resilience

there's a vacant lot in south philly that a bunch of folks are cleaning up on saturdays. in a few weeks, we're going to have a poetry slam there, and we want to make it habitable for all the guests. there used to be two row houses standing there, but they've been razed, and for the most part, cleared. over time, the space has been weathered by rains, snows, and winds... and when people started cleaning it, it had trash all over. when i got there, so much work had already been done, but there was so much more work to do! i put on a pair of working gloves and set about the task of weeding a corner of what is now called "the grass roots garden." i would grasp whatever green things i could get my hands on, pull, and twist at an angle, to really get the plant up and make sure that the roots came out.

while clearing this space for the mulch which was to follow, i found out first that roots are serious - so serious that when you pull them out, they insist on bringing dirt up with them. resilience. all over this patch of urban ground, in the wake of the demolition of someone's former home, on top of the ruins of what remains of a basement structure, there is a lot of stuff - glass shards, brick rubble, a doorknob or two, a decomposing sneaker, bottle tops... but in the midst of all of this man-made hardness and deadness, you can still smell life in the dirt. spend enough time on the ground and you will encounter creepy crawly little things with lots of legs... or no legs at all, as the worm friends i made yesterday would probably interject right about here. these little ones live in the midst of what we look at and see as an eyesore and as a mess with no value. resilience.

we inexperienced urban gardeners tossed a lot of things, including whatever trash we found and whatever weeds we pulled. but there was a lot left behind that we used to our advantage, most especially the very stuff we were standing on. the dirt and the leftover bricks were our primary building blocks for making a weedy mound into a nice place to be. we took advantage of some of the basement structure to edge out a section of the lot where we would put down our mulch (which was free from the dump! we worked with what we had from necessity, being students and starving artists, and all.) then we started raking out whatever debris would cooperate with our efforts... but the ground was low in some places and the existing basement wall didn't extend for the length we needed. so we broke up dirt and moved it around. we took bricks and extended that wall - no mortar and trowel, mind you, just packed dirt, spades, and shovels. if a shovel hit hardness instead of dirt, we'd move it - tap it 'til you find the edges, then get the shovel in there good and get that lever action going - it had me thinking of my physics class taught by mister sciscio years ago. the bricks and slabs would just pop right out of the ground.

it occurred to us that we weren't really creating anything new - the feeling of doing so that we had was an illusion. all we were really doing was moving stuff around to suit our sensibilities of what "nice" is. "nice" wound up being a section of mulch, edged out by brick pavers and some funky abstract shaped slabs of rock. very cool stuff. as i was helping to weed, break up dirt mounds, and construct brick pavers, i couldn't help but to think of some of my favorite scripture attributed to solomon:

to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven... a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted... a time to break down, and a time to build up... a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together...

i kind of think of our work as similar to what the worms and bugs were doing - making the best of our environment. finding value in what things are within your grasp. even if it's not necessarily the most natural or organic way to go about it... just working with what you have, and thriving because you will it to be so. resilience. any child growing up with limited means... any recovering substance abuser, anybody with a record who goes straight after lockup, they all have the same task ahead of them. they have to rearrange what is already a part of their experience into something functional, even if the tools they have to work with aren't the easiest ones or the prettiest ones to build with. but it can be done. thank God - it happens every day. resilience.

veritas

veritas vos liberabit.

that's the latin motto on the shield of my esteemed and beloved undergraduate institution. the truth shall make you free. Jesus said so in the Biblical gospel of John, chapter eight, verse thirty-two.

He ain't never lied.

you know what's amazing? you have knowledge in your head. and your ability to reason can take that knowledge and examine it, assess it for reasonableness and soundness and reliability, and come to the conclusion that such knowledge is good to have and abide by. so this knowledge sits there, part of your mental file cabinet, waiting to be useful. then, by chance or circumstance, situations arise where you find yourself calling upon that knowledge, rifling through your file cabinet, ready and willing to use that knowledge, and it's there - you find it, you use it, and all is well with the world.

but you know what's more amazing? when you're just living life, and by chance or circumstance, situations arise. you get through the situation, and then look back. and the experience you have gets added to your knowledge. you go into your mental file cabinet to file it away in the appropriate spot, and behold, you find that there's already something filed in that folder. you pick the folder up, glance at its contents, and then realize that what you're looking at is knowledge version 1.0. this experienced knowledge you're trying to file away is like version 2.0. it's trial by action - it's the illustrated version - it's got bolded print and underscores, detailed examples, and really, really comes alive.

over and over and over again, in situation after situation, i have witnessed the value and the wisdom and the truth in veritas vos liberabit. it's not that i've never appreciated the statement or lived its value through experience before... but it's amazing to me how relevant its truth has been to me lately, not just for my life but for the lives of the people that i love.

truth can be scary sometimes. 'cause it's like math: either it is or it ain't. see, something is either absolutely clear or it's not. i don't pretend to know or understand all of the philosophical posturing about objective and subjective truth. truth is, sometimes something simply is or it ain't. you are happy or you are not. you want to do something, or you don't. someone increases your life by being in it, or they don't. you are optimistic about your future or you are not. you desire to love (the verb) someone or you don't. all of the hemming and hawing, and telling yourself possibilities, and creating plausible theories that will justify ignoring your own internal truth... it simply isn't good for you. in fact, when you ignore your inner compass and your better judgment - when you ignore those gifts from your Creator - you not only imprison yourself, you not only hurt yourself, but you also run the risk of hurting those who are most important to you - those who have nothing to do with your decision to not embrace the truth.

it may be difficult, but if you take loving yourself seriously, and if you seriously love those who are closest to you (those who you are responsible for), you have to make it a priority to examine yourself and hold fast to the truth you find there. it will make you free.

i know. i'm doing it, every day. i'm getting better with practice and with faith.

would you?

do you like your life? really? really?

if there was something you could change, would you change it?

if given the opportunity to change it, would you change it?

even if it was scary? unpredictable? a gamble? contrary to convention? contrary to popular opinion? would you? really?

if you could do ANYTHING you wanted to do... ANYTHING... would you? would you work for it? go crazy for it? go broke for it? lose the people you're closest to? put your religion on the spot and dare it to perform? would you?

do you really live what you espouse to believe?

better yet, do you believe? what do you believe? how do you know you believe it? 'cause you say so? is that enough?

really...

who are you living for?
what are you living for?
why?

i almost turned the comments off on this thread... but i don't want to force a rhetorical bend onto these questions - these questions are real.

stranger

(see the Prodigal entry to remember what happened before this...)



She had wanted the baby. She was scared when she found out about it. She knew Fish might put two and two together and discover her secret, but Arlene just couldn't force herself down to Fawn's place to get it "taken care of" like the other times. This time, she knew it wasn't from Fish's mean, hard seed. He had been away for so long, and on one of those nights she had a rent party, some stranger, somebody's cousin from some big city stayed late to send the drunks home, to lock up, to make sure none of the records got taken out the door. He was tall and good-natured and had the broadest, brightest smile... his face was like God wanted people to know what Peace looked like on two legs... and Arlene knew he didn't belong at her party, didn't fit in among her no 'count "friends." But he loved on her all night with his eyes, and did all the things she hadn't counted on needing when she hastily decided to have a party without Fish. Ice needed picking. Drinks needed pouring. Records needed changing. And with Smarty Artie at the door and Arlene handling the plates of food, he was just the extra set of hands she needed. Said his name was Boo. Black as midnight, he laughed as he said that wasn't nobody spookier than him. He smiled at Arlene, but she saw the sadness in his eyes. She checked his hands as he carried the ice in, and though the ring wasn't there, the skin left behind wasn't quite as black as the rest of his hand. Had he left? Had he been put out? He was so much goodness standing in her kitchen, surely no woman had turned him away...

When all was quiet, and all that was left was the scent of unfiltered Pell Mells and the silence that can only follow the noise of her parties... she asked him if he wanted to take a plate home. She started putting chitlins on the plate before he even answered, and she was still going on and on about him sending the plate back through his cousin when she noticed that he hadn't answered. She slowly turned around and saw that he hadn't, in fact, stopped making love to her with his sad eyes since she whirled around to fix his plate, hoping to evade that gaze. He was hungry, but it wasn't chitlins on his mind, and she knew it, but if she could just get the plate in his hands and get him on out the door... Fish had been gone for so long...

It was light before Boo had made it out the door. She didn't ask about an address or when he'd be back. She knew all that passion and sweat and lust wasn't really for her. She knew that brown band of skin on his black left hand was all the answer she'd get. But he had been so much goodness, all in her house, all in her bed, all in her body.

He was still so much goodness, all in her memory. Arlene planned to tell their child one day about her real daddy. How kind and how pure he inspired her to be. The moment now robbed from her, she felt her womb and winced, not from the pain of the stitches Mama had put in her face, but because she feared that her last chance to be like Mama had passed. With this child, it would have been different. Her wild days would have passed on. Kevin would be unashamed. Nye would be unafraid. And Lil Boo, little peace on two legs, would have made four.

But like so many other times, Arlene wasn't thinking about consequences. Fish wasn't having it. He didn't want any children, ever, that was part of the deal, and when he and Arlene slipped, she got it taken care of without words. And this time, he hadn't been home no good time 'fore she come talkin 'bout some, she was carrying and didn't wanna take care of it. She underestimated him - he knew it not too long after he got home, and he knew it too long before she decided to tell him - he knew it when cleaning made her sick on Saturday mornings, he knew it when she said she didn't want no more parties, and he knew it when she asked him about trying to work... Lying whore. She better had swallowed it when word would get back about his women. But he'd be damned if he'd let her make a fool of him. He just bided his time, 'cause he wasn't ready to leave yet, and he wanted to see how she handled it.

She lied about her monthlies. Said they'd started to skip around. She fixed him chicken and dumplings, fixed him a few drinks to slow him, to mellow him - real sweet she was, when said she was already pregnant, though he hadn't been home long and she didn't halfway want him since he'd been back. Fish told her to take care of it, since it wasn't his anyway. Arlene's face shrank for a moment, then bravery and cunning fixed her face, and she said, in a small, still voice, that she was going to keep the baby no matter what he said. That's when he slapped her, and she fell, cutting her head on an ashtray. The blood was everywhere. He lost time beating her - didn't know how long it was or where all that storm he rained on her came from. He only knew that she was a lying whore, and he told her so, over and over between the blows... until he was gone. And then she waited, in pain. Bleeding. Breathing heavy. Then shallow. And she wondered about Little Boo. She lost. Little Boo lost.

She lay in Nye's little bed, feeling lost. Embarrassed. Billy's eyes were so shy when he entered with the plate... Arlene felt so weak. But she knew that at some point, she would need to get up and get her strength back. She lost Little Boo by living for herself. Arlene wondered what lay ahead, searching herself, wondering who she would be living for after the physical healing.

discretion

my best friend was telling me about some drama that happened in the city we grew up in... some men went to this woman's house - they had some business with her son - and found him, shot him as he was coming down the stairs, right in front of his mother, before leaving. they did it during broad daylight. with children going to school. around the corner from a school. now that was bold to do with all those people running here and there. seems like to me that smart criminals would do their darkness in the dark. but my friend and i figure the reason for their boldness is the recent focus on the street adage, "stop snitching."

the code of the street. mm hmm. it ain't nothing new - as long as there's been hustling, there've been people who needed to understand that if you didn't mind your own business, you put yourself in harm's way. and you know what, i understand that. as long as we have things that people can do to get by or get over, people will do them. and as long as governments can profit from outlawing and persecuting an underground economy, they will. i don't approve of it - it ain't for me and mine, but i understand that factors are at work that persuade folks to make their money that way. but they run the risk of catching hell if they can't go on about their business without people staying out of their business. i also understand that the police can be friend or foe - that the brothers out there are hit or miss (and all too often, it's a miss) when it comes to whether or not they get railroaded by the police. and it seems this is the deciding factor for those who nod their heads in agreement when they hear, "stop snitching," and "snitches get snitches."

i won't lie. to some extent, i agree. i've seen or known of some shady things - not much, thank God - but in any case, when i did know something, i didn't feel the need to report anybody to law enforcement. say, for example that you know somebody who stands out on a corner, nickel-and-diming. what if you say something? (repeatedly, of course, 'cause a simple phone call ain't enough.) then (finally) the cops do a sweep, come out in grand fashion, lights flashing, sirens blaring, nightsticks swinging, barking orders, kicking asses, taking names. give it three days. then, in come the reinforcements. the corner is the most fertile ground for nickel and dimers - no matter how hard you weed, those strong roots - poverty, materialism, supply-and-demand, raggedy schools, raggedy parenting, elusive, unnamed, never prosecuted sources for product - keep on producing more nickel-and-dimers. it's pretty much how i grew up - ignoring those corner boys, minding my own business. they and student loans have one thing in common: like herpes, they won't ever go away. and i'm not snitching.

but i do have an exception to my general policy on snitching. see, i think the concept of stop snitching is lacking in that it really only is a good thing when the community is full of neighborly people who would be just to each other without the help of the police. justice doesn't always happen in court. in fact, it often doesn't happen in court. say, for example, some man beats on his woman. this woman, bloodied up and swollen, runs out into the night to get her family's help. her brother sees her broken body, goes to her man's place, and beats the living shit out of the boyfriend - drags him outside where everybody sees it. they should identify the brother to the police, right? he committed assault and battery - that's bad, right? naw, man. he SHOULDA beat that man's ass. and if i was there i wouldn'ta said nothing, 'cause that was justice. justice moreso than the woman pressing and then dropping charges on this man she loves, despite herself... justice moreso than the boyfriend pressing charges on the brother and succeeding in court. and that brother ain't no danger to nobody except whoever harms his family. i can't be mad at that. that's about blood.

but say, there's a hustler who has an issue of money with some of his associates. the associates decide to administer their own underground justice to remedy their underground issue. so they go over to where this man lays his head, push his mama around, then blow his innards all over her stairs in front of her horrified eyes. they leave, after shocking a neighborhood with the sound of their gunshots, passing neighbors who are both watching and not watching, both terrified and curious. the men hop in cars and drive off, long after the sun has made their exodus visible and plain. justice? perhaps, for these men, there was justice in their murderous revenge. but these men are dangerous. they're a danger to anybody who gets in the way of their profit. i can be mad at that. 'cause that "anybody" could be a grandmother, a little child, or me. that's about money, not blood. and you know what, if i was that woman's neighbor, i'd be an anonymous tip leak - no, a fountain - well, depending on the amount of information i could give, i'd be a waterfall. to be silent would be to contribute to the genocide implosion.

oh, the difference is dubious, i know. downright arbitrary to others, perhaps. but i'm okay with that. i've talked about this on the blog before, but here it is coming up again, and i really needed to get at this topic. we have to make our choices in this world, and mine is to snitch when necessary. 'cause it would be nice if we didn't need police - if we knew our neighbors, cared for them, looked in on the sick, fed the hungry, raised the children, swept the stoops, protected the weak, respected each other - as a community. as a family. but it ain't like that, and sometimes we do need police, because sometimes we're unjust, and sometimes - too many times - the community don't care bout you - won't care about you.

i love my block, still, to this day. i've been gone almost ten years, and most of the people i grew up knowing are gone. but my memories remain. i knew the neighbors' names and faces and which cars and children were whose. we generally respected each other's property and our own. silent squabbles over parking spaces or domestic arguments were the worst things that would happen. and because everyone worked for what they had, everyone was watching, and the street was safe enough. interloping nickel-and-dimers knew better than to come to our block 'cause people cared too much and paid too much attention to the goings-on - our parents stayed by the phone and snitched if necessary - and it worked, even if it only kept the boys a block away. it wasn't totally my utopian vision for communal love, but it was reasonably warm and cordial. there was an understanding, a respect, that lived there. i drive through now and some of the houses are better and some are worse, the kids ain't kids and/or ain't there. today's kids are loud and wild - like we were then. there is still joy on my block. there is love there - people with families.

threaten that joy and that love, and i'm telling. yeah i said it. my answer to wannabe gangsters who say "stop snitching" is that people work for what little stuff and safety and peace they have, the least you can do is respect it. and when you don't - my loyalty ain't going to you or the police, it's going to the people. 'cause old ladies should be able to sit on their porch and be happy. babies should be able to play outside. have some respect for that and do your darkness in the dark - away from the babies and the straighter and narrower folks. don't put us in a position to choose between snitching and not snitching. such boldness deserves to be snitched on and punished. so that our homes can be homes and not war zones. be about your business, and stop being so sloppy with your amateur ass scarfa.ce impressions. professionals don't have to worry about snitches - they keep their shit in the shadows where it belongs. nobody knows their business. be professional about your shit. and don't forget, when your little niece or daughter gets blown off a tricycle by a semi-automatic - brain matter and plastic barrettes mixing with discarded nickel bags and used cigar tips on the sidewalk - that there's no point in you getting on the news asking for tips unless, suddenly, "stop snitching" means nothing to you. 'cause at the rate we're going, it's not an if, but a when.

friendship and semantics

i hate the word, "boyfriend." it sounds so childish and trivial. i only acquiesce to the usage of the word when other people use it and i have neither the words nor the patience at that time to explain how much that word irks me, or how much i'd rather someone use another word. in general, i use "my friend," or even better, the man's name! (which avoids the pretentious "ain't i special 'cause i'm not single"-ness that is connoted by the use of "my boyfriend," or "my man") see, that bothers me 'cause "boyfriend" is too associated with "dating." i'll get to what i mean by that in a second. plus, we're all conditioned to put certain silly expectations forth when the words, "boyfriend," or "girlfriend," are used. the whole way we semantically deal with unmarried matters of the heart annoys me. i'm old-fashioned in some ways. i don't like the concept of casual dating. i tried it a couple of times, and it sucked. probably 'cause i'm not emotionally built for it. i don't have the patience to deal with another person's idiosyncrasies if there's no commitment there to uphold. and besides, the word "dating" lacks the substance of the word i prefer: courtship.

ahhh, courtship. courting. wooing. it puts me in the mind of two people exploring each other with a goal in mind. the goal, you may ask? to make something monogamous and beautiful where there was stranger-hood before. there is nothing miscellaneous or aimless about the concept of courtship. flirtation with a purpose. time spent for a purpose. i am so much more impressed by the idea of a man "courting" me than i am by the idea of a man "dating" me. everybody "dates." special, goal-oriented people "court." and more importantly, it has an old-school feel to it - women don't court men, it's the other way around. but that's a whole nother topic and i'm already way off topic - or maybe not so much....

friendship is golden. that's it. when a man offers me his friendship, that is the true key to getting my interest. if it seems like he's just going through the motions of what a "boyfriend" is supposed to do for a "girlfriend," without actually seeming interested in befriending a woman, the courtship is lacking. and i don't mean stuff like finding out what she likes and trying to give it to her, remembering her sibling's names, or what her high school clubs were, just for "he pays attention to me" points. no - i mean spending time with her just to spend time with her. not to show her how great a guy you are, or to put in requisite hours so she feels like y'all spent quality time together. not as a mere prelude to sex. just time spent because, in earnest, you really do enjoy each other's company. you really do see elements of yourselves in each other and have experiences and thoughts and even dreams in common. you really do like talking about stuff and experiencing stuff together, no less than you would if you were with other platonic friends. it's like, "hey, if we didn't fall into courting, our friendship would still make sense."

now that feels appropriate. friendship like that is inspiring. it makes you feel like a man sees value in you beyond merely being willing and able to fill in the empty woman-spot in his life. this is no small message to send to a woman you spend time with - this is no small message to be looking for from a man you spend time with. i know what the other side of this is like - how it feels to find out he was only dating you 'cause he was curious or lonely or horny and then he thought, "oh hey, she'll do." i know men get the same treatment. it's deplorable. but it's all in the name of dating. i've seen what happens to people who date but aren't friends. it's not pretty. what happens when the conquest (not courtship, mind you, but conquest) is settled and the people are "stuck with each other" and they don't enjoy each other more than, or at least as much as, they enjoy their platonic friends? how stupid. screw that, courtship is better. friendship is better.

confrontation

i do aight with confrontation depending on the conflict. i'm not very confrontational. but in general, a little conflict usually makes you stronger - shows you something about yourself and others. you can learn from it. especially when the one confronting you is you.

i'm switching my internet service, and i was going through my e-mail account trolling for addresses i wanted to notify about a forwarding e-mail address. see, i don't keep address books in my e-mail accounts, 'cause that woulda made too much sense and made things too easy for me right about now. so, i'll looking, and clicking and scrolling through my inbox, jotting down the names of folks i don't want to forget... then i switched to the "sent" box.

from the beginning of this two-year-old account, i see stuff i haven't thought much about in... well, two years. starting with e-mails sent to an old paramour. bless his heart. i was enamored with him but he got bored with my personality and annoyed by my affectionate nature, so he moved on. nothing wrong with that, it's just the way he chose to move on - as i read through the e-mails, i could see the blossom of a friendship in full bloom, turning into a flower needing to be watered more often, turning into a plant with weak and struggling roots, to a corpse sitting in a dusty pot. the view of myself then from where i stand now was so hard to see. i didn't see his messages, i only saw mine. the things i said evoked memories of how i felt and what was going through my mind as i willed myself to have hope that we could get back the wonder and joy of the best of times, though i should have let go with the same resignation and understanding that he did during our decline. my idealism and openness make me who i am, but it was through that relationship and its aftermath that i learned the true meaning of, "wide open wide, the mistake was made," and understood the plaintive, painful, wistful tone of jill's voice as she sang it so real - real enough to lay the regret bare, while leaving the longing to be loved intact.

then i felt a worry flutter through my mind and gut. i thought about my relationships and wondered to myself if i've truly learned the lesson... if i have retained the innocence and idealism and openness that come naturally to me... if i have gained the ability to avoid the wide open wide mistake... if i can trust myself to make the right decisions when letting someone into my life. yes, i know that i can do the best i can, and get it all right on my end, and still get hurt, because not everybody is for everybody. but it's not so much that i don't want to take the chance ever again so much as it is that if i do hurt at another man's hands ever again, i don't want to feel afterwards that it was only because of what i allowed. i don't want it to be my fault for allowing something in my life that i shouldn't allow, all in the name of trying to force the hand of happiness and being loved. there is bending to accommodate, and then there is compromising the self - compromising the better judgment - compromising the standards i deserve. and those are two different things. that relationship taught me that, though it was a hard lesson. i pray that i can put it into practice from now on and balance myself better.

i also found a lot of poetry i'd written that i'd forgotten all about. i didn't take the time to read it all, but it was nice to remember that poetry has been with me all this time, since even before this spurt i experienced in months past. and that i've gone through phases of not writing much before, so what i'm going through now just has to run its course. it was reassuring to see the pattern in my past and know that the words haven't left me. they'll be back when they get back. in the meanwhile, i e-mailed all the poems to myself in another account, so that i can read through them later and re-feel what i felt then. assess my writing to see if or how i've changed.

the last thing - and perhaps the most monumental. there is an address that i have decided not to send my forwarding address to. some past you just need to leave in the past. two years ago, i found it appropriate to keep in touch. but now, as i become more and more who i was born to be, i can see that "appropriate" can change over time. it has for me. and now i need to keep it moving.

my past me confronted my present me last night, as if i were reading one of my old diaries, and i'd say it was a good thing.

limb

had a thought while sitting at the venue last night... i was going to freestyle a poem. i've done it before, like once, last thanksgiving. the audience was small and intimate - just the kind of crowd that's most receptive and understanding when you want to try something new. it went fine. and last night, the audience was small and intimate...

and a line popped into my head, like, "start with me, and see where it takes us..."
and i was like, "word, words."
i even knew the mood of the poem and had some idea of why that first line was flirting with me.

but then when i got up to say something, i pulled some old featherweight mess, talking bout some, "let me just flip through the book and the first thing i see is what i'll read." it's weird how in the quickly fleeting moments between having the inclination to freestyle and getting up on my two feet, i just backed down off of what could have been something good.

on the one hand, i feel like i punked out because i didn't know if i would like what resulted if i just went for it with no plan. on the other hand, i understand how tempting it is to have control over where a poem takes you - when i create something, there's a sense of power there, and there's always that knowledge that if want to change directions, i can pump the brakes with a simple erase or scribble. not so with something off the dome. once your words are out of your mouth, there's no pulling them back, and if you want to bring the piece to any kind of resolution, you have to work with what you've already uttered, or reject something you've just said without being able to make those words non-existent.

writers don't need to improvise.
performers do.

and a large part of the reason i love writing is because it allows me to say something in just the right way - i can mull things over and take whatever time is needed to articulate things from unsaid to said in a way that is faithful to what needs to be communicated.

the difference between a "paper poet" and a spoken word artist is not their writing, nor is it their creativity, nor is it their intelligence, nor is it their passion. it has something to do with the art of performance.

now some of us are blessed to be able to do both. i have met some of these folks. i consider myself someone who can do both, thanks to poet friends who led me to see the value in opening my mouth. but even so, there are strengths and weaknesses. over this past (almost a) year that i've been sharing what i write with my voice, i've been learning what my strengths and weaknesses are. and i know that my true comfort zone is in the writing process. speaking my words is an adventure - it reminds me of my acting days, and it adds a rich and valuable layer to this poetry thing for me... but ultimately for me, home is the page. performance will always be peripheral to me in favor of the act of getting the words just so.

so yeah, i'm a little disturbed that i didn't go out on that limb and freestyle that poem last night. but... not so much. 'cause i still remember that first line that tempted me. and i still remember the mood of the piece and why that line popped up. and you betta believe, i'ma get it on some page... and the brightside is, it'll be captured. it may lack spontaneity, but it'll have a home in my notebook, where i can visit it time and time again, instead of having the words evaporate to the four winds, never to be heard again, like it would've if i'd freestyled it last night. *shuddering at the thought of losing one of my brainchildren that way*

like my reader dean says, write on, write on...

purity

i couldn't help it.

i was in the car this morning, and pulled out my ja.ckson fiv.e cd, and was chillin, enjoying myself... and then "got to be there" came on. this song!!! oh my goodness - it stops time for me. it always has. there is an innocence and a caring within the lyrics to this song that is simply exceptional. and when michael gets to the, "i need her sharing the world, beside me" part - more often than not, especially when i pay attention to the lyrics - i start to cry like i did this morning. as i type this, there are tear streaks on my cheeks. those words, and more compellingly, those notes are so clear, and so powerful, and so very pure...

maybe a little too saccharine. and maybe i'm a little too emotional. but i don't really care, 'cause this is who i am. i cry when a voice does some that in just. such. a way. i can't even remember ever being any different.

and don't let me hear a children's choir. i can't sit still - the whole time those babies are singing the Lord's praises, i'm busy reaching for tissues, wiping my cheeks, wiping my nose. trust me, if i had a choice, i wouldn't do it. afterwards, i always feel all crusty, so i search for a mirror and maybe some hand lotion or something. then i think about how silly i must have looked carrying on like that. but it's totally involuntary. it's something that just happens when voices paint the audible picture of innocence so truly and so clearly. it touches the spirit inside me, and the joy spills out in silent saltwater streaks. i feel it in my chest, something that makes me feel full, yet light enough to float...

even though i feel silly, it's okay. i like that about myself. when that happens, i feel connected to the Creator - like the spirit of Himself that He placed in me is alive and well and carries His characteristics of appreciation for something pure and good. it's a humbling feeling, because i can't override the tears. i can't override His spirit. there is indeed something more powerful than me, and the good news is, it - He - loves purity.

times gone by...

so my car is gone. i sold it.

i was driving my first car, a red 88 nis.san sen.tra from hopewell to richmond, coming from a visit to my cousin's house after dark one summer. you know that sucker cut off on me? i'm on I-95, going maybe 60-some miles an hour, and this thing's engine cut.da.hayle.off. so i put on my hazards, and slowed down, and got over into the shoulder and stopped. tried to cut the engine back on. riiiiiiight. i had to call my dad to come get me. while he was on his way, a virginia state trooper pulled up behind me - i thought, oooh how nice, a caring cavalry! not! he just wanted to tell me to stay in the car (which is dangerous with cars whizzing past) with the doors locked instead of getting out, 'cause they were chasing a suspect in the woods that were on the right side of my car... he directed my attention to the helicopters with search lights and all the marked police vehicles riding on the highway. oh - and then the trooper went on about his business. well dayum! neva mind i was a damsel in distress or something like that. luckily for me, my daddy got there before the bad guy did.

he decided it would be easier on us as a family if he gave me his car and got himself another one. so i became the proud owner of a gray 1991 h.onda accor.d. oh it was sooooooo nice. clean inside and out. so much more comfortable. and hond.as age well, so even though the car was like, eleven years old at the time, the body was still handsome and modern looking. the car was well taken care of and it ran so much better than the sen.tra. my poor baby. engine was done - i donated it to the national kidney foundation. i remember cleaning all my stuff out of it, caressing the steering wheel, thinking about times that have passed and how happy i was when my auntie gave it to me. i knew i was gonna miss that car, and the day i came home and saw that the kidney foundation had come to tow it away, i just paused in mourning for times gone by...

but the ac.cord was hot! i put my sorority frames around the front and back tags, programmed my stations in, and i was good to go. the car's handling and sweet interior and just general handsomeness helped me get over the loss of the sen.tra. and then as time passed, the car got sentimental value - oh the places we've been! the times i changed clothes in the back seat - the jokes people had about how the radio kept going in and out before i had it replaced. then how proud i was of it when it made the trip from virginia with no problem when i moved back to jersey. how it became the poetry mobile over the last year...

but poor thing - it had exactly one full tank of gas and 199,750 miles on it when it decided to act retarded. *sigh* i was worrying about getting back and forth to work, and worse yet, do you know how hard it is to get to poetry in philly from where i live in jersey without a car? do i look like someone who does the bus in the burbs, adhering to a 10:00 curfew? aw naw dawg... so one weekend my cousins and i went shopping, and i found another means of transportation. but i didn't want to part ways with my ac.cord just yet - no, no. my dad LOVED that car. i considered having him come get it, but he has a jillion reasons not to, so i decided to sell it for the money i could certainly use. i'd rather it have stayed in the family, but you know how family don't like to pay for stuff. wanna get that consanguineal discount. if i could pass the consanguineal discount on to my bills, it'd be all good, but no such luck. noone in the family was in dire auto straits (thank God) so i sold it.

some guy over philly saw my free ad on craig's list (yeah i'm plugging them, 'cause they're the hotness) and came and bought my car for his niece/cousin/something like that - even though he said he liked the car so much he just might keep it for himself... we signed papers, and he gave me money. the last time i drove it was from my cousin's house to my house 'cause i'd forgotten the title at home. just thinking about how nice that car was to me. the times i prayed and it started when it didn't want to so i could get to home, work, or school. it was worth way more to me than i sold it for. but it had to go. no one person needs two cars, especially in new jersey, the home of ridiculous auto insurance premiums. i'ma turn the plates in today, and then all i'll have left are the memories and the pictures. oh yeah, i got me some pictures, now. and i won't forget how i cleaned all my stuff out of it, caressing the steering wheel, thinking about times that have passed and how relieved i was when my dad gave it to me. i know i'm gonna miss that car, and the minute i watched that man drive away with my baby, i just paused in mourning for times gone by...

but now i have a new ride. the first car i've ever gotten on my own. the car i joke and say i'll probably be taking my babies to their first day of kindergarten with... and i bet that over time i'll have new memories to help me get over the loss of my car for the last four years...

searching...

my life
my life
my life
my life
in the sunshi-i-ine

everybody loves the sunshi-i-ine
folks get down in the sunshi-i-ine...

i need some sunshine, too, 'cause i'm trying to find something. matta fact, y'all seen it? i ain't seen my you-betta-write-it in a minute. i haven't written a new poem in some time. i've had ideas and thoughts, but haven't pulled out the paper to write with. see, that's my you-betta-write-it's job. it compels me to stop thinking to myself and start thinking with ink. and though i've been writing in my journal and in my blog, it hasn't been with the same frequency or even with the same passion. but i want it back. 'cause maybe if i got it back, i would enjoy the open mics like i did before i stopped going as frequently. and maybe i would be more inspired in general, like i was when i was writing more frequently. 'cause as good as popsicles are, they still don't do what writing does for me. i gotta find my you-betta-write-it. it's gotta be around here somewhere. i'm just like my mama - always losing stuff. don't make no sense...

smiling

i am smiling this morning. more energetic. pretty inspired to have a great day. i mean, there are good things that i have to look forward to today, like getting some money to come into my pocket, and getting a new, modern mobile phone, and graduating from dial-up to broadband (at least for the six month trial LOL!). but beyond that, i am just generally optimistic. adulthood anxieties and impending life changing decisions notwithstanding... today is simply a good day. i woke up in amber sunlight, surrounded by warm comfort and peace, with nothing but time and opportunity stretched out before me... what a good morning! i am smiling this morning. happy to have a job this morning. happy to have popsicles to look forward to when i go home for lunch this afternoon. what more can i say, top illin!


praise the Lord! i'm feeling good and spoiled today.

and oh! the weekend i have to look forward to! a cd release party! where i get to dress in 70's inspired gear... and perform for all my poetry friends (which reminds me, i should ah... think of which pieces i wanna do - or better yet, challenge myself to write and learn one overnight)... and then some other stuff... and then some other stuff... and then some other stuff after that... (well, i mean, shoot, if i tell the whole story now, the recap on monday won't be as fun, now will it?) i'ma bring my camera along for the ride...

pedestrian

sometimes it's just little, simple things... you look up and see something someone else would shrug at - but for whatever reason, you find something to appreciate. or maybe something you've shrugged at before, or maybe something you just didn't notice... it's weird how we make value judgments sometimes when we're not paying attention. then we realize we were bugging, when suddenly something is gone and we miss it, or our soul craves something and we instinctively seek it out for solace, or inspiration, or nostalgia - whatever the case may be. i wish sometimes i could walk slower on this path. everything seems to be flying by so so very fast. i'm not the inhaling type - i'm the one still licking the popsicle after everyone else is left holding a stained stick. make it last forever. take your time. savor the moment, the feeling, the sensation... let it linger. i just know that if i could do that with every thing, then i'd get even more satisfaction out of life, 'cause then maybe little simple gems wouldn't go by unappreciated by me. i think that's why ole folks tend to walk and talk and tell stories slowly - they know what we young folks have yet to learn. we gotta appreciate the journey, not fast forward to the end result. that last chapter won't have the same punch without an appreciation for the rising and falling action. climax to conclusion can leave you hongry... page by page gives you more food for thought. patience is not always my strong suit, and depending on the situation, sometimes i find myself struggling to hold back and pace myself - sometimes i'm lucky enough to appreciate something right off, and i just wanna get allllll the juice. but then i remember that when a moment is over, that's it, and then i have to look for something else to appreciate, when there are no guarantees. that's like speeding from red light to red light. nope. the best, is when you time it just right, get a little lighter in the foot, and hit those corners riiiiiiight when the lights turn green, baby. it's all in the pacing. you notice more that way. life gets more delicious...

i am not my hair

i am privileged to call her "friend." i met her on my first time venturing out to discover philly's spoken word. i went out by myself after getting the information on when and where to go. she hosted the venue with great personality and skill. she is the one who convinced me to hunt down my poetry from the internet and read it for the group. she is the one whose appreciation for my words made me hungry to share even more. in that sense, in poetry, she's like my big sister/mama. she's really smart, funny, talented on a mic, beautiful, energetic. she is loved by her family, loved by her fiancee, loved by her friends. and, she throws good parties, is the life of the party when she goes out, and can make some mean pasta that will burn your mouth out. i am proud to know her - blessed to know her. she has since encouraged my writing, and taken me under her wing, so to speak, by bringing me into her poetry collective.

another friend and i came across her and her best friend having lunch on a south street sidewalk yesterday. we chatted, then talked about our outfits for an upcoming cd release party that's going to be all 70's themed. then she mentioned that she'd stopped in a store, checked out the wigs, found one she liked, went to try it on, and they wouldn't let her. *gasp* why? she said that they said it was the policy of the store, with no further explanation. that's interesting. i haven't seen such a thing - shoot, even heard of such a thing - outside of books and anecdotes that recount how black folks couldn't try on hats in department stores. in fact, that's what my friend alluded to when she told the story. what's the difference between a hat and a wig? my friend guessed that it was because of her color that they wouldn't let her try on the wig, and talked about sending a white friend to the store to see if they would let her try it on...

we were on our way towards that store, and indignantly, i said that if i found it, i'd see if they'd let me try on a wig once i got there. how dare they not let my friend try on a wig? we did come across the store. it was full of little beauty trinkets, cosmetics, extension clips, sunglasses, and the like. the wigs were in the back so i walked to them, reached up to the shelf, and pulled down the one i guessed that my friend had tried to sample. i stroked my fingers through the silky hair, examined it as if i wanted to purchase it, and took the cap off of the dummy. there were two women working in the store - an asian woman behind the counter, and a latina on the floor. i looked to see if i was seen. the latina had noticed me. good. i had the dummy under one arm and the wig in the other.

the girl on the floor suggested that i could put the dummy down on the floor if i wanted. surprised, i thanked her and took her suggestion, then used a scrunchie to pull my hair back into a ponytail. the young lady then showed me where a mirror was, and i flipped over, put on the cap, and played with the wig, feathering the bangs, checking out its length, and just chatting with her about whether or not i'd like it, to which she pleasantly encouraged me about how cute it was...

my witness and i exchanged incredulous glances before putting the wig back on the dummy, back on the shelf, and heading back out to south street. i called her back at lunch. "hey... they let me try it on." (to her best friend) "they let her try it on!" i described the store, the personnel, the wig, the service... it was all the same place, she confirmed - the same staff, the same wig.

only the service was way, way different.

we're both black. we're both women. the other women in the store were minority women too. it wasn't beauty - my friend looks like a model, no lie. the only thing i could pinpoint - the only difference between me and her that i imagined they could see - was that my head was a mop of loosely tossed crinkles and waves, and that her head holds the locs i've been envious of since i met her about a year ago at the poetry venue.

that's it.

that's all.

fidgety

i'm at work. i wanna go home. i was hungry so i walked to the coffee shop and got a slice of banana nut loaf. now it's all expanded in my stomach and i feel all vaklemphed up in my throat. i want some sweet tea but that's at home. water won't do. i want the work day to be over with 'cause i want to move on to the rest of my day. 'cause there are no windows in my office. and it's beautiful outside - there's just a hint of the summer's warmth to come out there, yet it's still brisk enough to need a jacket. oooooooh this weather keeps teasing me! i am procrastinating hard on every single thing in my life. sometimes you just need a break. i'm taking it. i know i'm wrong, but what are you supposed to do when you really. just. don't. care. i feel like running away from home and going somewhere with no television, no internet, no telephones. just a stereo, my cd's, and some toys - the watercolors and stencils my best friend gave me, a book that was lent to me that's got some really interesting philosophizing (is that even a word?) in it, my blank poetry book that i've been meaning to get some pen scratches in for months...

sometimes, when i get all piscean like this, i take a vacation in my house. it usually doesn't work, though, 'cause i lack the bravery or initiative to actually unplug the phone and the cable. then i get caught up in cleaning house or sorting laundry, and the next thing i know, i look up and it's time to go back to work. no pictures painted, no poems written, no cookies baked, no knowledge gained. just a spotless house and some well tended houseplants. then i trudge back to this windowless office, no worse, but no better.

y'all i'm bout to cut my phone off. i have this thing about the phone. me and my best friends will burn out some phone lines/satellite dishes/whathaveyou. and let's not talk about me and my mommy. we can get down, too. plus then there are others that call me, and when they catch me i'm all too eager to talk, 'cause most of the time, i've been so busy running that i it's been too long since i've spoken to them anyway. so then we have to catch up... you know how it is... *sigh* then i look up, and it's time to go to sleep so i can go back to work. there ain't enough time in an hour, a day, a week for just enjoying the passage of time. partially 'cause i don't have somebody keeping up with the ministerial details of my life. partially because i'm a daydreamer and my mind has a tendency to wander and then things get crammed into spaces of time that are too small (read: i procrastinate).

and did i mention that even though my birthday passed almost three months ago, i'm still not psychologically used to my new age? i have a serious mental block about it. as in, when people ask me how old i am, i tell them it's the nth anniversary of my twenty-fifth birthday? then they laugh. and i be dead serious. it's like time hates me. it's mocking me. i feel like there's so much more i could/would/should be doing to better manifest the beautiful journey of becoming myself. but i spend hours everyday at this job that doesn't feed my spirit. i spend hours every week just doing chores - bills, housecleaning, et cetera... and then the time i spend unwinding? it feels so non-productive! i have dreams for myself that i've barely been brave enough to whisper to myself in the stillness of my solitude. these dreams call to me and i pretend i don't hear, because i know how much time and effort and hope they will require, and frankly, i don't want to set myself up for disappointment.

as contrary as this is to everything that i espouse, it's more comforting sometimes to keep coming back to this windowless office, where i can't see what's going on in the world around me.

and the sands keep slipping. and every year the number will change. and writer's block keeps looming, while the inevitable yellowing of the pages of my marble composition notebook inches into the edges of my expectations, and i wonder why i allow fear to paralyze me so, when my mind knows better. when my faith tradition teaches me the fear is not of my Creator... there is life as i'm living it, and there's life as it is meant to be lived - life as i was born to experience it, and i really need a moment to get focused and get moving and claim the value that my friends and family see in me that i still have yet to realize and capitalize on and minister with...

it all sounds so intimidating and overwhelming. i do wonder if i'm capable.

*deep breath*

value

first, something completely off-topic. is it because it's spring that i can think of at least four bloggers yanging and yacking about new boos? the blog circuit is absolutely gushing about the kissing and the hugging and the tingling... y'all a trip! i won't call you out individually, but congratulations to each of you and best of luck with being boo'd up. it must be because of spring. something about that spring green on trees and blooming flowers and crisp blue skies in the morning must have y'all inspired. y'all must be getting out more or something... enjoy!

on to matters of old business. yup, i was on the radio. it was pretty cool. there's this sista - she writes poetry and she also performs with a band. she has a sweet energy, and because she can do so much, i'll call her the juggler. i ran into her in the park a while back and she mentioned getting me on a radio show she hosts weekly on a community radio station. i gave her my number and forgot all about it. well, she called me later and booked me to be the featured artist on the show for this past saturday. silly me, i put the word out to folks about it at the last minute (in all fairness, i wasn't confirmed til like the last minute). plus i forgot that not everybody has myspace - but if they did they shoulda got the bulletins.

anyway, i did a little preparation over a nice homecooked meal, separating radio-friendly pieces from the others, categorizing them into subject areas, and doing a little thinking about which pieces i should absolutely positively do. i've been in a radio studio before. they're kinda like how they are on tv, with the booths and the controls and microphones and big glass windows and stuff. me and the juggler sat down a few minutes before the show and i watched her at work. the format was simple: the first hour would be a mix of interviewing me and letting me do my thing, and the second hour would be an open mic where listeners could call in to share their own pieces. but it was so much more complicated than that.

you know how on tv you see that there's the radio personality, and then there's the engineer? yeah well the juggler did both those things. she kept track of the commercial breaks, the music tracks, the callers, interviewing me, and timing it so my pieces or the songs didn't get cut off. she was good at it - so good in fact, that when she got hit up on her mobile, she still didn't miss a beat. she's been at this for three years - i'm proud of her!

i'm not sure how many pieces i did, but i'd say several. we talked about my favorite authors, how i got started with writing, how i got started with poetry, how certain pieces were inspired, my writing methods, and i also plugged my favorite venues and hosts, my poetry collective, and our local urban arts newspaper, which i love to pieces and contribute to. my pieces ranged from community pieces to cultural pieces, to not-quite-love pieces, to love pieces. i had a good time sharing them, and was pleased that the juggler and the callers liked the pieces i chose to share. i picked them on the spot, vibing off of the music and conversation which set certain moods throughout the show. before we got started, i couldn't imagine that i could go for an entire hour talking about and sharing my poetry. i should've known better, me being my father's longwinded child and all. with the juggler's guidance, everything turned out just fine.

luckily for me, i got some friends of mine to tape the show so that i'll be able to listen to it and more importantly, so that i can send a copy to my mom and dad, who are out of the listening area and want to experience as much of me enjoying my passion as they possibly can. and i'll also get to keep a copy for myself (that i'll probably be embarrassed to listen to over time... i'll let my babies laugh at it one day.) i figure this is another part of my growth as a writer, since this inspires me even more to write things that inspire or enrich or provide comfort and release to the listener. 'cause if my words had been empty, why would it ultimately have mattered to me or anyone else that i got some air time on the radio? but if nothing else, i know that i said some things that the juggler got value from, some of the callers got value from (we even had one of the callers call the show back just to tell me so), and that the next radio personality appreciated (he told me on the way out of the booth).

i had a good time, and if the juggler ever asks me back, i am so there!

blog by

this is a bunch of morning glory blooms. i'm not like these that are open and happy during daylight. i'm like the kind that bloom at night after sunshine is merely a memory...

things are happening, folks. i be running and stuff. will hopefully post soon, especially about when i was on the radio over the weekend...

therefore...

apparently, according to some people, putting stuff from message boards on my blog is cheating. well! they just get the raspberry. *pbhthhhhh*

good morning to all 18 of you who might stop through this camp today. or afternoon or whenever you stop through. i have nothing to say. therefore...

ah, therefore...

you know, i should really think about what i want to say in a sentence before i go starting it...

...

- OH! okay i got something. *whew*

i get my interaction with likeminded individuals on through this and other blogs, message boards (i frequent two) and going out with friends - girlfriends and/or the poetry circuit. i moved across four states to live somewhere where interaction like that would be possible for me on a regular basis. i'm glad i did. it's indispensable in my life. i need to exchange ideas and feelings with other people. and i know i'm smarter because of what i learn from others - more well-rounded, more open-minded... even more creative, more confident about myself. lately a lot of things i've been thinking and saying have revolved around the concept of community - communal concern, love, examples, correction, education... i'm beginning to form the opinion that true progress for any individual or any group of people is somehow tied into their relationships with a positive community that enriches and challenges them. do you agree? i mean, how can you learn by yourself? even when you self-teach, you need resources from outside yourself to do so. often, things that broaden a person don't even come in the form of books or tapes, maps or diagrams. they come from living, breathing people. i think God put us here for each other, to edify each other, to increase each other. do you find that to be true in your life? the existence of community gives me hope. i love the reciprocity of giving and getting that happens there. i love belonging to folks and having folks belong to me. that is a beautiful thing!

so many of us don't know or care to know anything about our neighbors. or we pass folks on the street without speaking or at least giving that "i acknowledge that i see you, fellow human being" head nod or smile. children rip and run and noone watches them, they just ask, "where is his mother?" people go to work, then come home, then sleep, then repeat - never reaching to be a part of the pulsating world around them. internet, television, video games... it's scary. i see now how a world like george orwell's 1984 could happen. some of us are already one step from being asocial automatons. old folks in homes. troubled kids in juvie. dads in prison. families are eating separately in three different rooms of the house, instead of facing each other and sharing each other's lives while breaking bread. we better get it together. we're going to just keep getting dumber and lonelier while surrounded by strangers who we have only but to speak to/smile at/strike up a conversation with. when did it get so rough that we have so little faith in each other that we think by default that our positive energy would not be well received? i believe that the likelihood is higher that someone will respond in kind rather than do the crazy stuff we see on the local news (which i try not to watch anymore - sensationalist bastards - got people walking around actually believing that the nuts outnumber the rest of us). all i can say is i think that community is good. and it's free. and it's easier than we think. and it's cheaper than welfare. and it's better than ethnic sensitivity classes. did i say it's free?

have a good weekend, folks.

*edit* the next time i post something that's got glaring incoherency in it up on this here blog, i would appreciate it if i got a comment telling me to go make my rambling more readable! this is train of thought, but its efficacy is only as potent as my ability to make it plain, yahmean? i have edited the post since this morning, 'cause some of that stuff was just atrocious. anyway, this ends my editor's announcement. you may now commence the rest of your weekend, dear hearts. *mwah!*

i be talking...

these are excerpts from stuff i've said in message board conversations i've been having with various folks on various topics over the past few days:

on the idea that people should homeschool their kids, at least part-time:

"this is a default for good parenting. leaving EVERYTHING up to the school is never the way to go. it's called, 'helping with homework,' or getting a tutor or other family member to do so. it's called, "preparing them for school," which many parents don't do - children should have already begun to learn things at home before being sent to kindergarten, and they should have already begun to get a mindset for school under their parent's supervision over the summer. but too many parents don't think that way, and then they expect the kids to do well in school. so far as a supplemental home curriculum is concerned, it may not be a default, but it's certainly something i've known i'd do since i learned that there were things i wasn't learning in school..."

"my parents did [it] and i think it made all the difference. they did it by making their encouragement of my intelligence something that i could count on and look forward to. my mom read to me every night before i could read, sang and wrote the alphabet with me, and was enthusiastic about spending that time with me - i picked up reading early and with no problems. my mom would buy me golden books on basic spelling, and arithmetic, and i loved it because of the stickers in the back. my parents would get me flash cards and educational games... they would brag about my intelligence to friends and family members, so it was obvious to me at a very very early age that they 1) expected me to learn 2) believed that i could be very smart and 3) wanted me to value learning for myself and see how great it could be. given our literacy rate, i think that all parents should be able to help their kids with at least the basics before preschool/kindergarten and throughout elementary school. their attitude and enthusiasm will rub off on their kids... i don't even consider that homeschooling, i just think it's a common sense thing to do."

on the question of whether black women feeling abandoned,

and if so, what men can do about it:

i don't know how other girls from other cultures are raised, 'cause i haven't lived their experiences. but i do know that me and my black girlfriends were raised to know for sure that we had better do well in school and aim high for careers so that we could be self-sufficient, because there would be no guarantees that a man would be willing and able to wife us and take care of us, along the lines of a 1950's stereotypical family.

on another message board i read, the men are always seemingly frustrated by how women want to do what men do and still be treated like a lady. they don't understand why women are talking about being able to do the same things as a man and why women insist on having men respect their autonomy but then demand chivalry, as if they're too damsel-in-distress-y to do things for themselves only when it's convenient for them. i tend to think that it's because at the same time little girls are being raised to be self-sufficient, they're also being told the fairy tales about men being their umbrella, their protector, their sponsor - perhaps not out loud but subliminally through culture traditions. can't blame women for being a bit conflicted. but the truth is, part of the reason women are hustling so hard is only 'cause they feel they have to, 'cause they expect that nobody else (male) will [for them].

i'm not married. and i am totally responsible for myself. but i don't feel like i've been abandoned, so much as i feel like this is just the way of the world. i do feel like what my upbringing said rang true - it's a good thing i got myself together and didn't go out looking for some man to take care of me. i suppose if i had expected that, i might feel abandoned. perhaps that sounds like lowered expectations for the brothers on my part. but i know the state of our community, and i know people are picky about who they marry, if they even marry.

but i don't take it personally to feel "abandoned." and what also mitigates it that is that there are men in my life, family members, friends, acquaintances... some women don't have the supportive communal network of positive men that i do. shoot, this time a year ago, even i didn't have it. and yes, i missed y'all. but i still didn't feel "abandoned," as if y'all didn't want me or care for our community. to me it's just the way things are - unfortunate but true. some of y'all are just absent for whatever reason. circumstances come from all sides to make that a reality.

i'm guessing that the best thing concerned brothers can do is be around, interacting with people, visible, and active. befriending neighbors. coaching teams. going to community meetings. walking women to their cars. being role models for community boys. fixing stuff. being leaders. 'cause in my neighborhood, my dad was one of two or three married family men on the whole two-block street. but nobody who needed to see them actually saw these good men. they were like, mythical. all you saw was them going to work or working on the yard, and folks, that ain't often. shoot, if you go to a community meeting, pta meeting, church event, block party, family reunion, etc. the women always outnumber the men noticeably and substantially. that shouldn't be so. good men need to "belong to" more than just themselves and their families, 'cause there are children and women who need to see that you exist, and raise their expectations for manhood and change their warped macho/thuggish ideals for what manhood should look like. i think that as we as a community raise the bar, we should see less absentia and more positive male presence. i thought that's what the million man march was about..."

"we need to see that brothers get married, too. we need to see that they love their children, too. nothing warms my heart more than seeing adult black men with their kids, or with their families as i'm out and about. i don't see it often enough. i was with my cousin's wife and daughter yesterday when he came home from work. and the first thing he did was reach for his baby girl and talk to her and love her. it felt good to see it - inspiring, you know? and i wish i wasn't their only audience, 'cause so many people could stand to know that black people really do live and love that way, and not just in a movie or on tv or with a certain household income...

i will say that i've heard brothers wonder where the good women are - i know. they are making the same mistake the good men are making. staying on the grind and out of trouble is a good thing, but not so much if it isn't balanced with getting out there into the world. you will never find a mate from your living room. you will never be a role model or an inspiration for your community from your couch. or, for that matter, from the stage. like [my one of my poet mentors] says, if you're at an open mic every night out of the week, there ain't but so much you can honestly say you're doing on the streets. to every thing there is a season - i ain't mad at people doing what they have to do, 'cause shoot, i'm one of them.

but our community is in crisis. we don't believe in each other. we don't believe in our men. we don't exalt their potential. we don't see their achievements. and i think it's 'cause we're not inspired. but we can be. it would be so nice to walk in our communities and feel safe, knowing that if anything breaks out, concerned people will intervene to help a victim. knowing that if you flag a man down to help you jump your car or push it out of the way after an accident, he'll help. knowing that if a child is doing something bad or dangerous, some adult woman or man, will stop them, and teach them, protect them. but we can't wish for it. we just have to do it."

on being in search of chivalry:

"[this] girl i know [and respect] told a story today about how she called her man a bad word out of his name during an argument (which i have never done). and instead of lashing back at her in the same way, he just gave her hurt eyes, and said, i will never call you out of your name. he hasn't yet and it's been years. they're married now. she said that until that point she just thought such bad treatment was a normal and expected part of relationships. it wasn't until she encountered his love and patience that she learned better.

i've been fortunate enough to have always been with and around men that knew how to treat a woman like a lady. i see now that that's a fortunate thing, 'cause i've never had the same delusions about drama that she [used to have]. if there's too much conflict, my spirit wants out, so i bounce. i also know that i've received such treatment because i act in a way that sets the tone for being treated nicely. a girlfriend of mine told me recently that there are guys she knows don't approach me because they're intimidated by their (correct) assumption that i will not entertain bullisht. that must be the reason why i've always been around men that know how to treat me right. class doesn't attract or accept riff raff. because i act like the woman my parents raised right, i get treated right, and when i'm not, i don't linger and complain and bemoan the loss of chivalry. as surely as i was raised right and know how to treat a man, there are men who were raised right who know how to treat a woman. and i'd rather spend time with them."

vacation

it feels kinda cool to not answer your mobile phone. to prioritize living in the moment above whatever it is whoever it is on the line wants from you. if just for a few hours, or a day, or a weekend. it's cool to go spend time outside doing nothing in particular, enjoying spring, bearing witness to new life, being a guest of the woodland creatures, breathing in air that doesn't make you want to stop breathing. it's a blessing to stop. and just listen. and hear songs in the languages of all those animals and insects, seen and unseen, in the trees, bushes, and even the streams. i need to get out more often and surround myself with green. i'm thankful for my houseplants, but their beauty pales in comparison to the foliage in woods that glistens with the remnants of morning dew. there is a peace that comes from being outside, tuning your eye and your ear to the life around you. there's a special whimsy involved in watching two moths greet each other without using e-mail, or following the erratic flight pattern of a butterfly who doesn't seem to have an appointment to get to, or sneaking a good look at a bunny who doesn't care if you're his voyeur... as long as you don't get too close and respect his space! i am a city kind of girl. but i think you can take my ancestor's child out of the woods, but you can't take their love for the woods out of me - something in me pulls me back, now and again, to visit and linger and reflect and appreciate what God made out there. it's enough to make you realize how useless and time-consuming some other activities are...

open mind

i guess what the show black/white really boiled down to for me was whether or not a person has the capacity to be openminded. can you be brave enough to admit that you don't know everything, that you haven't seen everything, that there's something you can stand to learn, that not everthing is what you expect or deem it to be? it seems that the most closedminded people were the ones who got the least out of this experiment, and the more openminded a person was, the more likely it was for them to get anything of value out of it. generationally, i'm scared. though i'm glad to see that the parents in this experiment - brian and renee, bruno and carmen - are not our future, i really wonder what is to become of the nicholases of the world? and are there enough roses in the world? what will the blank wall in the museum look like 30 years from now?

it's a long held opinion of mine that i don't want to live in a colorblind society. i don't want the color of my skin to become meaningless. i don't want it to lose meaning to me or to anyone else. when people see me, i want them to know who my ancestors were, and i do take pleasure in the identity, history and culture that my skin color ties me to. i just want to be valued more for the content of my character than i am judged for the color of my skin. what i'm asking for is tolerance and understanding. what i try to extend to others is tolerance and understanding. what i expect in people of other races is that i'll find differences in culture and experiences and opinions... in addition to finding similarities and commonalities in the human experience. i enjoy the richness and the mystery of others' difference and the diversity of my world. that requires openmindedness. i try to nurture my own openmindedness as much as i can.

...even though racism does exist, right alongside classism, religious intolerance, homophobia and xenophobia. i accept that for what it is. i combat what i can where i can and keep it moving. of course, it's not that simple - i've been harassed, underestimated, insulted, provoked, enraged, disappointed...

but then again, it IS that simple. it takes an open mind, patience, and resolve. but it can be done. and it has been done, time and time again, by my ancestors in this country, under worse conditions, to achieve and live with vigor for my sake. they did so i could. so i will.

spirit

i rock myself. i don't know where i got it from, but i rock myself. when i'd be in church, listening to a good sermon or a good testimony, or after a good good praise... or sometimes when i'm alone in prayer or meditation or whatever you wanna call it. and you know another time i rock? when i'm at an open mic, and somebody's words are stirring up spirit inside of me. it's an old lady rock, like a metronome or a pendulum - back and forth, back and forth. sometimes i try to stop, but apparently that's just how i do, 'cause before i realize that i'm doing it, i'm rocking again on a rhythm. on a roll.

some folks might not be able to relate to this. there are different ways that people express what's going on in their spirit, and some ways are more verbal while others are more physical. i wasn't raised in the church. my parents talked to me about God and let me discover what was meant for me to discover about christianity on my own. my mom comes from a baptist kind of tradition. my dad's family is pentecostal. you know, apostolic holiness - the no makeup, doilie on the head, no pants wearing women, who shouldn't watch movies, and should be in church every night of the week and eighteen hours on sunday - the holy rollers who speak in tongues and catch fire with the holy ghost and get laid out under white sheets when they fall out near the altar. those folks who look at you as if you're the devil's spawn if you don't exhibit what they feel is evidence of the baptism of the holy ghost.

mm hmm. not for me. however, neither am i much for quiet churches, the ones where the only people who speak are the announcements lady, the choir, and the pastor, and everyone sings ancient songs from hymnals that don't speak to the soul. churches where everyone looks at you strange if you want to make a joyful noise or even dance like david danced. not for me.

i've been in and visited different kinds of churches. catholic ones, methodist ones, baptist churches, pentecostal churches, and my favorites :) the non-denominational churches (those are the evangelical pentecostal folks who don't like being called pentecostals and wind up being looked at as holy rollers anyway).

i don't know where i picked up this rocking thing, but it's a part of who i am. it's like when you hear someone saying something and you nod to affirm it. it's actually the same thing, it's just that when something really moves me, it literally moves me, and i nod with my whole body.

last night was a rough night for me. actually this week has been a rough week for me thus far. i have a lot on my mind. a lot of competing thoughts and pressing obligations and serious decisions... and my time is pressed, and i'm feeling a little stressed, and my evasion techniques that i usually use to manage my stress aren't really working, and there i was sitting at one of my favorite open mics, trying to chill and relax and not really feeling it. i flipped through my ratty marble notebook for something to read and hated everything i saw because it was all inadequate to express anything i was feeling. and i haven't had time to really write lately - and i didn't have time to write in the middle of this open mic. i got up to read a couple of my poems and i wasn't feeling either of them.

then i sat down. and this sista came up, who hadn't performed in some time, and she was so beautiful to me. the way God crafted her face - wide open, like sunrise over a panoramic horizon. the way her soft accent and the lilt of her voice carried her words like the first spring rain bringing nourishment to fledgling flowers... and what she was saying!!! y'all, i started to rock. tears slipped out from the corners of my eyes... kinda like how they're rising to brim my eyelids as i type this, and i just kept on rocking, looking at her, urging her with no words to continue to feed me, to rescue me from my contrary mood - if only for those few moments. and i just kept rocking. what comfort i found in her words! what safety and familiarity i felt in that rocking. i got through the night because she helped to break the negative energy i was struggling with - it was a pivotal moment that i'm thankful for.

this morning is a better morning. i've had some sleep. i was brave enough to not call out of work, like i seriously considered. 'cause i got to keep moving, right?

soft

yeah, i admit it, i'm soft. that's why i'm so hard.

see, what i mean is, i am quick to want to give the benefit of the doubt. sometimes too eager to look at myself to see if i'm the wrong one, or if i'm contributing to the problem. i'm sensitive. i do care what other people think about me. i don't want to have bad karma. i don't like my feelings hurt. i don't like hurting others. i want to be merciful. i am quick to apologize. slow-witted when it comes to insults.

now i do like the truth. and sometimes that puts me in a complicated position, because i like to tell the truth. sometimes even when people don't ask for it. sometimes that pisses people off. sometimes it hurts their feelings. sometimes it winds up being judgmental, 'cause my truth ain't necessarily THE absolute objective truth.

i'm learning to balance these things as i grow and strive to acquire wisdom and practice love through tolerance and the golden rule.

i also have been learning that my softness can be taken for weakness. i offer a false face sometimes often, kinda like those animals that are capable of changing their shape as a preemptive measure against being attacked. sometimes "the lady doth protest too much" applies to me. maybe that's why that line is something i've always remembered (even though i don't remember exactly where i picked it up. was it hamlet? macbeth?) props if you know. but anyway, my bark is simply worse than my bite, i can still only be me. i always boil down to the only child trying to make friends, the struggling Christian trying to meekly live the Word, the lil' bitty pisces trying to navigate this big behind ocean.

so when i get mad 'cause i think someone else is being too judgmental, my fault. that's just me being soft. and when i talk isht trying to seem less vulnerable than i am, please excuse me. that's just me being soft. when i withhold detail about stuff, maybe even seeming unnecessarily secretive and shady, please understand, that's really just me being soft. would that this were a different world, within which i could be as open as the possibilities of each new day, as warm as the amber of each dawn, as trusting as the hand of a newborn babe -

but some of y'all just as hard as calculus 3.

and i wasn't even drunk...

i was conjugating "fleetingly":

gotta strip it down first.
well first, take off the -ly, which made it an adverb.
then take off the -ing, which made it a gerund.

ok here we go.

i fleet
you fleet
he/she/it fleets
we fleet
you all fleet
they fleet

wait a minute. fleet ain't no verb. isn't the correct infinitive flee? as in, "to flee."
well then, where in the hayle did fleet come from?
you know, fleeting and fleetingly are an adjective and an adverb, respectively. and uh, fleet is a noun.

dayum. i just conjugated half of an adjective. da hayle??? you can't conjugate an adjective!
dayum. i just conjugated a noun.
dayum. i took honors/ap english, too.
dayum. and for those of you who didn't catch that mess from line one, shame on you, too.
dayum. you know what's messed up? just now, while i was writing this, i looked it up online.

fleet is a verb!!! i get some genius points back... but not all of them. 'cause i actually bought that "fleet ain't no verb" foolishness.

dayum shame.
blame it on the -itis. and don't ask why i was trying to conjugate it, 'cause i don't remember, 'cause i had the -itis at the time. y'all know the -itis don't play.

let's just say it's almost as funny as the time i was sitting in a folding chair at the HEAT with my feet propped up on this other folding chair... and i wobbled... and fell... in front of everybody... and the friend who was talking to me just instinctively backed away so as not to be associated with my clumsiness... even though i maintain that it was his partly his fault that i fell... and then my homie frak helped me out of my moment of embarrassment...

wow. true stories, folks.

and i wasn't even drunk...

and y'all wonder why i don't drink.

flower petals

i bought myself flowers maybe a week or so ago. to my surprise and delight, they are still alive and well! i just wanted to take the time to be thankful for them and explain why they're important to me. sometimes, i just want to see and be around something beautiful. i love the existence of flowers - how soft and silky the petals are to the touch. their light fragrance. the words they speak of calmness and beauty in their sweet silence. the richness of their colors. thank God for flowers.

ignorance

i am so annoyed with renee from black/white. she is the black woman who appeared white on the show. this woman wants to make friends with a white person. so she decides to try a knitting class, 'cause that's what white people do??? and when that doesn't work, she tries a scrapbooking class?

where do i start? that was so stupid. white people do all kinds of things, just like black people do all kinds of things. it was stupid to label something foreign to her as something that white people do. it was also stupid to take up something that wasn't really up her alley and expect to find someone of any color, let alone someone white, that she'd have anything in common with. it made me wonder what renee does in her spare time when she's not in the experiment. does she bowl? does she go out dancing? whatever hobby she has, there are more than likely some white people in the vicinity of where the show was taped that have that hobby too. her rationale in finding a white friend was just damn stupid.

also stupid - her husband, brian, for trying to set up situations where racism would happen, just to prove to bruno, the white man, that racism exists. first of all, bruno is hardheaded. an african proverb warns us not to argue with fools 'cause passersby won't be able to tell which arguer is the fool. and right about now, that's what's playing out between brian and bruno. secondly, overt or covert racism doesn't necessarily happen every day. we live in a society where many folks are politically correct and where, short of anger or jealousy or a battle over scarce resources, racial tension doesn't necessarily just happen. you can't just manipulate a situation to bring out racial tension or conflict whenever you want, because you never know who you're dealing with. i can go for indeterminable amounts of time without experiencing racial tension firsthand, then have two offensive things happen in one day, 'cause that's just how it works, depending on the kind of folks you're around. it's a "by chance," random type of thing. brian is trying too hard and quite frankly is overzealous about the whole thing.

see, if bruno had come along when renee and her white friends were in the club talking to a white man who had some racially charged things to say about mexicans, blacks, and crime, maybe he would have, by chance, witnessed something brian would have wanted him to see. but then again, maybe bruno would have dismissed the man's words as statistically reasonable analysis of real situations instead of stereotypical judgments on minorities.

there is a point that white men, who seem to be tired of being vilified, are making more and more often in the media: not every thing that minorities and liberals call "racist," is in fact, racist. that's just how statements and actions are perceived, because there are minorities and liberals clamoring for justification for their victim status and special treatment, and they'll take it however they can get it, if you allow them to twist your words and your actions into something that's racially based. to some extent, i agree with the notion that some people are hypersensitive, paranoid witchhunters. that said, those folks and those situations don't negate the relevance of words and actions that really truly are based in supremacist, racist, and/or elitist attitudes that affect minorities negatively or that reflect low respect and esteem for minorities.

for example: many of us have heard about cynthia mckinney in the news lately, the scuffle with the security, the change in her hairdo, etc. in his commentary on the incident, a radio talk show host called mckinney a "ghetto slut" and a "welfare drag queen" based on her hairstyle, which has been changed from cornrows to what looks like a straw set (think crinkly curls) afro. he apologized the following day for calling her a slut, and made clear that some people wouldn't accept his apology because they "consider any negative comment or criticism of any type at any time about anybody who is not white to be racism."

of course, he glossed over the actual problem with his words. the problem wasn't that he had negative criticism for mckinney. it was his usage of the words "ghetto slut" and "welfare drag queen" to describe her that made his words racist. if congresswoman mckinney were white, i doubt that "ghetto" and "welfare" would have been uttered. he undoubtedly used those particular words based on stereotypical thinking about black women that would even possess him to utter those words, which are so obviously racially associated with poor black people. his apology notes that congresswoman mckinney is "engaging and endearing," but i suppose she would not have been, if indeed she was a "ghetto slut" or a "welfare drag queen" instead of a congresswoman. to me, this insinuates elitist thought, not just stereotypical thought, on his part.

but if you leave it up to the many brunos out there, i'm reaching - just grasping at straws for something to be up in arms about. no actually, i just know what i'm hearing when i hear it. but i can't make white men hear what i hear. they're not coming from where i'm coming from, and i accept that for what it is. this is a lesson for all of us, especially renee. people simply are who they are, and their experience, or the lack thereof, is something you can't control for.

on the show renee was upset when she took white carmen to a black hair salon in black makeup, and carmen asked for permission before actually rubbing some woman's hair. this was a learning opportunity for carmen. renee could have explained to carmen that that action seemed out of place in that environment, and that it's not common in her experience to see a black woman touching another woman's hair. instead, renee just gets upset and rants to the camera, "you don't see black women touching people's hair," as she explains why she's finished with getting to know carmen. i've got a question for renee: how was carmen supposed to know that, not being a black woman herself, and not having been told not to touch another's hair? she was ignorant to that sensitivity of ours. you can't hold people accountable for experience that they don't have - accept that fact for what it is and then just teach as best you can. in my opinion, the next time carmen pisses off some black woman by asking to touch her hair, it's renee's fault for passing up the opportunity to tell her better.

we all require patience and exposure to different experiences in order to recognize and respect the humanity and dignity and idiosyncrasies in people from other cultures. i find renee to be entirely too impatient with carmen's ignorance. i find too many people to be too impatient with other's differences and backgrounds. we can at least learn from this show that differences are real and we need to just accept that and be patient with that. learn to work with it, around it, however we can get it to work, not just on a racial level but in general, from person to person.

edited to add: a friend of mine reminded me that i also picked up on how rose is learning a lot, but she doesn't really filter for class differences in addition to race differences. there are some differences between her and her poetry class peers that exist primarily because of economic class more than for racial and cultural difference. it's not clear from the show whether her processing is sophisticated enough to pick up on this. perhaps she'll catch on to that with more experience. also, i'd like to add that the finale airs next week, and i'm looking forward to it, 'cause with the exception of rose, all these folks get on my nerves anyway.

shoutout

when they shot you, you were away from home preparing for more movement, more agitation, more progress. we miss that spirit. the one that would allow you to put on a brave face and sacrifice to get what needed to be done, done. we compare anyone with promise to you nowadays. your name gets mentioned in conversations about freedom and courage and peace and faith, not just here at home but worldwide. every year when i look at the date, i remember you in a more somber and important way than the day i get off work. sometimes your memory gets compared to your contemporaries, and criticisms surface about your methods - the time it took, the pain that was endured by so many patient sufferers. but i think, sometimes, it took more strength to do it your way. it was worthy of my respect - our respect. there was dignity in the suffering and nobility in the losses that people caught along the way. it was imperfect, but not ineffective. you understood that mercy would intervene and shame would change them. just like you understood that hatred would strike back eventually, and that your own fate, your own family's fate, would depend on your God - my God... and it did strike back, thirty-eight years ago today. i could say that i am who i am partly because of your work, but it's really bigger than me. we are who we are - not just me or my family or black people but american society - partly because of your work. you left this earth better than it was when you found it, to the extent God blessed you with the ability to change it, and that is so very admirable. thanks so much. we thank God for what He did through you. and for the judgment you used to pick a wife who would keep pushing for recognition of your legacy, so that we wouldn't forget what happened and why. rest in peace, the both of you. insomuch as anyone is willing to do what they must to end injustice, and ordinary people make this decision every day, your efforts and your death were not in vain.

fam

i wrote this some time ago, on another blog. here is an edited, updated version:


a reason to write

my favorite cousin feels more like a brother to me than a cousin, even though we grew up hundreds of miles apart. we were raised similarly - his mom and my dad are sister and brother. i love him to pieces because we get along so well. we played together in the summers that i left concrete jersey for grassy virginia. i'd watch him play video games for hours. i even like arguing with him ('cause he lets me win, 'cause he thinks i'm too tenacious). it was fun watching him grow from a boy to a man. i'm two years his senior and i used to be bigger than him... not anymore. but he still allows me to pull rank sometimes - humoring me. i love him for that. because i only get to chill with him sometimes - his maturation is always impressive to me. i love his mind - the way he thinks, how he's matured and learned to control his temper better, how he so very obviously loves his wife, who is a wonderful woman - i'm so proud that he's chosen a life companion well. i love how concerned and protective he is over his baby sister and i love how it's obvious that she loves and looks up to him. he makes me laugh, and he makes me feel like i'm not really an only child. he encourages me in my endeavors, gives me guy advice, asks me for advice, (values my advice) believes in me - does all the things that a good friend would do. he's awesome. i tell him, not as often as i would someone else, 'cause i can't kill all my cool points with him, that i love him dearly. even though we fought as kids, and argued, and he was selfish with his toys, and acted like a big baby that time he got sick and i had to do every little stupid thing he asked 'cause his mom had to work. i've forgiven him for all of that. one of my favorite pictures of all time is of me and him before either of us was even in school. i put my arm around my lil' cousin and we cheezed, looking like two little geeks. with my ponytails on each side of my head and with his alligator polo and white stripy kneesocks on... LOL!

now he's in the army.

he's in iraq for his second stint.

he reads my blog. and was inspired to start his own. even though that kneegrow ain't posted in like a month, i kinda let that go, considering the extreme circumstances.

and one day, he posted this in response to my thanking the people who read my blog for reading it:

no, thank you for doing what you do. for some reason everytime i have a down day out here you write somethin that shows me a world i don't know and brings me thru. thank you cuz

i almost cried (i didn't, though). but i wasn't no.mo.good. i think i'll be high for the rest of the week on that. 'cause that tells me that my writing gives one of my favorite people in this world something to look forward to while out there in the desert, in the middle of a war, away from his wife and family. his comments give my words importance. and i don't even know what to say to that except that i'ma keep on writing.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CUZ.