just like that, he'll be gone...

Now, I know he's not actually gone. As long as I earn a measly dollar, he will have a reason to call **smile**. But, unlike most college students, the athletic scholarships give the schools authority to dip into life, its all about preparing for the next game and keeping those academics up. At Ohio U (where he is going next year) it was one of only 2 schools in the MAC Division to have a high rate of graduation among their athletes. They are not playing around. So that means, he doesn't return home for long blocks of time between semesters and during weeks of vacation. We get a day or two, where he will probably also want to tap into his old friends as well, before he is back to school. Either way, life as we know it will change.

I am excited for him. I don't feel sadness. Yet. After we drop him off, when I return and try to tuck in a new daily schedule without him here, that's when my heart will ache. But I am determined to enjoy it as a good ache, and not become sad, because me child has been blessed. From teen parents to college football player and no illegal indiscretions in between, who could ask for more?

So, this Mother's Day I will reflect on him and my other children. Its amazing how they have grown, how smart my older daughter is (she is reading and understanding Chronicles of Narnia and she is 6), how creative and artistic my middle daughter is (she can play piano by memory and tap out the notes to any tune she has hear 1 time) and the continuous chaotic whirlwind that are my twins. If I focus forward, I can feel the sun, I can appreciate God's warmth. I know that he has touched my life and expanded my horizons. I am sincerely thankful.

As is always the case when blessed change is near, pressure mounts, my husband and I argue, money tightens up, all sorts of things to distract from what I should be focused on. But God has allowed me another phase of peace, not as tranquil as when I gave birth to the twins, but a lighter level, one that keeps me alert but unfazed by the distraction. What will be, will be. In the meantime, we are going to celebrate this gradation, cook and eat, dance and drink (nonalcoholic of course - well, for the most part) praise and party and allow ourselves to completely inhale this space and time.

Happy Mother's Day !

2008-05-05T20:32:00.001-07:00

I can't remember the age I was, when I began sleeping with the knife under my pillow. But I felt so old, so tired and so alone. Early teens I think. Life had proven itself to be one long tunnel of pain, of rejection, of disappointment. I was so depressed, but didn't realize it. I had to survive. And I was convince my mother was going to snap, one night, in her fits of manic depressed rage, and kill me. And who would know? Who would care? She would play the victim and I would be dead. So, after another cussing, staring, evil eyeing and late night door kicking and attacking, i tucked the pillow under my knife.

The first one was small. It had to be one she didn't notice, or she would surely beat my ass for having it. I knew I couldn't use it, wouldn't use it. BUt at least I could finally get to slepp, my hand tightly gripping its handle. Gainin security from that tiny knife.

Years later, I upgrade that knife. THis was after the physical fights, the thick tension, the confusion. I wasn't scared anymore. I didn't care what happened to me anymore. I wanted ot leave, to espace, but didn't know if I would be able to. So I put a real knife under my pillow after that. My silent dare for her to keep hitting me, assaulting me, terrifying me. But, as God would have it, she simply stopped coming in the middle of the night.

These are the Mother's Days images I have. And I feel guilty and lost, becuase who thinks about this during mother's day. For others its flowers and lover, affirmation and comfort. Their mother. And my memory its lopsided, its what I recall. There were days and weeks of peace, well, not peace, but a silent resolved tension. Without being cussed out and frowned upon. Normal days when I would socialize and entertain and enjoy myself. Separate from her. Because that's what I did to stay sane, I stayed away as much as I could.

But , of course, its unfair. Because she was a mother. She sacrificed for me. She loved me, as best she could. We didn't have much and she didn't give me much, but she didn't put me out, didn't let the world devour me. She was suffering the Prozac roller coaster, so she did the best she could do. And I know that. Or, at least, I need to believe it, to believe there was a reason other than mental illness that would make a person could be so cold to her own child.

But as we approach mother's day, I find my memoirs of the good times obliterated by the sheer terror of a moment, horrified by the shouts and slams, the threats and verbal hate. She would tease me, taunt me, anything to get me to respond, to justify attacking me. Ain't that a mother?

She is different now. At least, I am different and don't have to be subjected to it anymore. But Mother's Day. Mother's Day always leads me to this space of loneliness, of isolation, of longing for a mother who thought me lovable.

Remembering peace

2008-05-04T15:26:00.001-07:00

My mind wondered temporarily at church today. Not that the preaching wasn't good, just something that she said made me remember when I had peace. Its interesting, often times people speak about peace likes its a temporary emotion, such as "please, can I have some peace." But that's not what I'm talking aobut. I'm talking about when the noise and crashes of life literally fade away and, despite all the chaos around you , you are literally in an unimpenetrably (word?) calm space. Without the aid of Prozac or Percocet.

I slipped into it once. Or, I should say, God granted me access to it once. It certainly wasn't an all access pass, I haven't been able to find that unique pocket in years. But while I carried my twins, the noise of life just ceased to exist. The snow behind the channel of each day, that is bills and anxiety and health concerns and parental struggles, just didn't faze me. I understood their importance, but found myself eager to see sunshine, thankful for each drop of water, grateful for health, lovingly appreciative of life.

And when the twins were born, it continued. It had been the first time I carried a son in my womb, and they definitely give you a different energy than lil girls. By oldest daughter had my emotions all over the place. But, after their birth, as I sat in the back yard wathing them play and listening to the wind (really - and no I wasn't high) I realized that THIS is what peace is. Its not a short intermission, it is a soothing space, a quiet calm, an envelope of cushion. And, it was necessary for me to refocus, have faith and press forward.

Slowly I eased out of the pocket, not on purpose, but I failed to work diligently to stay in that space. But having experienced it changed me. Inexplicably. I can wait now, with patience. I know God will bring change. I can hope now, without panic, I know that it will work out and it will be for good. I can pray now, without urgency, without a reason, simply to be in His presence. I can shed tears now, without shame, because my tears represent a thankfulness at a glimpse of a higher understadning that I was not entitled to, but God allowed me to experience.

SO, as First Lady Trina was preaching today (and she tour it up, put her foot in it, and tour it up some mo) I found myself remembering peace and realizing what a rare encounter it was.

Oblivion

2008-04-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

My daughters and I were at Target, affectionately known as Tar'get (Tar-sh-Jay), searching for summer dresses and jelly shoes. Just something light, cute and cheap, to last a couple of weeks, since the destroy most everything fairly quickly.

As we were walking in, a young girl and her man, I assume boyfriend and not husband by how he was openly staring and trying to make eye contact with me, walked in with babies in tow. I ignored him as I rounded up my mini crew and began heading past the 1 dollar items into the store. Of course, I never get past the 1 dollar section and this time I paused to pick up cute girlie sunglasses. One of the babies was playing with the cart and stressed out momma was trying to peel another child from her hip. Exasperated she pointed her finger at one child, "get on the other side of the cart," then to the other she said, "stop playing, mover over." As the cart swung around she pointed to her "man" and said "GET HIm, STOP HIM FROM MOVING THE CART."

Now, her request was harmless enough. The child was going to wipe out half of the people entering the store with the cart. But, in that split instant, she lost her man. Maybe not totally, maybe not completely, but something in him turned off. Her pointing finger, her authoritative tone. I caught it. She caught, because she attempted to lower her voice and nicely explain, "could you please get him. I need help."

IT was actually amazing to watch. But my watching may have caused the problem. At the second that she addressed him like a child, pointing and directing, I just happened to look up. He and I both looked at her, me with mild interest that she just ordered this 6'4" man around like a chump, and him with a look of confusion then complete disregard. Now, should he have been helping? Yep. Should she have had to request he pay attention and alleviate some of the chaos? No. But the ordering around of him, in front of strangers, in front of children, was obviously something that he wasn't going to tolerate. As she stuttered out a more polite explanation, he looked me dead in the eye. I looked back, waiting, wondering how he was going to respond. I should have looked away, pretended that I was oblivious to it. But I found myself captivated.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the store. Just like that. Finally, regaining some common sense, I pushed my daughters forward and kept walking, just like that. And the young girl tried to reign in her kids alone. Just like that.

It made me think of a lesson I learned, years ago. No matter what, they can always walk away. This life, trying to juggle motherhood, wifehood, bread earner but subservient, dependent, "respectful", but juggling it all - that is the real cross we bear. That is the unknown price woman in a relationship pay. And when we cross the line, or lose our temper, for just a second, they can tune us out, turn it off. And then we have the burden by ourselves. Rather than at least having that helping hand.

I wonder what she took from that. The young girl and her three kids. I wonder if she responded with fighting and pay back, harsh words and plotted revenge. OR if she folded in the pain, disappointment, anger, bit her tongue, and sensually talked him back into believing her inherent need of him. If she made the decision so many woman do, on a daily basis, after words drip from our lips and we watch them walk away, fading into oblivion.

Vote For ME

2008-04-26T16:35:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks -

On last Thursday, I participated in a Spoken Word Competition on Blog Talk Radio. You can click here to listen to the show.

To specifically hear me, I perform at the 63rd minute of the show (drag the sound bar to 63 min).

So, please listen in. And, if you feel so inclined, please vote for me at www.apooo.org.

Luv
Aisha

Hillary Won

2008-04-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

Hillary won, and I am so disappointed. I desperately wanted Obama to sweep it, so that someone will tell Hillary to go sit down somewhere. The Clintons have done more damage with this campaign than is humanly possible. A lifetime of goodwill flushed down the drain by her smear techniques and backhanded snide comments. Mrs. 109 million dollars commented in her acceptance speech tonight that Obama "spent" money in record amounts bombarding Pennsylvania, but the people of the state stood true and were heard by voting for her.

Really, Mrs. Clinton? How about Obama decimated what was predicted to be a state landslide , cutting your lead down to only an 8% lost? Do you know what that means, you only won by a little more than 150,000 votes. Thats it. The state was split: meaning you LOST a vast amount of supporters. Meaning your tactics are as transparent as the Republicans and your voting base is fleeing. Meaning at some point, you are going to have to muster up an ounce of dignity (some has to be left somewhere in the shrapnel of your life, you and Bill did do some good back in the day) acknowledge the incredible feat Obama has accomplished and focus on the good of the party, rather than the good of the financial backers you will probably be indebted to for life.

I am so bitter towards you, Hillary, because your behavior has been despicable. Because I fought for you, for your vision, for Bill's reputation, only to discover that you two are as self serving and single minded as the pundits reported.

You know, if you somehow undermine Obama enough to win, I won't vote for you. The Democrats will lose me. You will have singlehandedly bottomed out the Democratic party, prepping the presidency for McCain.

But then again, you and Bill have done this before. Staying the course on the Lewinsky scandal, instead of resigning and allowing Al Gore to be Vice President, and subsequently run as an incumbent, pretty much gave the Republicans the leeway they needed to manipulate Florida and steal the eleection. But, you and Bill would never think of stepping down, resigning, and sacrificing yourself for the greater good of the party or of your people, would you? Of course not. In fact your entire campaign is run on "being ready" and "answering that 3 am call." Veiled reminders of terror and fear, of 9-11 and war.

Hmmm, who does this remind me of? Oh yeah, the Republicans and Bush's wonderful manipulations of the public for the past 8 years. So congratulations, Mrs. Clinton. If nothing else, I know for sure that hobnobbing and politicking within the Republican Administration has certainly rubbed off on you....You are keeping up with the best of them.

Virtual Spoken Word Shocase

2008-04-22T19:35:00.000-07:00

Hi Fam - Please listen in to the Showcase below and, if you vote for me, I will greatly appreciate it!!!

VIRTUAL SPOKEN WORD SHOWCASE

HOSTED BY APOOO Books and Urban Echoes Entertainment, LLC

THURSDAY, APRIL 24^TH, 2008

8:00 PM – 9:30 PM EST

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/VoicesandVibes

Come Out and Jam Your Poetry!

Win CASH Prizes!

$100--GRAND PRIZE!

Listeners Will Vote for Their Favorite Spoken Word Rendition!

Voting Will Occur Between April 24th, 2008 - May 2nd, 2008!

Please Join Us and Spread the Word!

For More Information, Contact Yasmin Coleman at apooo4u@yahoo.com

Spoken Word Artists:*

Stylicia Bowden

Nanette Buchanan

Shaunteka Curry

DuEwa

Ebony Farashuu

Alvin Lloyd Alexander Horn

Marc Lacy

Marina

Mikaylah Simone
Aisha Moore (a. Kai)

Pam Osbey

Julia Press Simmons

Keith

Today's Featured Poet

2008-04-17T21:25:00.001-07:00

In Celebration of National Poetry Month, I am the featured poet on A Place of Our Own (APOOO)'s National Poetry Tribute.

Visit the tribute at www.apooo.org!!

{APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH.

Join APOOO as we salute poets of yesterday and today.

DAY 18--Do You Know This Poet?--Her collection of work can be found in the Discover Kai Poetry Collection, consisting of Cherished Beginnings, Intimate Musings, Peaceful Resolution and Internal Indulgences. She is a contributing poet to Step Up to the Mic: A Poetic Explosion (Xpress Yourself Publishing) and Word Speak Networks 2007 anthology. Additionally, her poetry has been featured in Essence Magazine and The Write Vibe as well as numerous websites and journals. She was a RAWSISTAZ featured poet in April 2007.

CLICK HERE to read more.

yasmin
www.apooo.org
Subscribe to APOOO News Today!}

The Bumble Bee

2008-04-17T17:54:00.000-07:00

I spotted a bumble bee today. A huge fat bumble bee sailing easily through the air, bouncing from bloom to bloom. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

Of all the things that I have to worry about, I know this shouldn't have been the top priority. But it was. I was worried about the bees. Terrified actually, about the bees. About the lack of them.

I first noticed last spring, when a coworker had a cookout and it was completely uninterrupted by our nagging friends. A lifetime of swatting, running from, fussing at, attempting to kill bees, it suddenly occurred to me that I missed them. Like that relative you can't stand until you don't see him anymore. Until the option to see him is taken from you by deaths devastation. Thats when you realize that you truly loved them, even though they annoyed you in a never ending way, because they are no longer around for you to ever be upset with them again.

So, the rest of the summer went by, beeless. And my daughter, who had been stung the year before by the never ending swarm of bees around our yard in past years, asked, "what happened to our bumblebees mommy? I don't see any."

And I got a sick feeling in my stomach. What is happening in the world, or to our world, when lifelong constants begin to disappear? What does that mean in the overall scope of things? In every catastrophic movie it is the disappearance of little things that signal something huge is happening, changing, and it won't be good. With global warming, the war, the radiation that is making its way across the globe from our "Iraq strikes" of a few years ago, the damages cause by gas leaks in water and nuclear exposure in the air, our world is changing. And if the common things, like bees, began to be extinct, how far behind are we?

So, I have prayed for the return of our bees. Of normalcy. Of watching little girls be terrified, little boys swatting them away, the nostalgia of a good cookout complete with food, folks, flys and bees. A prayer that my kids will inherit memories that involve dandelions and "wishes," hopscotch and double dutch, good life when you can stare into a clean sky and spin yourself dizzy. Watching a pesky mosquito, squealing in delighted disgust at a huge spider web, pushing at a daddy long legs with a twig, luring ants out of an anthill with a piece of candy, spending unlimited hours in the evening and night trying to trap and release fireflies. Maybe it was just my childhood, but those were peaceful memories, good times. I don't want to have to show my grandkids pictures of bees, as some extinct past creature, something that they can't even conceive of. There is something simply sad about that notion.

So, I thanked God, today, for the sight of that one plump bumble bee...Maybe, just maybe, it signifies the return to normalcy.

The Tooth Fairy

2008-04-15T07:20:00.000-07:00

I try to be a good mommy. Try to remember important dates, fix booboos, navigate the endless stream of chatter, cries and screams, train them on cleanliness and godliness, kindness and patience, discipline and love, hug and kiss, confirm and reaffirm, encourage gifts, point out talents, expand their experiences, involve them in sports and music and the arts as well as educate them......ON AND ON AND ON

But, there is one thing I keep forgetting - The Tooth Fairy.

The dag on Tooth fairy. Come on, can a parent get a break. My daughter lost her front tooth. thankfully , the babysitter pulled it out (cuz I am squeamish about that type of stuff). But when I got home she had a golden smile on her bright face and a new, highly anticipated and well deserved, spacious gap. Adorable. I kissed her and we wrapped up the tooth, sealed it in an envelope and put it under her pillow. And she went on and on and on about her tooth and the tooth fairy and a million and one questions. To which I nodded my head as I trudged through our nightly routine.

I tucked in kids, washed dishes, cleaned up the kitchen and family room. then I loaded clothes into the washer and dryer. Finally, i ate dinner. sighed. took a breath. willed my body out of the seat to the computer to finish a book review and a submission that were due. Around 2 oclock, i did one of my many nightly house checks. I finally passed out about 3 am

At 7 am I heard cries. within minutes my eldest daughter stood over me, her young voice assuming an authoritative but quiet tone, like when someone is announcing there has been a death. "Mommy. Mommy."

"huh?" i couldn't quite get my eyes open yet, and my daughter was so close to my face that she appeared to be a blur.

"Mommy, the tooth fairy forgot all about Lauren. She just didn't come. And Lauren is so upset."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I rolled frantically out of bed. how could I have made this mistake. Oh my goodness. When I got to her room she was completely devastated. I tried a "oh she will come tonight" tactic, which my older daughter quickly ruined.

"No, mommy. the tooth fairy came to me the same night. it has to be the same night or not at all."

Biting my tongue and being careful not to roll my eyes or glare at her in frustration, i convinced Lauren to go wash her face and brush her teeth while my other daughter rubbed her back. I calmly walked to my room, closed the door and tore through my closet looking for money. Tucking it in my hand, i darted back to her room (unseen by her and, thank god, my oldest daughter). I slid the 5 dollar bill in her pillow case.

head down, chest vibrating hiccups of sadness, Lauren walked slowly back into the room, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"did you check your bed?" i asked

"Yes! Yes! Yes! She forgot me..."

"I just have never seen that happen before?" I sighed, hand to my chin. "Lets check everything once again, ok"

Both girls tore the bed apart.

"I know what we forgot." I snapped my fingers, a look of complete surprise coming over my face. "Sometimes, the tooth fairy will put her gift inside the pillow case. You know, for those wild sleepers who move their pillows around at night."

hope dawned and spread like sunshine. Four big round eyes stared at me as if given a second chance. They shook all the pillows and finally, at last, the five dollar bill floated easily onto the bed and both girls yipped for joy. The smiles I got that morning were worth my entire life.

A crisis avoided.

Until this morning, when I had to do the entire charade again (this time hiding the money inside a book she keeps under her pillow) after I forgot to make my deposit last night and she and her sister awoke at the crack of dawn today....

the tooth fairy is ruining my life!!

shades of love

2008-04-13T23:59:00.000-07:00

How deep does love have to be for it to count? To matter. To be enough for two people. To last. I have been thinking about this for several days now. What really is love. Is it a deep concerned caring? Yes. Is it a strong emotional pull for someone? Yes. What if it is dependent on what someone does for you? If he demonstrates his love by jumping over a million hoops, then does my decision to keep him, or to succomb to him constituates love?

But here is the issue. I talk to people and the love they describes sounds like every day love - like I love my new shoes. Or like I love curling up with a good science fiction book on a Sunday with nothing else to do. Like I love Outback Steakhouse, or watching a good basketball game. And it depressed me - don't they want real love?

When I talk about love, I am speaking about intimacy. About that deep seeded spiritual bond, developed from overwhelming infatuation, mind stimulation and unbelievable physical satisfaction. That - can't breathe without him, my mind is blown away- type of love. Not that it lasts forever. Because its not supposed to. But that deep searing, scorching love makes this whole relationship thing worth it, right? Isn't that why you see couples break up and come back together? because that experience was so rare and so confounding that they try to rekindle it, hold on to it, even just come close to it.

What happens when love becomes - functional. I have been here. My husband and I, when we were dating, plunged into that high, all consuming, insatiable love thing. When we finally came up for air, life smacked us dead in the face. Actually sucked the spirit out of us. So, something so incredible was followed by a "lust drought" for lack of a better term. The nonstop intimacy became replaced with the mundane aspect of life, fading into functionality, squeezing in somewhere between dinner dishes and early mornign sunrise.

Gone was the creativity, the experimentation, the all inclusive desire. For a longwhile. And, although we loved each other, we didn't feel in love. My husband walked away. And, after awhile, my heart let him go.

But, the thing about that burning, drenching lustful love is that it leaves residue. An unextinguishable longing to taste it one mo gain. And so we come back to marriage, come back to the attempt to rekindle the spark, to be kind and gentle and loving to one another. To fall in love again.

There must be different shades of love. There is no other answer. And, if so, what shade do most relationships reside? Does everyone have that deep mindblowing thing, and then settle into something a little less dangerous, a little more routine, but th glue ios the memory and the attempt to respark it? Or do some couples begin at functionality. At perfunctorily polite, politically correct, financially compaitble? I imagine these relationships have a different rhythm, maybe the hot fire thing isn't necessary to bond. Maybe the reliability of continuity is enough to be satisfying.

When talking to others, I have decided to listen more to their description of love, their desire of love. I can't ascertain whether one is in love, until I know thier definition of love. And I wish love to those whom I care about, even if it is not a love that can satisfy my needs, I pray that it can completely satiate their personal needs.

But where do you go when the love you start out with begins at the middle mark? What happens to relationship then...

Feelings?

2008-04-10T21:17:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago my coworker and I were talking about life, men, women, and a host of nonwork related subjects. As we swapped stories, he heard mine about a potential love lost and he blinked. I rambled on, about being confused by my "friends" overture toward me, his openness, his willingness and then stunned...better yet, hurt, by his sudden rejection. "Isn't it obvious," he asked, "you hurt his feelings."

And I blinked ad sat there for a moment, trying to absorb that. I hurt HIS feelings. The truth of it is , I probably did. Now that I have a son, I am aware, for the first time ever in my life, that men have feelings. Now, I know this isn't a revelation for most people, but the more I think about it the more I realize that, for the better part of my life, I didn't think men had feelings.

Let me back up. I know they have survival feelings. Surely, there is anger, sorrow, lust, etc...But I am talking about the deeper, more intricate, delicate feelings. Like loving a woman without having sex with her. Simply fallin in love with the way she smiles or talks. Noticing the sun, or the trees on a perfect day. I guess I am not used to the concept that by not speaking on one event, a man would be affected. Or that my decision to not call would make him upset.

The simple subtle things, I always thought men didn't care about. I didn't grow up with a male in my household, so the day to day understanding is obviously a little sketchy. Plus, all the men in my upbrining were distant. Cold. Emotionally removed. And a girl - woman defines themselves, on so many levels by the men in their lives.

The truth is, I discounted my male friends emotions when dealing with my own. And now I sit back and think about all the pain it is just occurring to me that I probably caused! That I obviously caused. That I never even considered before...

The Club

2008-03-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

I just had to share this - do you remember going out and purposely breaking curfew because whatever you had gotten into was worth the punishment you were sure to get at home. Well my son is having one of those moments, right now, as I type this. The problem he has is he cant even begin to do the amount of dirt i did at his age and therefore cannot outsmart me in these things...

So, tonight was his first real club night. Unfortunately, DC allows them in young - 18 (although they are not allowed to drink). So his friends have found a way to get into Love (aka Dream) for next to free by going at the crack of dawn (club hours), which is about 7 pm. I guess they let the L 7's (form the L with your left and the 7 with your right and bring it together and you'll get it) young folks in early as "fillers" so the club doesn't look empty when the grown folks get there. Now I call them L7's affectionately - while cool amongst there friend, they are certainly "square" to the DC party scene (ooops, I gave it away - L& is square). I can imagine them walking around the club trying to get the nerve to holler at grown woman....so funny.

BTW- this whole club thing required I have the "grown woman/young boy" talk with my son tonight to. Had to inform him so he wouldn't get his mind blown away by some young woman lookin to turn my child out.

Anyway - back to the point - curfew was 2. Did i hear from him at 2, 2:10? No. At 2:20 I called the friends cell phone too, hoping he would be embarassed enough to call. After all this is DC, folks, I need to know the boy is alrite. So I was just trying to get him to call, but of course I was going to give him an earful about being late. NOONE answered there phones which is a clear sign that they are all standing together, looking at there phones, shaking their head like - ain't no way I am answering this call.

So, what did I do. A text message to my son stating:
What you don't want is 4 me 2 leave this house 2 come lookin 4 u. U hav 5 min 2 call me back

Wouldn't you know it, a minute later I got a text message from my son, explaining that his friend had his cell phone (a lie) and had run across the club to find him so that he could respond (another lie). But, he was ok, and that was the real reason for the messages anyway. He has no clue how many angels have saved him - tonight, blogging while trying to reach him reminded me of words of wisdom bestowed upon me by fellow blogger and mother of "boys to men" Patricia. Her patience and understanding of his need to expand his horizons and express himself right now kept me from storming up to the club in sweatpants and tshirt (im capable of it) or ruining his night with punishment. Instead, I just let it ride....

Round Up...

2008-03-29T21:57:00.001-07:00

Ya'll knew I was going to post on it sooner or later, right? For those of you not in the DC,MD,VA circuit, a round up site for black schools has hit the internet. And, while the concept is not new, (because we used a similar site to locate classmates for our high school class reunion) this is more of a "myspace" approach to reuniting. I heard about it first through my Howard peoples, my close homeboy, and then a good friend. I figured if Howard had one, then certainly the "real" HU did also - smile, I couldn't resist - so i randomly checked for a Hampton site. And, there it was, www.pirateroundup.com.

So then I was faced with the interesting question. Do I want to be found? Do I want to reconnect, reunite, rekindle old relationships? At first, the answer was a hesitant no. While I knew alot of people while I was there, what was the chances they would remember me? If I started a page, would I become a "Roundup" dud, that is have my worse fears confirmed when NOONE bothered to become my friend? Or, what if I wasn't important enough to anyone to be in their "memory" chain? What if I requested to be their friend and their response was 'who the hell are you.' (Yes, unfortunately, this is really how I think. But, since so many of you have been reading, you already know this...)

So, instead of posting a page, i went through other pages. The past temp boyfriend(s) that I never admitted to...hmmm. LOL. The past psuedo relationship that never came to fruition....hm mm(again). The girl i always thought would be the most successful. the friend I thought I would never be able to find. the homegirl who i socialized with sometimes, but would run from other times. (Some times, I used to be funny acting like that - chalk it up to low self esteem). They all had pages. They all had innumerable amount of friends.

Then, i went to the pages of those exfriends - you know, the ones that were SOOOOO cool, before they became....fill in the blank here (Greek, Cheerleader, Socialite, FratHo, Lush, etc...). And I came across a few faces of people who I had a relationship with but inexplicable lost it, and always wondered...what if, or, more often than not, what was I thinkin?

So, I swallowed my incessant self doubt and posted a page. Then, as is always the case, I got wrapped up in the fun of creating "My space" and my phobias evaporated as I searched for that perfect KRS1 song to play on my site. So ridiculous, I know. And I began to submerge myself into the socializing of what is now Hampton cyberspace.

I think the difficulty for me was the reality that, just like that, I was back in that uncertain, late teen space where socializing and outside opinions meant so much, or at least I thought they did. And just the idea of having to cross that social bridge almost felt overwhelming. Here it is, more than ten years later, and somehow i reverted to a space i thought I had long overcome and cast away.

I guess some part of me never actually fit at Hampton. It was a different world, and I resisted it for a long time. But I learned to love it and appreciate it. Those years were difficult ones for me, trying to escape the things i didn't like about my past, wanting to believe i was doomed to be a failure, as i was often told, and trying to form who i wanted to be. Believing in a dream of the future me, but having no evidence, no proof, that I could ever be anymore than I was. WHile my friends nad fellow Hamptonites worried about the next cabaret, i wondered why my mother wouldnt had just cussed me out, how would i survive the engineering department, where would i go after hampton, etc...The personal journey was very necessary, but taxing, painful, exhausting. And Hampton was the background to that change - so i often escaped it, running to Norfolk State to be with my then boyfriend now husband. So , where does that leave me and how do i really fit into the scene of Hampton alumni?....I guess that's the real question that Pirate Roundup has begun to answer....

Gossips Negativity

2008-03-26T20:56:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in a long while. Not only my journal, but my stories. I can't put my finger on it - the stories still play out in my head, but I have lost the discipline of removing myself and recording them. Is it possible that tomorrows novel is really seeping down the drain of never reached goals, cause I just had to watch three back to back episodes of Design on a Dime?

Its embarrassing, really, how much TV I have watched lately. But, true to form, I haven't watched any good stuff. No, without HBO Sunday night lockdown, I am like a child in a toy store. I run past all of the high end, high priced, high tech things and beg and cry for the $2.00 electronic toy that is bound to break before we get home. And as soon as I get it out of the wrapper, I really don't want it anymore. SO, I watch ESPN and HGTV. Wondering what happened to The Shield. And, in the meantime, two more characters who had a delicious love affair going on in my mind have begun to fade into oblivion.

I posted a poem today entitle Gossip. I think that is whats starting to sap my energy. I am ashamed to admit it, but I gotta tell the truth and shame the devil. I have been engaging in....gossip. I know. Its pathetic. The things is, its all work related (all my friends can sigh, i haven't spilled the beans). But the speculation and whispered dealings are taking their toll on me. I remember when I was in highschool and I didn't think twice about gossiping. In college, I was more inclined to keep folks business to myself, I think living with people allows you to sympathize more with their situation. But, here is the bad thing: after undergrad I became a full fledged gossiper. It was pretty bad. I mean, while someone was confiding in me, I was already looking ahead to when I shared the delicious news with the next person. When I caught myself, literally listening to someones every word with bated breath so I could rush out and repeat it, I felt soooooooo pathetic. Pathetic. No other word. Was that all I was, someone who enjoyed others demise and spread it around like Miracle Whip? Something deep in my spirit really convicted me

But here is the most telling part. For a while after, I had to ask people not to confide in me. If they started, I asked them to stop. BECAUSE I COULDN'T stop myself from gossiping. I had to go cold turkey. Now, isn't that ridiculous? But my self pride was at rock bottom as well, so I couldn't love anyone else enough to protect their secrets when I didn't love myself (did you catch that subtle Mary J. Blige hook in there?-No? How can I, love somebody else....)

SO anyway, after going cold turkey, i practiced. I would take in small bits of info, see if i could keep them to myself. I began to want people to do good, be good and not suffer. I didn't enjoy watching the trials of their lives. Then I began to wish they didn't have to suffer at all. And that feeling of - Hope, Mercy, I'm not sure what to call it, but it killed my desire to want to spread information that would hurt the ones I luv. Sometimes, in frustration, I will slip. I may discuss something in an attempt to help someone, or to make sure I am not crazy before I offer my advice. But, I really believe that's different, the malintent is certainly no longer there. I also learned to listen without giving my "advice." Sometimes folks just need to be heard, understood, AND NOT JUDGED. It took my being there to learn this feeling, but, if I am the person I strive to be, then I would hope I was able to be this type of listener for somebody.

But, at work recently, the malcontent is in the air. And while I don't disagree that some have the right to be angry, I find the daily discussions and reminiscing to be ....tiring. Useless. I feel like I am covered in some type of greasy residue that won't come off.

So, I have to let go, remove myself, and block my ears from the gossip I am facing at work. Maybe that will result in me returning to my own focus and eventually lifting a pen.

Im in Essence

2008-03-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

I sat in the hair salon, I was maybe 11 or 12. And I stared at the mountain of hair books around me. Picking over the standard compilations of angular cuts and hair art, I opted for the Essence Magazine. The magazine fell to Terry McMillans Disappearing Acts excerpt. Within seconds, I was sucked in, transfixed, at awe by this glimpse into a novel.

I always wanted to have that same effect on someone. To have someone sitting in the hairshop, or doctors or dentist, thumbing through and, sighing, stop to glance at my work. And, in moments, be sucked in to the emotion of my write, such that they remember it long after they put down the magazine.

Now, I don't know whether I accomplished that - but I have met the part of my goal I could somewhat control - I have been published in Essence. In the upcoming April 2008 Issue of Essence Magazine, in the WORD section, my poem PreDestiny graces the page. What an overwhelming, defining, exhilarating experience. My work has been published before, but not in a forum that has been a part of my life since child hood, that defines the African American experience and growth.

SO I am thrilled and honored to be in Essence. I have to thank fellow poet and wonderful writer Shai for advising me. Pick it up, check out the poem, and tell me what you think.....

BIG EAST

2008-03-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

My Hoyas lost the Big East Championship game. I was hoping for a repeat of last year. It's interesting how a simple sports game can have you cheering and cringing, excited and frustrated. The pregame hype was of a New York brotha walking the streets of the city, explaining the rawness and realness of the east and how the tournament represents it. A unique hot of corporate america grasping onto something authentic without ruining it. I enjoyed the spot.

So its Tourney time - tomorrow they will announce who will dance. Of course, the Hoyas will go without question. But I hope they show glimpses of the earlier two games in the tourney - when they let it rain and enjoy themselves.

On another note, HBCU's (or at least Howard and Hampton) are offering a social website *ala myspace) for alumni. Its amazing who you will see and who remebers you. I put up a page at www.pirateroundup.com. So, if you are Hampton alum or affiliated, check it out.

Wire Recap

2008-03-11T22:07:00.001-07:00

I spoke to a good friend from highschool today and she pointed out that I hadn't written my normal Wire write up. And I am glad that she brought it up because I had so much to say.

When the season finale - and the shows finale - ended on Sunday, I found myself at a loss for words. The reality is, I am invested, in the show and in the characters. So, I felt disappointed because a saga, an era, ended. Unreasonably early (although, how many dynamic plots can they come up with - even the Wire writers can't keep pulling this high caliber stuff together). So I watched it again, and let it soak in before I came up with what I wanted to say. But here are my thoughts of the overall season:

1. I didn't want Omar to die like he did. Let that man go out in a blaze of glory - he was the glue to the show. Kinard pops him in the head? Are you kiddin me? Kinard? I want to take a belt to that bad ass lil negro myself.

2. As I stated before, didn't Snoop and Michael pull off a "Godfatheresque" showdown. That was a classic. Yo, how my hair look Mike?

3. Do the police ever get it right? Yeah McNulty and Freeman were wrong, but you got the drugs, you got the money, and some real police work got done. Who knew the tug of war between political gain and policing was so tight. But two NATURAL PO-PO are out of the game for nothing.

4. Who I would have loved to see one more time: Stringer Bell. Stringer Bell. Stringer Bell. oh, let me move on. did I say Stringer Bell yet? ALso Bode - my favorite street thug. Wallace, the youngun Bode killed. But, all the characters I luv the most were killed off, so no hope in seeing them again.

5. Wasn't it smooth how they cameo'd in everyone - from Avon and Wee Bay to the police oficer who used to sleep all the time (working the evidence room when they went to get the cell phone). Very clever. Shardine showed back up - but I woulda like to see Avon's sister too.

6. How heartbreaking is it that they only gave Michael and the drug dealer consortium one or two scenes in the final episode. What was that about. I wanted some more street - I wanted to see the streets reaction to Snoop, wanted to see how Michael is living now, I wanted to know if he is just going to wild out, or is he on his way to Marloism.

7. Was Michael wrong for dumping Duquan? My girlfirend and I were talking about it. I think that Duquan was already using drugs and Michael knew it. I mean, why else would he ask to go stay with the geekers and Michael actually take thime there. Speakin gof which, how pathetic was Duquan. My goodness. That baby boy didn't have an ounce of confidence - he tried to hold onto a little pride. Example of Excellent writing: when Duquan reminsces on last summer when they threw piss balloons at the other boys and Michael doesn't remember it. Duquan still a child, Michael had become a traind killer. Classic.

8. Doesn't Carver owe Randy something? I mean, while he is becoming real police, shouldn't he remember the kid who paid an awful price for dealing with him (becuase he handed the case - and the kids life- over to a jerk like Hurk (pun intended))

9. Does anyone else but me think that Cedric (Acting Commander) is gross? That is one brotha I don't mind not seeing again. It's not really that he is unattractive per se, its that stiff board thing he's got going on, walking all awkward and pronouncing his words unecessarily hard. Everytime he talks I cringe. I mean, didn't you not mind when he started dating the white girl. I actually felt sorry for her. Him, I won't miss.

10. I was a big fan of the Baltimore Sun copy editor. He played the hell out of that role. I wanted him to bust the crooked reported, but, it played out just like it would have in real life.

11. The Wire staff mustlike nonemotional, blase type woman. Was it just me or was Alma (the journalist) simply Kima in Spanish? And how does Kima - who used to beat down brothas "illegally" turn into the snitch. Very interesting. Maybe she is tapping into a sensitive side now that she's "gettin her kid" for the weekend. (You know it annoyed me that she said it like that)

12. Im lovin Slim for the final shot of the season. The old man was the funniest "This sentimental ___ is costing us money" - hilarious, the Wire style. Speaking of which, how pissed off are the Greeks that they allowed Joe to be killed and now the connect is in shambles. Why didn't they put a hit on Marlo. They were way to efficient to allow Marlo to sell the conect for 10 million too.

Overall- I thought they got the ending just right. There is no satisfaction. There isn't black and white justice. Life is circular and the game stays the same the players are just different. Marlo - the rawest thug ever, ends the show suited up and making deals- just like Stringer. Chris, the silent murderer you definitely want on your side, takes all the heat, just like Wee Bay did years ago. Method Man is just another traitor gone wrong. Michael morphs into a version of Omar - he no doubt can be a street legend too. Just hope he stays on our team - despite what Bugs daddy did to him. Duquan could never be more than the junkie he was born to be. Well, he might have if he had reached out to Presbo for help when he first dropped out. But, after all the job searching, he winds up going right to the geekers anyway. The future Bubbles. The black cop that used to work with Freeman is ratting politicians out to the judge, just like McNulty. Of the four boys isn't just like life that Naman, the one who was kinda a punk (no real heart for street life), but the loudest, most bullyish, best dressed, most spoiled, is also the one who gets the help of Bunny and is going to be alright. Like my friend said today - the ones with a little something have a chance if they get help. But children like Duquan, they inevitably get lost before this game every gets started. Different players, same game. Perfect mirror to real life.

Im gonna miss it.

Creation

2008-03-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

I thought I would share what goes on in the mind of an author - or in my mind at least. During the day, I dummy down, focus on whatever "the man" (really meaning the system) needs me to do to be a productive citizen. I don't mind, I enjoy my job, I am beginning to see my career blossom. But, every now and then, in brief sessions of downtime, a characters conversation will play out in my mind, or an interaction. Like watching a movie really. I can't lay claim to most of my fiction, the characters play themselves out before me.

After the evening whirlwind of homework, piano practice/lessons (I am teaching it right now, ballet and tap, tennis, and whatever else our crew is into, then I began to put everyone to bed. Now during this process, I enjoy my little ones, but,I began to look forward to stealing minuets at my computer and fleshing out the story. It's like anticipation that forbidden long awaited bowl of ice cream. Not outright excitement, but a content satisfaciton feeling.

Now sometimes a story or, more likely, a poem will only ive me a brief moment to capture it. Tha tis, the first lines will appear to me and if I don't type them or write them down, their gone. Like today, I got locked out the house and as I waited in the back the following lines formed: Your love, so lush, dribbling, soft, plump, and overripened fruit, waiting...But, while I was waiting for the next lines to po in my head, I was distracted by a cat that perched itself in the middle of my yard and looked at me anxiously, as if I had invaded his territory. My mind switched to the cat, I started thinking about the scene from Fallen the movie, and forgot the rest of the poem.

But anyway, I feel tht calm type of thrill and I sit down and type out what is playing in my mind. Now, I don't see characters. Which means I cannot tell you , really, facial features. I know them from the inside out, how they think, how they respond. And that's where I write from. So you will get a lot less about there wardrobe from me (cause most times I can't see it anyway) and much more about whats in their heart.

For example, I have this erotic story playing around my mind. Its been lingering for the past two days, so I need to jot it down. A man and a woman are in a sandwich shop. They are friends, but he is discussing the lack of passion he feels with his wife. She laments about the overpassionate, but connected on no other level, relationship she is in. And so the story plays form there.

So, that is how most of my stories are created....

The Wire

2008-03-05T20:52:00.001-08:00

The Wire is on fire this season. Ya'll know that I only really watch television on Sunday evenings - and I have been the biggest, loudest, surest supporter of The Wire since Season 1. Let me tell you - this actor Tristan Wilds is phenomenal at expressing Michael Lee, a young boy trying to raise his brother Bug and is forced into a life on the streets to support and protect himself and his brother from child abuse.

Episode 59 is the culmination of all the seasons, if you really know you will even hear a shout out to Chardene, Lester's young luv from Season 1. But back to episode 59, the writers are phenomenal and wrap this series up in a classic fashion. But Tristan and Felicia "Snoop", playing Michael and Snoop, deliver the rawest, truest gangster scene in this episode. Stripped to the raw realness of life and interactions, this is a breathtaking scene without gadets and unnecessary flare. I can't believe this young boy nails it like he does, but he is a star in the making!

Yes We Can

2008-03-05T20:13:00.000-08:00

I love this - thought I would share it!
Yes We Can Obama Song by Will.I.Am

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Humbleness?

2008-02-29T18:30:00.000-08:00

MY son hurt my feelings last night. Deeply. He didn't do or say anything really mean, I just got struck with the realization that no matter how hard I try to be a good parent, he, they, will find fault. My coworker and I were talking about this today - if I am strong, they will prefer soft. If I am aggressive, they will prefer demure. There is no winning.

So, my son expressed his frustration with the way I give orders. See, in an attempt to seem understanding, I don't say - Son, do the dishes. Instead, I say, Sweetie, can you do the dishes please? Now - this is a rhetorical question, no is not an answer. And that is his big pet peeve - why ask him when he doesn't have a choice anyway? So, as I tried to understandingly appear to listen, he went on to give examples. Like the time I "asked" him to go to the G'Town v. Syracuse game in my absence.

Now, this is where he blew my mind and my chest kinda hurt. His logic was that I waited too late to request he wake from his nap to go to the game - it was 30 min before the game. SO when he said he couldn't go, and I couldn't find a substitute, I told him that he and a friend would have to go so the tix wouldn't be wasted. So the money wouldn't be wasted. I had just washed my daughter's hair, they were running around with conditioner and plastic caps, I couldn't disappear for 3 hours. I couldn't go.

Let me stop right there - b4 I go any further. To be so spoiled and self absorbed as to somehow become the victim in a scenario in which you are "forced" to attend a Big East rivalry game and sit in the 2nd row and watch your friends - whom you grew up with- play, blows my mind. Can someone say - time for a reality check? In no scenario is this a negative, other than in his eyes.

SO, I felt a sinking feeling in my chest as every selfish word formed and dropped from his lips, a direct stab to the balloon of humility. Thankfulness. Appreciation. I haven't really heard him like this b4. And I didn't want to crush him with my verbal response, because it was going to be mean, bad and raw, so I didn't say much. I think I am going to have to let him work his way through this phase - through how unreasonable and bragadoccia and ungrateful it is.

Here is the kicker, after his rant he asked if he could have the season finale home game tix to see Gtwon play Louisville, which are both tied for 1st place. He told his lil girlfriend of the week he would take her. You know the answer to that one was an easy "hell no."

A Raisin

2008-02-25T17:52:00.000-08:00

I turned the television to a Raisin in the Sun and watched the first several minutes. I turned the other televisions to the station, so we could properly support, although I have decided I am not going to watch. Not that it is not great, and not that I don't enjoy this particular cast immentsely. But, I don't want to replace the memory of the production of Broadway. I don't wnat to tamper with a rare a specail moment for me. So this time I will pass.

When the show on Broadway, I took my son to see it. It was the spring before he began highschool, it had been a difficult year. My husband and I were just reuniting, my son had just successfully completed homeschool, my daughters were readjusting to family. I was shaken to the core - everything I had ever believed in and relied upon had been sorely tested, destroyed, ripped apart, and used to disembody me.

My son and I stayed at the Belvedere and walked the streets of NY. We shopped, went to the Natural Science and History Museum, admired street vendors and musicians, visted the park. This was pre Broadway sterilization. MY son had the tarot cards read and we both went from skeptics to noncritics as she discussed his past in detail and gave insite into one of his future dreams. We watched the mimes put on the corniest celebration. We stomped 5th Ave, checked out the NBA store and watched a taping of an live interview with Kareem Abdul Jabar. We walked past the wax museum and, I told my son to go inside, but he passed, swearing that it was corny and I was treating him like a child. Turns out, Beyonce was in their signing autographs. Anyway, the day, the trip was perect. Then we made our way to the theatre to see the show.

Mind you, my son was still young, 14 or so, he was awed by Diddy. Wasn't it something to walk along the street along side his car, watching him on the phone in the front seat, just minutes before the show? As if that wasn't enough, we were in the second row, but on the two center aisle seats, meaning no one was in fron tof us. Without distortion, with clear view, and close enough to touch, I watched my personal idol - Phylicia Rashad light up the stage. I witnessed Sanaa's talent and beauty and sat amazed at Audra's depth. While Diddy was the focus of the young, I realized that Bill Nunn and cast were a unique and rare opportunity to see those who have shaped black theater, television and movies into reality. I was overwhelmed. I still am. I made eye contact wiht Phylicia and, I know this is very "fan"atic of me, but she saw me. I watched her for years, but I couldn't believe she saw me, smiled at me. The fact that I was clapping and smiling like I was crazy probably had a little something to do with that, but still. Here, the woman who embodied legal and family success in a way that I had never seen, and that I totally believed (now I am a lawyer with 5 kids - go figure) was right in front of me. I was enamored.

So, the television can't quite capture that performance, that night, that entire weekend for my son and I. And, while I am supporting the telecast, I am selfishly preserving my memory.

Poetic Prose

2008-02-23T21:39:00.000-08:00

The interest, freeing thing about poetry is that it is short enough to be a snapshot, a glimpse at a particular moment. And it can be limited to that moment. An emotional caption. Minutes later, the emotions may change, the perspective different. That's what I try to do - I try to capture how I felt at the time the events occurred. Was I correct, justified, right in how I felt - well that's irrelevant. It isn't about whats right and wrong, its just about captureing it and reflecting upon it.

I posted a poem about an argument I had with a group of young ladies when I was in my late teens, early twenties. I was the girlfriend who spent the most time at the house with my man. Subsequently, I spent the most time with their boyfriends. The long and short of it is that one of the boyfriends started kickin it to my homegirl. I was uncomfortable with it, I hadn't expected it. I didn't like it. I didn't think he was that much of a dog, but he proved me wrong. So, when his girlfriend found out, guess who she was upset with. Me. She said I should have told her, I should have brought an end to it. A few months later something similar happened with another guy (although he wasn't cheating with a friend of mine). But when his official girlfriend showed up at the house unannounced he requested I take the new girlfriend home, so she wouldn't be in the middle of the drama. Not taking sides, I agreed to get her out of there and drive her home. Oh boy, did that cause a stink. The next thing I knew, I was the traitor, the girl with no respect for womanhood and woman bonds.

I posted a poem about it called The Traitor. At the time, I remember feeling oblivious to their emotion. I liked them well enough, but I am not the type to get all in peoples business or go on a moral rant about what someone else should be doing. I am too busy trying to make sure my life is right, my business is in order, I am living by some code of deceny.

So the poem I wrote sounds flippant, dismissive. Although, after the immediate confrontation, and some years later, I didn't feel so blase about it. I actually felt very bad that I was perceived that way, that I chose the boys friendship over their girlfriends. But, in the moment the poem attempted to capture, I didn't feel that I owed those girls anything....

Review Angst

2008-02-23T20:28:00.000-08:00

I enjoy writing reviews - gives me a chance to read books I might pick up in the store, keep my pulse on the industry, the type of writing and the direction of our authors. I like seeing the different writing styles, noticing authors strengths, identifying most of our weakness, the things both I and other writers do. I like it. I actually love it. But I screwed up a review something awful.

The first time I read it, I actually laughed out loud (which is why I won't mention the book here). Something about the intro vibe and prologue had me expecting something deep and reflective. Instead I encountered this sing song, rhyming simplistic stuff. Sucking my teeth, I closed the book. Disgusted, I shook my head, sick of the easy out that erotica has become. "If I wanted to read Dr. Suess, I would dig through the kids book shelf" I thought.

A few days later, I tried to read it again. I skipped some of the intro stuff and found a few of the short stories to be decent reads. With noticeable flaws. Keep in mind, for some reason it was impressed upon my psyche that the book was a reflective narrative of love, not "I want to jump on your lap and screw you" stories. I read a few of the pieces to my husband, demonstrating how tired I am of the slipping standard of creativity. I closed the book again, revisiting a deeper, more literary and complicated effort. That novel, entitled Mpire was so stimulating to my fantasy/sci fi fiction starved mind that nothing, really, could compare.

But the review on the first book was due. By then I had the flu, my husband was beginning his losing battle with pnuemonia. I didn't even start from the beginning. I just finished up the book, having picked it up midway through in a crestfallen manner, and wrote a lackluster review. I gave it a horrible rating, which I thought, at the time, was still decent, considering. How do you lead a reader into what should be inciteful and inquisitive reflection and write about whip cream dreams?

But then, I received another collection of poems to read. And while the writer had a good idea - the book was really bad. I mean, I didn't want to blast that author, but there was no getting around it. The book wasn't complete, the time hadn't been taken to develop it and his reflections were a little too blah. The book club for who I provide reviews asked that I be more definitive in the review, because I attempted to write something nice while giving him a low rating. The rating is what it is and the review should justify it. I reread that collection and felt certain that I had made the write call - the book wasn't ready to be a book. I updated the review to clarify my position.

But, in the back of my mind was this nagging thing. The first book hadn't been anywhere near as poorly written as the final one that certainly deserved the lower rating ( I had actually given them the same rating). Whether I personally liked it or not, the author had done a much better overall job, at least. To appease my mind, I bumped the rating up a notch.

Last night, when the book club finalized my review, they went to the first one and asked whether I wanted to thicken it up a little. Remember, in my disgust, I had left the review a little thin. This time, I printed out the text, and reread it from cover to cover. I released the preconceived notions I had and just read it. While I still had some complaints about the beginning stuff and some of the stories, the substance was good - a few of the stories were deep. Deeper than I remembered. Actually, I felt like I was reading it for the first time. I closed it and started again. Funny, how I had missed that poem, and why didn't get the point of that story? Had I done a literary snob thing, so convinced of moral superiorty that I hadn't given the book a proper chance. No longer held to the restriction of woman enlightenment that I initially placed on it, it was an enjoyable read. SO then I compared it to other erotic pieces and trust me, it was better written than some other books I have read that received an equivalent review.

So, at 3 oclock this morning, I drafted a new review and bumped the rating one more notch. I am sure the book club will find questionable, and I can't really explain myself. I read did read this thing over and over again. And I really did believe in the first review at the time I wrote it. I think I just had to realign my expectations, readjust my reading caliber. And while I felt ambivalent about the first rating and subsequent rating bump, this time I believe I got it right. The significant change calls into question my judgment, which is why I did some reserach before admitting that I had gotten it wrong by giving it a fair bump. It would be wrong, wouldn't it, to leave the review low just to save face? I messed up, I know, but every now and then we have to have the nerve to say we made a mistake and fix it. This time, I did just that.

Reclaiming Me

2008-02-22T18:21:00.000-08:00

SO - I got into size 14 reg denims today. whewww! Now, for those of you with smaller girths, you might not understand. But I have always been "thick" size 12-14. But comfortably so, I could just pick up the 14, because it was kinda loose and I hate trying on clothes, and I would know that I was good in a 14. Pre-baby.

Now, I know its pathetic to blame the pregnancies - but oh well! Ill be pathtic. Baby 1 - 7lbs 3oz, 13 months Baby 2 9lbs 12 oz, 18 months later Baby 3 - 7lbs 2ozs AND Baby 4 8lbs 10 oz. And did I exercise immediately after having anyof them. Nope. Well to be fair, the first baby doesnt really change your body anyone - it was the last three that did it. And I was too tired, overwhelmed, suffering postpartum, to even think about exercise. Not when the twins woke up every night and played from 1-4 am. Which was, for me, ice cream time. Trying to stay fit was the last thing on my mind, I was trying to stay awake and be a good mommy.

But then, 18 months ago, I reentered the workforce. And realized I enjoy being a woman. I like feeling good, sexy, cute, alluring - if I want to. So the struggle to love myself and treat myself a little better began.

I havent been going full out with exercise. And I still eat a little too much. But I am walking and Metroing it - taking the stairs whenever I can. Cooking healthy, stocking up on veggies and healthy snacks (trying to maintain healthy kids too). And while I would love to lose the weight it hasnt been my main focus.

But the last month I have been feeling frumpy. Like my clothes are swallowing me. My best friends mother asked what size I wore - a 10 or 12? she estimated. I laughed out right - "Try a 16 W" I replied. But she looked me up and down and her face let me know that she thought I was crazy. I remember when I went shopping for the first time after the twins. I had never been in the Womens section - I didnt even know thats what the W meant. "What is this, a 16 Wide?" I asked my girlfriend. She scoffed, "You can call yourself Wide if you want to, the rest of us call it Womens size."

Yes, I was that clueless. For some reason, it had never occurred to me to go past a 14 Reg. I just fell into a depression, convinced I no longer fit any clothes any where. Post partum is a trip, let me tell you.

So anyway, I went to the store today for supplies and found myself in the clothing section. True to form, I didnt feel like trying the clothes on, so i bought the 14R jeans, prepared to throw them in the back of the closet in defeat when they didnt fit. I gave them a try. a perfect fit. I am slowly reclaiming my body!!!

Writer's Panic

2008-02-21T20:52:00.001-08:00

HOw does a writer save her work - from herself. That seems to be the question tonight. Everything I read needs substantial changes, monumental editing. I have tweaked whole paragraphs down to five word sentence only to become frustrated and erase the whole thing. Only to find that I liked it best before I started fooling with it in the first place.

How does an author back away and let go? The word is definite. Forever recorded. MY meaning so different from how someone read it. I have to make it read the way I intended, the way I had in mind. I have to keep tweaking, editing, searching the thesaurus, pluggin in different ideas until exhaustion sets in. Im beoming obsessive, which means I need to either take a match to the entire thing or walk away.

Two years ago I wrote a Young adult fiction character. The story was ingenius, or so I thought. When I began shipping it to puiblsiher I received a high amount of interest from mainstream publishers (insert: white) and completely lack of enthusiasm from black folks. Never mind, it didn't phase me, I knew the book was good. I shopped it - got terrific response (in hindsight), but it needed editing , finalizing, something a little more. Well, someone has asked me for the manuscript again. A possible agent. I need it shopped to scholastic or someother major. In my excitement I began reading, and my doubt turned every page into a catastrophy. Where was my beautiful story? Before me was just a group of boring garbled words. Thus began my breakdown.

I am signing off and going to bed. That may be the only way to preserve what is left of my sanity. Then I will try my hardest to return all the peices to the story that I slashed away in a true moment of writer's panic.

In Treatment

2008-02-20T18:34:00.000-08:00

Have you seen In Treatment on HBO? Not the entire week, of course, because I don't have time to watch that much television. So, I had to narrow it down and I selected....Tuesday night. Ha. If you know the show, then you know why I smirk. I chose Blair Underwood night.

I am amazed by Blair Underwood. Always have been. Watched him faithfully on LA Law, watched him when he went through his different phases. But, the scary thing is how well he plays the roles of psychopaths. He has this very personable handsome thing going on and then, with a mere blink or direct look, he seems so distant and removed. Unattached. It is actually scary. That is why Just Cause was so terrifying. That is also why watching him on Sex in the City was electrifying. Although my instinct didn't want him with Miranda, although she was the only one, out of all of them, that I could tolerate him being with, I wanted to believe in his love. In the great black man - successful and caring. Then, at the end, when Steve saw him in an apartment with two woman, there was an odd detachment about him. Yeah, he recovered from his "broken heart," but in that moment, he didn't seem cpable of a broken heart, a love, a relationship at all.

The same for In Treatment. I don't want to give it away, but this show is good yall. He plays a mental game with the audience for a half an hour, it is an emotional tug of war. He is soooooo talented. Check the show out on Tuesday nights and tell me what you think....

Exhaustion - Flu - WTF

2008-02-19T20:46:00.000-08:00

This weekends was busy - running behind my crew, cooking and cleaning, doing hair and moving furniture, washing dishes and vacuuming. On and on it went. This morning my stomach hurt a little, but I sucked it up, got the family dressed and loaded into the car. It was down hill from there. On the way to their school I was praying I wouldn' throw up. Then my throat began hurting. So much so that I couldn't swallow. My husband still dropped me off at the Metro (no sympathy there). As I trudged toward the train my steps became slower and slower, my limbs feeling heavier and heavier. I couldn't lift the paper on the train, my arm muscles ached, so I sat there slumped over, somewhere between sleep and coma.

I walked slowly to my building - a 10 minute trek became a 20 minute tortutre path. By the time I got to work my thighs were burning, my hips ached, it hurt to stand and to sit. WTF? Besides my sore throat, I was also freezing. My limbs were ice cold. Some tea, 4 MOtrin and a few prayers later, I was slouched against my desk - asleep -trying to read two reports.

That was my day. The medicine finally kicked in. So did the Vitamin C tablets and the Green Tea. I am tired of being sick. I am tired of being tired. I felt good enough to make it home and get my family together for the next day. Another 4 Motrin and I sit at the computer typing this. I refuse to use anymore leave, so tomorrow may be more of the same....But I need a Vacation!

Hillary Desperate?

2008-02-19T20:37:00.000-08:00

This is not a political site, so I promise not too many more of these Obama posts. BUT, what the hell are the Clinton's thinking? They have lost more composure and class trying to "out"Obama than they did during the Monica Lewisky nightmare. I am actually disappointed in Hillary - I get it, this was her time. No question, if Obama hadn't stepped into this thing she would have nailed it. Noone is arguing her qualifications or even her ability to hit the ground running. But, I thought she was above finger pointing and squabbling. I mean this is the woman whose husband's affair was splashed across the world, and she stiffened her chin and took it like a champ.

Instead of that type of gumption, or some type of clever political manuevering - like planning for the next election and simply using this one to broaden her base or gearing up for a VP/Pres ticket - she is making crass statements and cheap indictments. Her latest smear on Obama was to hand out You Tube copies of his latest speech and compare them to this homeboy up in Massachusetts speech. OK - does anyone not see the basic flaw here? IF THEY CAMPAIGNED TOGETHER, AND ARE FRIENDS, THEN THEY WILL JOIN FORCES TO REFUTE THIS CHARGE. What is Hillary thinking? This might have worked if she were contradicting Obama or had proof he stole info from an adversary. But a cocampaigner? And what was the response - "I am flattered he used some of my speech, just like I used Abraham Lincoln, JFK , and MLK." Poorly underestimated, Hllary. And you have managed to piss off folks like me who, in any other circumstance (or another election) might have had your back.

I don't expect the Clinton's to pack it up and give up, never. That's why I like them. But Obama is too highly favored - save the slander for the Repulbican's, Hillary. Puleeze....

Dropped The Ball

2008-02-17T15:08:00.001-08:00

Reflecting and realizing life is too short. Relationships must be cherished, not loosely discarded. Bonds must be strenghtened. I have dropped the ball on many loves in my life. I don't keep in touch with my family like I should, don't let them know how often I think about them. How much I miss them. Same with my girlfriends. My male friends. The silent loves of my life.

I discovered, about a year and a half ago, when I began posting, that I have this space inside of me in which all true emotions go. Kind of tlike a dark hole, or a vat. I feel for people, but never tell them. I want to help, but never say anything. I just seal my emotion inside that inner chamber and keep on rolling. On some level, I think I am afraid of emotion. So much happened in my child hood that I developed some type of resistant thing to actually touching my own emotion. I remember my son told me a few years agothat whenever he tried to hug me I would move back and when he would try to kiss me I would scrunch up my face. He said I didn't used to do it, only when he got older. I thought he was joking - adamantly denied it, so he demonstrated it right there on the spot. He puckered up and spread his arms and, reflexively, without even realizing it, I took three steps back, wrapped my arms around my body and scrunched up my face.

But for kids, we change. So I have worked that out. All my kids can squeeze, kiss, hug me now and I force my self to stand still and appear natural. BUt the question is, why do I have to force myself to do that? Why is that an overt action on my part. Similarly, I can go for weeks without thinking about my parents at all. Isn't that crazy? One of my best friends had surgery last week. It was the same type of surgery my father had over a year ago. I remember them telling me he needed surgery. I took in the information - then .....blank. Never thought of it again, until sitting in the hospital visiting my girlfirend. Then, the thought of my father slapped me upside the head. Oh shixxx, my father had this surgery! I wonder how it went? How is he doing? Did he have any problems healing? I probably need to call his wife. That's right, I meant to thank her for the gifts she sent the babies. Now when did she send them....last year? Have I really gone an entire year without sending her a thank you note? On and on and on, as if I had suddenly opened a vein and the memories and thoughts were gushing and gurgling through.

What causes that? And what are the ramifications? There are people who I keep in my normal emotional space, my kids, husband, friends, so on...But why does it taking puting pen to pad to remember some people, or some things, or events, or my childhood. I don't have the thousands of dollars necessary for a shrink to tell me, so , for now, I will just keep writing and posting...

My Hoyas

2008-02-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

My Hoyas lost to Syracuse yesterday and I had to bite my pillow to keep from screaming. Damn!! I was so upset. I want Georgetown to stay number one, not tie up with Louisville and definitely not lose to the pompous arrogant Orange. Now, this is a decade long thing for me. I grew up in Rochester, expecting to cheer for the Orange. You know how that goes - its like a longtime DC native cheering for the Cowboys. The Orange represented everything I wanted to escape from, and the Hoyas, with their black coach and big man dynasty was like looking into the future.

Every Hoya Orange game has been a must watch. I had tickets to the home game a few weeks back but had some type of mental lapse and miscalculated the days. In hindsight, I might have done it subconciously, cuz, I didn't want to be in the arena screaming a the top of my lungs, or balled up in a knot refusing to watch the crucial seconds of the game in case of defeat. Better to do that at home. Which is what I did yetserday. And the Orange came on fire. It was actually something to behold. Impressive, if I didn't hate them. Well, I can't completely hate them anymore, my son's teammate is going there in the fall. So, I will have to cheer for their football team next year through clenched teeth - cuz I am wishing him well. But basketball, well, they will always be my number on basketball nemsis - my Hoyas can't go down like this to them again!

I Voted - Obama

2008-02-12T18:35:00.000-08:00

I voted for Obama. I guess that isn't a shock to most folks, giving my vitals. Black woman. Black person. But, trust me, I had no intention on voting for Obama. None. I have argued with many strangers, shielded my fellow Hillary supporters from criticism, and been attacked in every way. My best friends mother stopped short of going off on me on Sunday for supporting the Clintons, by email I have been called a "sell out," a symbol of what's wrong with "high falutin" blacks (imagine that- me, high falutin), proof that black folks are going to hell. It's been rough ya'll. And I was never anti Obama. I just supported Hillary. I don't have to like her (although I don't dislike her). I don't give a damn if she seems cold. I want someone who already has the mechanism in place to affect change. Of course Hillary does. And I love how she maintained her own platform as the first lady. And I love that she is a Senator. And I think that, without Obama, this was her time. And she is from Arkansas - where my people are from for generations ( I am related to the entire town of Kato, Ark) And I adore Bill. So, how could I not vote for her.

Keep in mind, all of that has nothing to do with Obama. He wasn't in my precalculations. His name is a bit distracting after the whole Osama thing, but, besides that, I don't have anything bad to say about him. He is handsome, charismatic. Beautiful family. Married a sista. Good for him. But, I had decided on Hillary 2 years ago.

So, what happened you may ask? Well, let me say that I love black folks. I guess thats really where it starts. I understood my folks and the emotional component to voting for Obama, I just made up my mind. And I wasn't even that offended as folks went off on me. I understood their point of view. I was still voting for Hillary. But, this morning I went to the poll. In Prince Georges County (majority black folks) - at Kingsford Elementary in Mithcellville Md. It is why I moved here in the first place. Say what you want, but going to a community event in Mitchellville is something of a blessing. You just have never seen so many good looking black folks, trying to positively do their thing, attain that dream, etc... I have been here 10 years now and still, I love days like today.

So, I am at the polling place with my beautiful black kinfolk. And mothers were standing in line beaming with their children. Handsome brothers are waiting patiently, grinning. People were nodding at each other, winking. Folks were excited. You could feel it. As voters exited past the line they were grinning, a couple were teary eyes, one woman remarked - "that felt so good."
Then Mr. Handsome walked in. Older gentleman, late 50's. Dress coat, scarf, hat, suit pants. "This the end of the line?" He asked pointing. Someone nodded. He walked straight ahead, patting other black men on the back, smiling at the sistahs. He clapped his hands together. "This is a day of days, people. A day of days."

That did it. In that instant, everything fell away for me. I felt it, the movement that is Obama, the emotion that he represents, the pride that he projects. I haven't had that feelin since....1991 when I first heard Farrakhan preach. This is different than Al or Jesse - this is an unlikely leader an unsung hero. And he is someone I would love to see succeed, I would love to give him a chance.

There is a picture of Obama leaning against his wife, she is hugging him from behind, his eyes are closed as the crowd around him cheers. His wife is making an odd face, as if she is unsure. But there is nothing unsure about him. In that moment he seemed to believe in love, in faith, in people, in goodness. I had never seen a black man allow himself to appear in love, in life, humble, mortal, flawed. Yet, there he stood, nothing more than a man, enjoying the moment, cherishing the second. And that picture came to mind while I stared at the poll. I looked at Hillary's name. I reached for the touch screen. And I couldn't do it. I thought about the black man that closed his eyes and allowed his wifes love to cover him in front of a nation, allowed an audience to see where his strength and his beliefs lie without apology, and suddenly my reasons for supporting Hillary just weren't enough. In any normal election on any normal day against any normal candidate they would have been. But not today, not against Obama. They just weren't enough. He means more. For what he has already done, he deserves more. And I wouldn't, under any circumstances, have to admit to myself or generations to come that I had an opportunity to make my mark to support his brotha, and didn't take it.

I stared at the screen and then I pressed the box for Obama. And I deeply exhaled. And I thanked God for the opportunity to vote. And for overwhelming me at that moment with that sense to come to that conclusion. And I thanked God for the beautiful black man who stepped into the hallway and clapped his hands, snapping me back into reality. He was right- today was a day of days.

Life updates

2008-02-12T18:18:00.000-08:00

I have been sick. Very sick. Can barely move, so tired I want to sleep but can't get my eyes closed, out of breath climbing the stairs, why oh why won't these kids let me rest - sick. My husband had pneumonia, but he refused to go to a doctor. His reason " they will just give me antibiotics." sigh. Alright, to be fair, he didn't know he had pneumonia, just kept coughing up a lung and damn near passing out with any physical activity. So finally, on his birthday, he admitted that he couldn't breathe. A visit to ER led to 2 days hospitalization. In the meantime, flu overtook me, and my kids had temperatures up to 104 (rectal). So, after getting the hubby out of the hospital and everyones fevers down, I became exhausted. Literally. But, it wasn't over. Yesterday my oldest girl started coughing up mucas, just like her daddy. Another run to the ER - where she vomited all over the lobby. The ER didn't have a pediatrics on staff and wanted us to sit in the lobby and wait, in the wet sticky clothes. When I complained, they gave me a robe to put on her, while she waited in the lobby. Huh? So, back home we came until I could squeeze into a doctors appt - they were booked. So I loaded up the entire family. Might as well get it out of the way in one shot. Now we are all filled with antibiotics - and everyone is doing better, but I am soooooooo tired.

In other news, my son got a full athletic scholarship to play football for Ohio University. Yeah! A smaller school thna we were hoping for, initially, but after dealing with these schools and the mounds of bullshit they shovel, Ohio was a welcome relief. Up front and devoted. A helluva head coach. Genuine interest in our son. The opportunity is there for the taking, which is a rare opportunity. So I am happy and relieved. And thankful.

Finally got the contract for my first novel - Discovering Love. It is a passionate fiction novel about a wife who reunites with an intimate love. Let me give it a better summary than that - I have to get used to selling it, right? OK - Trina and James are bored with marriage, disappointed by life. James philandering has been his band aid, but has led to a costly legal battle that may cost his career and his marriage. If his wife ever finds out. While juggling his affairs, his career and litigation he begins to notice that Trina is an absentee wife. Trina has discovered love in an unlikely place. She doesn't want to cheat, she struggles with the idea of herself and her life, but passion, lust and love have overtaken her. While James and Trina try to tap dance around each other, life unravels at the seems, exposing their flaw and fears, shattering both their hearts.

OK - sounds a little soap operish. But it isn't. It's a very clean honest read, I am proud of it. The sex scenes are a little steamy - alrite, a few are downright erotic, but it definitely adds to the book, it is not a collection of sex with a corny plot tying it together. So anyway, I got the contract - so this book is a go! I am excited. I will post an excerpt soon (once I get permission from the publisher (smile))

Writer's Block and Obama

2008-01-27T22:37:00.000-08:00

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...

Martin Luther King Day

2008-01-21T22:40:00.000-08:00

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...

Land of the Broken Hearted

2008-01-17T17:47:00.000-08:00

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.

Helping or Hurting

2008-01-17T16:44:00.000-08:00

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...

Mama - 4 Children

2008-01-13T21:51:00.000-08:00

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...

Power of Redemption

2008-01-13T21:41:00.000-08:00

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....

Rough Day

2008-01-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

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....

New Anthology

2008-01-07T22:01:00.001-08:00

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:

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....

End Excerpt.

Happy New Year

2008-01-07T21:41:00.000-08:00

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...

4 no no's

2007-12-23T22:06:00.000-08:00

I have been writing reviews for a long while now. For the past few months for Rawsistaz reviewers. I really enjoy it - and I am getting to read some fantastic pieces. Some. I noticed when I first began reviewing two years ago, some stuff is just.....not good. And, what do you say? I mean, it is subjective, who am I to tell someone that their work isn't good because it doesn't appeal to me. But, well, it's more than just not appealing to me. Some stuff is actually....bad. Poorly written (BTW-ignore my typos while I criticize, please). Not well thought out. Definitely not realistic. The problem with self publishing is that some folks just shouldn't write novels. Self publishing gives an open forum to everyone, which was necessary because the publishing industry was restrictively biased. But, some of the "Black literature" that I have read is so bad that I can't help but cringe.

Instead of outing folks in what is not their best product, I comment in a positive light. But these are a few pet peeves that I have noticed and I think listing them here will at least make me feel a little better, like screaming into a pillow in the back of a closet!

1. THERE IS NEVER A SMOKING GUN. This is a basic principle I learned in law school, I would just like to share it with my fellow authors. The person who cheats doesn't leave a list of their cheating discretion on the dining room table. The real babie's daddy doesn't get a blood test and then announce the results to complete strangers. The stalker doesn't leave a diary full of his tricks. Why is this necessary to point out? To date over 3/4 of the books I review build up great suspense. Then in one chapter the entire story is discovered and fixed, because the perpetrator tells on themselves. It is disappointing and shatters the mystique of the story.

2. NO MORE FRIENDS TURNED INSPECTOR GADGET. The first point leads to this second one. I don't want to read 1 more book where the best friend dons a weave/wig, ala Samantha from Sex and the City, seduces a stranger, tape records him confessing the entire truth, and then gets home just in time to fix dinner for her man. Do I really need to expound on this point? Doesn't it just seem wrong, highly unlikely, and a book turner off-er(made up word)? Then stop doing this in the novels!

3. A CREATIVE BEGINNING. Now this point is one in which I am hesitant to raise. The last ten novels, no exaggeration, started off the EXACT SAME WAY. Good hard working sistah, dating gold toothed, jheri curl having, no job working "Tyrone" type. He gets caught cheating with (fill in the blank here- gay lover, white woman, another woman, his hand, etc...)Then our heroine begins her story. Now, I get why this is the starting point. But since so many people seem to start here, it is advisable to find a different intro. When readers are browsing in the bookstore - if they are anything like me, and unfortunately for them many are- they will read the first two pages and shut the book. I can spend two hours in the bookstore and walk away empty handed by performing the "no good black men in the first chapter" test on any given day.

4. END THE BOOK. Dayum! Do I really need to tell someone that? I have no idea who started this "Ima set the reader up to buy a sequel" trend, but trust me, it doesn't work. The only thing it does is buy you a place on my "never buy one of their books again" authors list. Listen, if JK Rowling can finish (as in completely complete) a biblical sized book on an annual basis and create enough curiosity to bring back millions of readers, then why on earth can't a simple book about Black love and relationship do the same? If you want to bring me back, give me closure. Give me deeper characters with whom I can grow, whose maturity is something I want to experience. DO NOT build up a whole "who is she pregnant by plot," which by its very nature is pathetic anyway, and then end the book. Do you really think I am going to wait a year to find out? Do you really think I care that much? Do you really think you have somehow lured me in? Guess what, when I have recognized ghetto madness and stick with the book anyway, the least you can give me is an answer. Some finality. Something instead of the frustrating realization that the novel was a complete waste of my time.

5. MOST BEAUTIFULLEST. This point I am a little less adamant about. This is just a "hmmm?" moment. Why does every woman and every man have to be perfect in their presentation. The woman has the perfect body, not an inch out of place, not an extra pound anywhere to be found. Thong ready and stiletto perfect. Every man over 6 feet, picture perfect fine, six pack for days, a sexual stud. Really? Why? Why wouldn't some of these characters represent the many shades and sizes of us. I don't get it. Black woman who are overweight are making our heroines the perfect woman we have never been nor do we know. Black woman the color of deep chocolate are writing heroines that are no darker than Beyonce. I want to spit up everytime I see another "caramel skinned/green/grey eye character." Now, it is fiction. Therefore, the characters shouldn't look like the author. I just don't understand why I have read so many books by so many different sized woman of color with different complexions and hair lengths/textures, yet the main character is always the same. I guess we don't really believe that we are all that beautiful in our multiplicity, as evidenced by how we portray us, huh? We are perpetuating the "brown paper bag test" and the perfect body stigma more than any other culture ever forced it on us...

Wheeeeew. Thank you for letting me vent. Now, I will reel my emotions back in and attempt to offer my best opinion possible. And I will try not to slam down/burn/tear/destroy any more compilations of paper that lead me in an endless chase, like a puppy nipping at her tail...

I Am Legend

2007-12-17T19:24:00.000-08:00

Will Smith just blew me away. Literally. He is on the next level of acting, of presenting...I can't explain it. I loved I Am Legend. First off, I am a sci fi head, so this type of movie is right up my alley. Secondly, it is based on a premise that is plausible. A scientist cures cancer, but the cure causes a mutated virus. Of course. Killing off 99% of the population. Of the 1% left alive, only 1% is immune, the rest become this rabid, cannibalized version of humans, feeding off of the immune and everything else. Will is trying to find a cure, constructing for himself a daily routine to keep his sanity (he hasn't seen a another normal human in years) and remain hidden from the mutants who overtake the city at night.

The movie drew me in. The complete normalness of his day against the stark emptiness of Manhattan was stunning. Few actors can carry a movie without much dialogue. I think it is narrowed down to Jodie Foster and Tom Hanks to be exact. But Will did it. In rare, touching form. I haven't been this consumed by a flick and all the questions it raises, since the original Matrix, which was initially offered to Will (instead of Keanu) and he turned it down to do that Western Flick (i can't think of the name)- proof that he is not perfect. Unlike that body of his which filled the screen nicely, during a workout/pull up scene for a beautiful full minute.

But anyway, I applaud him for this film. Sally Richardson plays his wife, his beautiful daughter Willow plays, uh, his daughter. But the film is so good you can even forgive the blatant nepotism.

I heard people complaining that they wanted a little more action although everyone is unanimous that Will blew it away with his acting. But I loved the simplicity of the scenes, underscored by the pure terror of trying to survive day in and day out. I am going to buy the book immediately.

Succesful Webcast...

2007-12-13T19:17:00.000-08:00

THank you so much for tuning in. My first webcast was successful and, I have to tell you, I feel relieved. It was like the debutante ball, the first time my voice has been associated with my writing on a national scale. I have to thank Pam Osbey and Osbey Books, Inc. for this phenomenal experience. I think the show went very well, Pam asked wonderful questions and kept the energy of the show alive.

Feel free to click on the link below to hear the podcast, which will be available for the next two weeks....
LITERARY PIZZAZZ

Tune in at http://www.blogtalkradio.com/literarypizzazz or click link above...

Tidbits - December

2007-12-11T18:53:00.000-08:00

Christmas is approaching and, like every year, I reminisce on the ones I have loved and lost. I have no idea why Christmas always makes me feel melancholy, but I have the same reaction every year.

Recently, an old friend returned to my world. I knew him before I even knew myself. Not that I know myself actually, but I have a little more of a clue than I had then. We were kids together, now adults together. Isn't it odd how life works, how someone from your childhood could still be such an important part of your life. It's given me reason to reflect and think about the many years I have known him and how much life has changed for both of us...

We recently went to West Point to take my son a football visit. A once in a life time experience. But military academy means making that commitment. It's a rare opportunity, but its coupled with the inherent dangers of war. The reality of war. And while I have had a family member fight, serve, participate in every war back to the Civil War (although some of them weren't allowed a weapon/ or to participate in combat)its a different thing to sign up your child. I am unsure how my son perceived it, I have to see what he decides. He also has offers from Northwestern, Louisville and Navy so far, so we'll see how it goes.

Finally got a publishing deal for two novels - Life and Discovering Love. Now I just need to have them professionally edited before submission. At least 1 grand each manuscript. As usual, one step down, a million more to go...But, no complaints.

Tune In December 13 at 8pm

2007-12-09T21:54:00.000-08:00

Join Aisha at 8pm on December 13, 2007 as she discusses

FIRST and ONLY LOVE
and other writing projects and poems on

LITERARY PIZZAZZ

Tune in at http://www.blogtalkradio.com/literarypizzazz or click link above...

Thanksgiving- cellphones

2007-11-22T15:26:00.000-08:00

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I really really wish you all the blessings, happiness and peace that God bestows upon you. Each of you have encouraged and believed in me in so many different ways and I am praying that his year I can give back that type of unconditional support and inspiration.

I have to say - this was my best meal ever! I finally got organized to cook what I wanted, how I wanted with a neat and clean kitchen to boot (without passing out afterward). Our friend Nelson spent today with us, he, my husband an done of my sons both fell asleep watching tv immediately after the meal - so ya'll know that food was good.

Only bad thing - i burned my hand. It was pretty bad, but I WAS NOT going to the hospital talkin about I burned my hand trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner. PLease. I had just finished preparing the peach cobbler and was moving it to the stove. MY husband said something, I responded and the thick, boiling hot, syrup peach mix spilled onto my hand. I refused to drop it, I had just spent twenty minutes preparing that thing. SO I screamed but neatly placed it in the oven and spent the rest of the day with burn ointment and bandages over my semi blistering hand (gross-i know). Just paying my cooking dues!

So, last night I got a shock. I was cooking and thinking about my cell phone bill and how it is finally manageable. At the SAME INSTANT, my husband dropped the latest Sprint bill in my lap. 1,834.00. Yep. You saw right. 1,834.00. Why? Because my son couldn't get clear reception in his bedroom and, unwilling to stand in one spot in the garage, like I have been doing, he decided to switch his phone to ROAM. So, for the past month, we had incurred roaming charges for every moment that boy has been home. I was fit to be tied. But it was the night before Thanksgiving, so I just decided its something I will have to deal with in the future....

Essence Magazine

2007-11-15T22:39:00.000-08:00

I just found out - my poem Pre Destiny will be published in Essence Magazine. Can you believe that? Now, I don't want to get too emotional, I am normally pretty good at masking that. But...do you know what a milestone Essence magazine is for me?

When I was about 10, I read Terry McMillan's Discovering Acts. I remember it because I was, and am, a voracious reader and I had never read anything so real before. Toni and Alice felt so abstract in their writing (to my young mind) but Terry was real life. And with that I sat down and put pen to paper. I must've wrote twenty articles for Essence. But I had no idea how to get the article to them and no idea how to even ask for help. So they just faded away. And when teenage angst sank in, along with depression, I gave up hope of every realizing that dream. I was to busy tryin to survive.

And now it has happened. Not an article, or a book excerpt, like I had planned, but still. Something of mine will be in Essence. Whew...I have come along way ya'll. And I am still just getting started!! Which is both tiring and thrilling at the same time. So stay tuned for updates on the Essence issue...

Georgetown

2007-11-15T22:24:00.000-08:00

So, I went to the Gtown game tonight. And I had a good time. We are friends with one of the Hoya freshmen and his family. It is something to watch him play at this level, it is mindblowing that he, or any other young man, can make it to this level. Playing for JT III? I am proud of him. He makes it look easy, but I know this journey couldn't have been all roses. No ones is, after you scratch past the surface. I hope his dreams come true and when he looks back he can feel contentment, no regret. What more could you wish for for someone?

I am proud of my son. I am proud of his circle of friends. I am thankful to God for placing us in Maryland during this time period, where my son could find other black young men with goals and focus, who didn't have to waste energy on proving their blackness through imitation thuggery, thereby being unecessarily distracted from their gifts, callings and abilities. It is purely divine intervention.

(I am only posting this because it is already on facebook - mine is in center, blue shirt, sunglasses and vest)

(mine in the loud red shirt(smile))

So as I sat at the Verizon center tonite, with my son and his friend, watching freshman Hoya accomplish the near impossible, discussing their futures which, for me and my friends was definitely impossible, I simply felt thankful. So humbly thankful...

updates

2007-10-23T19:01:00.000-07:00

It has been forever since I posted. I am sorry for the delay. so much has been happening, while many things are staying the same. I have experienced a tremendous amount of change in my personal life and am thankful-it has been all good, even the bad has been good.

On the writing frontier this has been a week of weeks. I will be a guest columnist in Noire magazine. Also, I am the winner of the No Candles Infinty contest by Osbey Books Inc.- I submitted the story of how I fell in love. I will be featured on the webcasttop discuss this and other works, I will keep you posted on updates. ALso I am now a RAWSISTAZ reviewer and am writing reviews for the newest releases.

I haven't been posting as much because I am trying to complete my third novel (but the first to be published by a publishing company) which has a deadline for November 2007. The more I write, the more the story changes and develops into something completed different than I anticipated, taking away from my time to write other things. The story is intringuing me, the characters keep changing from my original plan - so bear with me, I will get back to regular posting soon!!

Media Happenings

2007-09-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

So - Michael Baisden is on a roll. He is experiencing that high that one gets after a planned event goes well, and you just want to keep hosting functions. I am impressed with what he did for Jena 6, it is wonderful to see a real grass roots movement, not spearheaded by the usuals whose issues I don't quite agree with but feel obligated to support. It feels so stale, following behind the regulars. So I felt encouraged that Michael was able to bring together so many people to at least bring attention to the issue, no matter what site one is on.

Well, today, he took on a new issue: Bill O'Reilly. Apparently Bill met Al Sharpton for lunch at Sylvia's, the soul food restaurant in Harlem. Bill made comments to the effect that "black people are beginning to think for themselves, people were sitting quietly, ordering, and noone was yelling mother f..." In other words, he was impressed that he didn't witness black folks acting a fool in the restaurant. Kindof an inverted compliment? So anyway, Michael asked his listeners to call Fox an invite Bill O'Reilly to come onto the Michael Baisden show. hilarious. At last listen, the Fox operators were answering the phone and simply hanging up. So, I am going to tune in to hear the outcome.

Also, I watched the Little Rock 9 HBO show tonight. SOOOOOOOO depressing. It is so easy to forget life outside of the Beltway, how the rest of the world lives. They featured a sophomore mother of two. Another little girl, no kids and honor student, trying hard, but her living conditions were: sad. I spent every summer of my preteen life in Little Rock, the stories and the living only showed one side, of course, but it was real. real. real.

Did anyone see the BET hip hop vs. america show. I can't get over my anti BET sentiment enough to watch it (unless, of course, its Lil Kim: Countdown to Lockdown), but if you saw it, let me know your thoughts....

Aretha?

2007-09-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

Is Aretha Franklin serious. Now, I am hoping that gossip radio misquoted her, but apparently she was not pleased with the suggestion that Jennifer Hudson play her in an upcoming film of her life. Who does she want to represent her? Halle Berry. Seriously.

Now if that is tru, it is proof that Michael Jackson is not the only one slightly removed from reality. Why would Aretha be offended at the thought of a thick sister, a chocolate woman playing her and, instead want Halle. I am not really a Jennifer Hudson fan, but I understand why folks would think of her. Do you think of Aretha when you see Halle. Now, lets be fair, I didn't see Denzel and Malcolm until the movie. ANd her rocked it. I didn't see Lynn Whitfield as Josephine. But she rocked it.

I guess, on some level, we have all noticed that Aretha has a bit of a swollen ego. I have noticed her treat people very poorly. She takes diva to another level. And noone has told her that she is the size of a mini 18 wheeler. But does she really see herself as Halle. And if so, what soes that say about her idead of self beauty, of self acceptance, of self love. Maybe I am reaching but....the radio host made a great analogy - asking Halle to play Aretha is like aksing Eminiem to play Christopher Wallace (Biggie). It just don't work.

And, my big entertainment snafu of the week. Was 50 cent serious when he challenged Kanye. I get the concept. He is a real rapper, Kanye - not so much. So yes, hip hop purists will support him over Kanye. But how many hip hop purists are there really. And who it the buying market. White teens. KAny is a safer bet for a parent, a well respected musician, easy music. A rapper - well, I think one of his lyrics in "Wait Till I Get My Money Right" answeres that. Something about "using collagen, ....have you apologen." Uh, no! But 50 - what are thinking.

So, will this be another retired but back JayZ move. And can we ever say what we mean and mean what we say. I don't want to 50 go though, not because I am a huge fan, or a fan at all, but because without him we might be subjected to Ja Rules singing again...

New Cover

2007-09-16T22:34:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share the latest cover by phenomenal artist Rachel Lindley. She did the covers for three of the four poetry books (I have to see if she can convert the fourth one). But check out this cover "remix" - her creations!!

I luv it:

Updates, again

2007-09-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

Thank you for all the birthday wishes- it meant so much to receive so much input and feedback. I had no idea so many people read this blog!!! I am very humbled by it, actually. I might have to start being a little more responsible with what I am putting out there, huh.

1. So, latest updates. Although this blog is under one of my pseudonyms, and I try not to mix my writing by only announcing my progress on works by a.Kai, versus my other names and psuedos, I have to announce that True Vol. 2 is finally published. I am thrilled. I submitted a short story about one of God's miracles in my life and it is the second story in the compilation (p. 27 to be exact), which was compiled and edited by Irene Dunlap, coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Soul. So, please ask for it in bookstores.

2. Back to a.Kai stuff - I submitted 5 poems to the latest poetry anthology to be release by Poetic Press, an imprint of XPress Yourself Publishing. All five were accepted - yeah!!! THe anthology is due out September 24. Please request it at bookstores, it should be in all of the local stores, but just in case, your requests mean alot.<

3. Last night I went to Karibu to ask for another anthology in which I one of my stories is included (the name of which I cannot release in the same post as True - it would be kinda tacky). So anyway, as I was standing there I over heard two black woman discussing books. While I knew that street lit had taken over, I wasn't prepared for this discussion. They pointed out books from a number of street lit publishers (skipping over Coldest Winter ever, I might add - a street lit classic, genre creating masterpiece). Then, one happened to spot a book by Connie Briscoe. The Connie Briscoe. "Uhmph, her stuff just doesn't cut it for me. She is too dry" Huh? They went on to dis every Black literature foundation writer as they touted the greatness of titles such as "Straight up Gold Digga" and "My woman, his wife."

Now, I don't want to be a literary snob, but what is happening, exactly? After they left, the few sistas in the store and I started having a heart to heart about our people and the street lit crave. I didn't realize that for some it is the "only" acceptable interesting reading material. I am trying not to judge, I mean, ....The whole experience left me sad and more worried about our folks.

3. My church opened its doors to a new gorgeous facility today. And while some may have encountered parking problems and other nightmares, which isn't that unusual, I had a great day. But while I was there this sista in front of me had a child who made some noise a few times. I am a mom, so I really wasn't paying much attention, I just noticed baby boy crying loudly a couple of times. BUT, everytime he cried the "holy" women sitting in front of her shot her the nastiest "take that child outta here" looks. What is with people? Obviously, she had pressed to be there, it isn't easy fighting to get to church with a child in the 12-18 month range. And she heard him crying and tried to attend to him. But these ghetto bamma ignorant rude nasty people would turn full around in their chair, as if her baby child were the most offensive thing there. She left, preferring to sit in the hall that continue under hostile scrutiny. And I attempted to offer her a hand, but I could tell by that point she was completely offended. And I don't blame her, because I have been in that role so many times. I have so many emotions about that situation, because the folks looking were older and obviously childless. Once they ran her out of church, they turned around, right back into "holy women" role nodding their hands and clapping with the pastor. Obviously missing the entire point of the message. While being childless may give them some reason to sit on their high horse and scrutinize, they are also the ones missing out. Enuff said.

4. Speaking of children, my girlfriend brought her baby girl by to see us. I haven't seen her since baby girl was born. I couldn't visit, because the germ pool that is my household maintained some type of cold, stomach virus, pink eye nonesense the first two months of baby girls life. She is absolutely beautiful. Just beautiful. I wanted to keep her, until my son said," put her down mom, we don't need any more." But, I have to admit, just holding her led me to a moment of insanity, wanting just one more. (I have five- so I really am tripping). But, what a blessing.

SO I have a number of things on the horizon. In total I am in 3 books in bookstores and 10 anthologies and compilations. I am shopping one novel and drafting another novel for a publishing company. I have been tremendously blessed.

5. I don't think I am doing NANOWRIMO this year. But please, those of you who are, keep me posted on your progress.

Talk to you soon

9/11

2007-09-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

Well today is my birthday. Yep, I am a 9/11 baby. And birthday's haven't always been a big deal or a deal of any kind for me, but I always tried to wish myself a happy day and at least keep my spirits up. But 9/11 has made that impossible. I have reflected on that date before - shared with you how I was minutes from the White House when they vacated and then we could see the smoke from the Pentagon. More than the actual destruction was the realization that I was going to die and the helpessness that follows. My baby girl was three, my sone was 12.

So, I am glad and thankful to see another year. I thank God for my children, my husband, my marriage, my life. Our health. But these are things I pray about daily. I thank God that my oldest son is finding his way to manhood safely and heathily and devloping into someone that I am so proud of. But, again, this is a daily prayer.

So what makes this day different? Well, this day is harder for me because more memories unfold, more pain comein along with the joy.

Waiting for my father to pick me up and him never showing. Reminding him of this day and realizing, after having waited all day, that he wasn't coming. I am not angry or upset, but those experiences leave a deepseeded painful ache that stretches its muscle around this time. September was the worse month for a teacher's salary, my birthday fell right before the first pay. So, it was rarely celebrated beyond a card. Which made me sad every year, but I would fight it, be brave and smile and pretend everything was alrite.

So, I watch the memorial events and feel that depression, bringng me back to my own sad thoughts. But then I try ot stay happy and thankful. Making 9/11 a tumultuous day of joy and pain for me.....

Michael Vick

2007-08-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted all month - how is that possible. I am so so sorry! I have had a million things I wanted to share, but could never get to a computer before a million new thoughts took over (smile)!

Alright. Point #1. Michael Vick. Can I say it again. Michael Vick. Now, it is obvious I have a tremendous crush on Mr. Sexy Chocolate. But I won't bore you with the details of that and other fantasies right now. Let's talk about the dogfighting.

I love animals, simply adore dogs. Do I love dogs more than humans. No? Do I want to see Mr. Vicks entire life be streipped because of his "cruel and inhumane" activity. No. Let me back up:
The first question I want to address is the one I hear by many of my black professionals, who seem repulsed by Mike's very name now. "How could he be so cruel?" They ask. Let me answer from my own experience.

When dealing with someone who lived in extreme poverty, their baseline for unsavory activity may differ slightly from the sterile suburban America. Most people, innercity poor or suburban wealthy abhor dogfighting, as do I. However, I know for a fact that many young black men who are attempting to live life without selling drugs turn to dogfighting as a more honest way of living. I'll stop and let that one marinate. Now, I am not saying I agree with it, it just is the way it is. That said, I know the area Mr. Vick grew up in, and I can tell you that dogfighting is, undoubtedly, another hustle for some trying to stay out of the game.

For that reason, I don't turn up my nose that he may not be as sensitive to it as most of us. However, once he became a millionaire, why stay involved? Is it really that impossible to leave the ghetto in the ghetto? I don't know. And I don't want to speak to that. What I do know is that I hate to see this young black man lose everything over this. Are we attempting to rehabilitate him, or simply strip him of everything he has? And why? Why is he banned from the league prior to having ever made a plea or having his case tried. Why is he guilty before being proven innocent?

You know how this goes. When they questioned his buddies they said, in any variety of terms, "we don't want you, we want Vick. So you should plea." And plea they did. But prior to both Mr. Vick's plea and the pleas filed by his "friends," the media and the league already determined his guilt, labelled him filth, and set about to destroy everything that he has accomplished. I think it is a bit much for dog fighting charges.

If he fought dogs and ruthlessly killed them once he was a multmillionaire, then there is an issue there that needs to be addressed. As far as I am concerned, he can handle that with his psychologist. He should probably be fined and have to serve some community service. Dog related, of course. Also, dog fighters love their dogs, so I doubt that Mike is an animal hater.

I really don't understand why it goes much farther than that. High profile pedophiles (Woody Allen), wife beaters (random athletes that I won't name), child molesters, etc...just seem to be a different level of criminal than a dog fighter, don't they? Why is the NFL treating Michael Vick like he is Ray Caruth? Lets see, have your pregnant girlfriend shot in the stomach and attempt to make it look like random violence, fight dogs. Hmmmmm. Maybe I am missing something here, please feel free to add your two cents....

Emotions

2007-08-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

Emotions can be debilitating - controlling. On e moment I am feeling fine, the next I am sad. Sadness, I hate it. It is such a liar, such a depressing emotion, especially when there is no reason to be sad. And I always wonder, around this time, why my emotions are jumping around, nosediving and flying - every month I forget that this is what I go through, how my body carries out is womanly restoration. These emotions can be so , so difficult.

My feelings were hurt today. Not by a word anyone that I actually know said. Nope - my feelings were hurt becuase someone didn't say something I expected them to, which unraveled a whole swirl of self doubt, what if and why nots, because a strangers tongue didn't take the path I expected. Isn't that silly. I almost started not to write tonite. Definitely too emotional. But I forced my self to the computer-with pad and pen by my side for other revelations tha tI record on paper and not via internet-and here I sit, affecting someone who was completely fine until they read this depressing, pathetic post.

So sorry, I will keep my sadness to myself from now on (if I can contain it!!)

Tidbits, Again

2007-08-06T21:42:00.000-07:00

ALright - I went to see the Bourne Ultimatum. Matt Damon is phenomenal. I mean, his transformation into the Jason Bourne character is so complete that I have to force myself to remember that he is just a character.

Which leads to some self revelation of mine - I have always been attracted to that Jason Bourne distant, doesn't talk too much, very confident, physically astute, not too many friends, not too social type of man, but very comforting to have on your side and very intimate type of man. Interesting.....I am going to leave that topic alone fore now, before I get into trouble.

Secondly, Diddy did it to me again. I sat down and watch an entire hour of television tonite. 1 whole hour. I rarely waste time like that unless, of course, it is one of my favorites like the Wire, Sopranos, or basically any HBO Sunday night series. But anyway, I gave it up, to see Diddy be his wonderful best and carve out a band. After much suspense and an obviously painful session of trying to judge, he did something I never thought I would see. Diddy backed down. Simply walked away. Said, "forget it," let the fans decide. Which annoyed me because, with the exception of our cousin being in the finals, I watch the show for Diddy and all his distant, rude, clever Diddiness. So, I was more than upset that I didn't get to see his aloof deciding brilliance - but I will watch the finale. Highlite of the show - making the two braided brothas get much needed haircuts. Double Highlight - when the one boy with braides had glitter all over him and Diddy kept telling him, you got seom glitter on your forehead, right there...If you didn't know, Diddy was just clowning....Hilarious

Thirdly, I caught Kimora Lee's show yesterday. I know that this is unexpected but - I adore Kimora Lee Simmons. She has taken beauty and its definition to another level and, similar to the Devil Wears Prada, while it may not seem all that important to the rest of us with real issues, like paying the bills, Kimora does take fashion very serious and it begins to make since when oyu watch her long enough. She is the most ICONIC mother I have even seen. Flyyy for lack of a better word. With baby girls in tow. How could you not love it?

She has picked up a banner to represent multicultural ethnic look in a way that black folks don't seem to do so often. I LOVED when she went off on the Barbie lady. She was like - NO IT IS GOING TO BE CALLED KIMORA BARBIE. YOU ALL KEEP TRYIN TO TAKE BARBIE OFF OF IT, BUT LITTLE GIRLS NEED TO KNOW THAT THEY CAN BE BARBIE AND NOT HER LITTLE SIDE KICK. The Barbie rep wanted to choke. GO AHEAD KIMORA. I luv you for that one! Her other quote of the night was on being a mama - "my girls are permanent, they are here with me no matter what. Everything else comes and goes, money, clothes, cars, homes and husbands. But my girls will be right here." Spoken like a tru sister who is working life for all that its worth.....