plane tickets

my latest phase of fascination is with culture. not that i haven't always been interested in culture, but lately i just can't get enough of reading about it and thinking about it. my favorite fiction books right now are books that celebrate or examine or somehow illustrate the cultures of the african diaspora. i've loved the concept of a diaspora ever since i first read about it and had to look it up years ago. to me it's all about the dynamics of legacy - what things about life are handed to us, and how do we use it in conjunction with what we ourselves make apart of our present lives? what was lost? what will be gained? what will we pass on? and how will all of that legacy be handed from person to person? i think that with african descendants around the world, it's a little different than with some other races, because of the particular circumstances that have caused us to scatter all over the globe. (i should have been an anthropologist). i've just made the decision to actually leave america (and not just talk about leaving) and go to see some of these manifestations of africa's legacy for myself. i really want to go to africa, the caribbean, brazil, the american gullah islands, backwoods louisiana... i want to see us in all our different colors and languages. i want to understand how we all came to be so different, and find out if we came to remain somehow similar - and if so, how we have. i think in my search i will find new knowledge, new appreciation for things, old familiar things, and some level of personal fulfillment at having reached a goal. i think it will help me to grow as a person and as a writer... and though it will take some time and planning, it's a really reachable goal - and i am so looking forward to the journeys!

finding/taking/making a place

it felt good to be at my venue last night - the one where i first read my poetry in front of others, the one where i became one of the folks who help to put it together every month, the one that holds a special place in my heart.

i wasn't feeling well immediately before it was time to leave. i think i was dehydrated or something - dizzy, hot, unreasonably exhausted. i ate, drank, rested... and got to the venue late. without my notebook. but hey, i got there without missing too much, and i'm glad for that. the place was packed, more behinds than chairs for them to fit in. the poetry was varied, and we saw faces old and new. i was thoroughly entertained!

i got a chance to feel for a moment like i wasn't out of the loop. i renewed my commitment to myself to find a way to stay in it. i have a featured performance coming up next week (for which i have to prepare my time). i have to write through my writer's block - sometimes writing is a discipline thing, not an inspiration thing.

also, two major things have developed as potential community projects for me to help organize and run. it's interesting that although i'm comfortable with being the impetus for these projects, i'm not comfortable with being the only one to make them happen. i realize i'm too selfish and guarded with my time. i'm not a sacrificial type of person - at least not to the extent that i'm willing to pick up all the pieces if noone else wants to put their time into a project. i want these things to come together where the people involved have an understanding that this thing is ours, not mine. in any case, the projects are important to me and potentially very useful for many of us, and i hope i'm able to get them off the ground.

i've decided to be more proactive - i'm such a dreamer. but i've lately been confronted with circumstances that make me passionate enough to get a move on. they say necessity is the mother of invention. but that saying doesn't say anything about people taking responsibility for the inventing. i need to stop being so comfortable with having other people take the lead, or waiting for other people to get things started, or settling into the easy role of following someone else's directions. i have the ability to inspire people - that's a gift i should learn how to use. i have the ability to organize and think ahead and plan - i need to exercise that ability. i want to give more to this community that i've already taken so much from.

hard candy

Her mother's words echoed in her mind. "I am the mother, you are the child." Nevermind the porch or that child, Arlene wanted some time to herself in Nyla's little room, in private, with the freedom to sit with her legs wide open and forget for a moment the circumstances that placed her back in her mother's house. Time enough later to deal with eviction and the loss of her rented rooms, the loss of her part-time job at the luncheonette, the loss of her man, the loss of her baby...

That child don't know nothing about going through nothing, Arlene thought. Ain't never been hungry or without attention. Never had to do whatever she could to keep a roof over her head. Never been shamed to walk to the store 'cause of what people got to say about your life and how sorry it turned out to be. All she know is love and comfort, Mama's food and Kevin's company. Bet she think she mad at me for not being the one to raise her, 'cause she too young and simple to know she's better off that way. Matter of fact, it's probably better for her to hate me, and wish I wasn't her mama, and think I'm crazy, and want nothing to do with me. Better that than to be disappointed in me like Mama, 'cause I sure can't deal with it coming from both ends of me.

Arlene remembered the tone in her mama's voice when she heard her testifying right out loud in church about how she needed the Lord's help to raise this unruly child. Even now, her face got hot with heat up from her neck, up around her ears, creeping up into her temples. She took a baby doll dress from the trunk at the foot of Nye's bed and dabbed her forehead like her mama did that first bad Sunday in front of the whole church.

It was just a kiss. Something so sweet and so innocent compared with the places her lips went later on after the shame compelled to act out even more.

Dennis was always there. Mama had an old picture of Arlene and Dennis at their Tom Thumb wedding, all dressed up in a little white dress and a little white suit. Arlene stood pin-toed, holding a little sunflower, but she was too caught up in the petals to look at Daddy behind the camera. Dennis was the model, grinning and preening, sticking out his six-year-old bird chest like his own daddy did on Sunday mornings. That day Arlene was his girl, and though he was, in his innocence, indifferent to marriage or love, he had always liked her pretty face with the long eyelashes and and her toothless grin. Among the children, these cater-corner neighbors ran and jumped and played for years from Radio-Flyer wagons, to string tops, to dodgeball. Could the children help it if over time, their natural affinity for each other's banter and teasing turned into flirting?

Dennis' hands became wonders to Arlene's eyes. She traced the paths on the insides of his palms with her fingertips, driving him crazy. His crooked front tooth that she once teased him about became charming. She liked the chewing-gum smell of his breath. He liked to buy her hard candy so he could watch her pretty eyelashes go up slow and happy when she looked up at him. She let him touch her once, on her new breasts that were soft and squishy, but just that once. They would walk home together after school with the group of other kids, but once they grabbed hands, it was like they were all alone. For three wonderful saccharine weeks, their Tom Thumb wedding seemed like a vision of times to come, when they would grow up and get married for real.

Then Mama walked into the backyard with a basket of her little brothers' denims one Saturday afternoon and saw Arlene and Dennis under the clotheslines, using their preteen tongues to probe and lick, and using their hands to search and grab. As a shocked Dennis ran out of the yard in the pregnant moment of Mama's shock, all three discovered his shame when his hands shot down to cover the bulge in his pants.

Not long having buried her husband, Mama was not trying to have another mouth to feed. To Junior's dismay, he was enlisted as a chaperone and sentry (and tattletale). Arlene walked to school with a sore behind the next day, and her sullen eyelids sagged with the weight of eyelashes that had always scared Mama to death, and which had suddenly become the heaviest burden. Hemlines dropped. Ace bandages bound what lumps and bumps as best they could. Outings were forbidden. And church became the only place besides home where Arlene was allowed. No more trips to the store for cornmeal. Girlfriends had to come by the house to see her, and the visits got less and less often. At school she could barely look in Dennis' direction.

Arlene's will could only take so much.

shiver

be afraid.

be very afraid.

they're coming to get us and the sky is falling. 'cause uh, we might get blown up. or like, bombed or something. 'cause so-and-so told so-and-so and see, right, they don't like us and they have a plan and they might do something and it would be bad and we could all die and stuff. so ah... we can't take toothpaste on the planes, and um... we have to buy contact lens solution wherever we wind up. or something like that. 'cause that should help us be, uh, safer or something. yeah, that's it. so um, big big alert. be really scared.


whateva man. i ain't got no time for paranoia. too busy living life.

i saw someone on the road today and they had a banner painted at the top of their car windshield: "Jesus is coming soon." it made me think of the guy i learned about on public television who lived centuries before now. he lived in a cave in philadelphia's woods. he was waiting for the second coming of the Messiah. he predicted His arrival. like three times. remember the parable of the talents? where the master goes away and leaves talents (money) with his servants, and two invest the talents but the third just buries it in the ground (to the master's resulting disappointment)?

to me it seems like shivering and watching and waiting and fretting yourself into a paralysis of fear is like burying your talent in the ground.

*sigh*

pull back

sometimes i just need to pull back and be more patient with myself.

significant parts of my day were spent just trying to stay upbeat, because i was losing patience with my own artistic progress, my own financial progress, my own progress with - ironically enough - my lack of patience in general.

i can sometimes be more forgiving of others than with myself. i was really aggravated by something that my beloved father said to me this evening. within the hour, i'd forgiven him, mentally walked in his shoes, decided against railing against him to prove my point, and decided to let the anger go. but today, for hours, i held myself up to my own measuring stick about what i shoulda woulda could have accomplished by now. then i walked around with the screwface (or alternatively, the everything's-okay mask) for way longer than i allowed myself to be upset with my dad.

i think it's important to be my own judge. i think it would be better to catch myself slipping and correct myself than to let someone else catch me messing up and not even realizing it. i'm my father's child, can't help that bit of pride. but sometimes i can be a little hard on myself, maybe in an attempt to balance out the times when i'm not diligent enough with my tasks. my own progress in whatever goals or development i aim to achieve will not be instantaneous. growth takes time, progress takes time too. and i think that today i needed to be a little more forgiving. i am so blessed to have someone in my space who sees me the way i need to see myself sometimes. otherwise, i probably would still be poking at my own scabs.

i have, however, endured enough self-admonishment to know some of the goals and tasks i have to prioritize in order to make myself happier with the fruits of my labor, so that the time i spend can be as productive as possible. once i get on that track, i'm sure i'll feel better about myself, and that can only feed my momentum and help me to get even better. i'm a firm believer that attitude can make all the difference.

so, ah, i'ma just pull back and stop berating myself for not being ahead of where i currently am on this path. c'est la vie, right? i'll keep it moving and try to remember to keep my attitude in check!

glory who?

i miss poetry. i haven't been out in about two weeks. i'm going out tonight. the move and some other things, like the heatwave, have distracted me. distraction is a trip. but tonight and this week, i plan to reclaim my poetic life. i want to get some new pieces written and to let the community know that just because they haven't seen me, it doesn't mean that i've left my love for the words and the people who share them.

it's so annoying how "real-life" concerns get in the way of the things that truly bring me joy. but whaddaya gonna do? i'm working on the balance. that's what it all boils down to, the balance...

ocean spray

my body hurts. drove all morning and all night yesterday, but it was sooooo worth it, 'cause i went to the beach.

i love the beach!

there's definitely something spiritual about the beach. when i'm there, i look out at the ocean, as far as my eyes can travel, and i scan the horizon from north to south, thinking about how far out it goes, how big the world is, how big the universe is and how amazing the Creator is. i think about how the moon influences the movement of the water, and how the water itself seems to be a living thing with its own will, pushing and pulling, moving the sand and tickling and tossing the people and fish... being at the beach causes me to pause and think about how profound it is to be. to be alive. to be reverent of the Creator. to be happy.

i dug my toes in the wet sand and in the dry sand. i flirted with the edges of the water, racing it, charging it... the smell of the ocean and the spray of the crashing choppy waves brought out the kid in me. i danced all over my little chosen section of the beach, rejoicing because i've finally made it to the shore after all these busy weekends. the sky was blue and cloudless. the wind was gentle and cool. the water was tepid - not too cool, but cool enough to excite my body and tempt it to stay in the surf. i spied on the birds, leaving their stick-like bird prints in the sand, and gliding overhead. i entertained myself by watching the children and the shoreline walkers. i loved being there. and i loved the company...

after dark, a walk through the carnival-like boardwalk was topped off with funnel cake and water ice. the drive home through the fragrant pine barrens topped it all off. if i live to be an old woman, i'm getting a house somewhere near an ocean. i can't think of a better way to spend my summers...

the way my body hurts is that goooooood hurt. the dull ache that comes from struggling against insistent waves that meant to knock me down (and that sometimes succeeded). i've been flexing my calves and rolling my head around on this neck. and if i had to do it all over again...

i'd have played harder, splashed more, and danced until falling down in a sandy mess.

maybe i will next time.

civility

today's philly moment: i'm only allowed to go out after dark or before about noon during this heatwave, so this morning, i stopped into the drugstore around the corner from my place to pick up something up right quick. as i started toward the register, i noticed that the lady at the counter was working on a crossword puzzle. she took her time putting the paper down to get to me. i stood there patiently and waited for her to ring me through. it reminded me of being down south, 'cause folks there just don't rush to do everything as much as they do here. in the northeast cities, we walk, talk, think and move faster, even if we don't have to. so when this lady didn't get right to me, it didn't bother me so much (since it's too hot to be in a rush anyway). she started to ring me through, over her puzzle, and then asked me:

"do you know how to spell hieroglyphic?"

i told her that i did, and she gave me the pen and pushed the puzzle toward me to fill out the word. she'd already put in the h-i-e-r-o into the first few boxes, and i looked at the other boxes to see if the rest of the word fit. nope, it didn't. i told her that the i-c wouldn't fit, and that maybe the word was just hieroglyph. she had the word spelled correctly in the top margin of the paper, and i told her to leave off the end and see if it worked.

i noticed that she'd finished ringing me through, had given me my change, and that it was time to go.

"good luck with that. i don't fool with those things."

she laughed that conspiratorial yeah-girlfriend laugh we learn from our mothers and aunties, and i headed out.

it didn't occur to me until i was outside of the store that i sounded real country when i said my last few words, as if her leisurely pace reached into me and pulled out the chesterfield county accent that surrounds me everytime i go down home. in any case, don't let it be said that folks here are automatons who don't know how to be friendly.

cabin fever

so i'm loving the changes!

i'm still unpacking.

never underestimate the value of a clean toilet.

thank God for air conditioning, free cable, and wireless laptop connections. i've got time off from working, but it's all being spent in the house, 'cause of the heatwave. i don't mind the heat as long as i'm not in it, and i have stuff to do, which i do.

people talk about moving like they hate it. i like it, though. not the physical labor (especially on 90+ degree days), and not having to ask people to help (i don't usually have to ask anyone for anything and sometimes it's difficult for me). however, there are good things i get from moving. first, my friends are awesome. they moved my things as if they were their own belongings. they battled the heat to help me with no promise of getting anything for their time or energy. and most importantly, they were patient with me during the moments i was frustrated, and they were understanding of the stress i was going through with the move. i already knew my friends were awesome, but on sunday, they just showed out. they are wonderful. i kept them hydrated throughout the day, and fed them afterwards, but i just hope that they know i would do the same for them if they need me...

another good thing from moving is the nostalgic tour i get to go through. sometimes i get so caught up in the moments of this present that i forget who i've been. sometimes i'm so distracted by pressing concerns that i forget who i am. stuff like checking out my books and music, or coming across my high school yearbooks, or my sorority scrapbook... the memories remind me of my journey and how far i've come. and how much i am loving this life, and how much i have to be thankful for, especially given where i am today in knowledge and independence.

as i unpack and fit my stuff into a new space, i wonder about the memories that i'll have when i pack this stuff back up and move on again. though i may be in this city for a long time, this apartment is just a rest stop while i get my hustle on to reach some other dreams i have. moving inspires me. thanks to all for the congratulations and well wishes.

but this heat - oh my gosh! when it's over, i am so getting out of town. it's a good thing i like this place, 'cause i've been up in here for days. viva la beach!!!

from jersey with an r

okay so i'm actually moving my things into the new place this weekend. yay!!!

i have time off next week, too, so i intend to make my place nice and comfortable quickly (i'm not a slow unpacker, 'cause i like to have things just so). i'm looking forward to it! the past month or so, i've felt like a wandering nomad, working in philly but not having a place here, driving back and forth over the bridges, finding free street parking and walking several blocks to get where i'm going, carrying changes of clothes and extra deodorant in a bookbag just in case... it's tiring - it would all take so much time and energy out of my day. and i don't remember the last time i had a home-cooked square meal with vegetables. i haven't been eating right, and i haven't been sleeping right, either.

but with this new place and this time off, i am so very optimistic about next week. i get to just spend some time getting my house in order, literally, and figuratively. after the sccccrrrrrrrd change in direction that i had a few months back, i summoned up the courage to face my fears and be more honest and realistic about my goals. as the weather got hotter, my determination to set out on the right course with my decisions has become more intense. i have ideas and plans on paper for my artistic direction that i'm eager to get rolling. i have financial plans that i've been putting off until the right time - the time is now. i had no idea at my last birthday how much change i would face this year. i'm amazed. and this move is really just a small part of it.

it is sad, though, to go through the apartment i have and disassemble my arranged things that made that space my charming and comfortable home. my walls are bare, my windows have no curtains... those few changes alone have made everything look rather stark and impersonal. but i'm just doing what i have to do to move my stuff from the old to the new. i can arrange things lovingly in my new nest. the next time i blog, i'll be in my new digs. and i can't wait!

changing lanes

there's a place where the on-ramp to a highway i take sometimes merges in from the left of the highway. i hate it, because it merges into the "fast lane," instead of the far right lane, so other drivers don't want to let you in. plus, there's a concrete median that creates a blind spot where you need to be looking for oncoming traffic, especially since you're coming in on an angle, so you can't see what you're getting into until you get virtually to the end of the on-ramp. at times, the people who are merging simply have to stop at the end of the ramp, look across their car to the passenger side mirror for an opening, and then accelerate really quickly to get onto the highway.

i try not to use this exit and this on-ramp because its design and the other drivers are just dangerous all the way around. but yesterday, i was headed home, and i somehow forgot to take my detour. i was forced to stop at the end of the ramp, and then two cars stopped so closely behind me on an angle that i couldn't see the traffic, and i couldn't move. the other two cars could see, so they merged from behind me. then i could finally see. i saw an opening, and floored it. unfortunately, my transmission didn't pick up as fast as i thought it would (i'm still getting used to this car) and the car i was merging in front of didn't slow down, so they had to get out of the way to keep from hitting my rear end. however, they were okay, i was okay, and i was relieved.

i thought little of it beyond feeling relieved. until the minivan that had to move to make way for me abruptly cut in front of my car. it took a few fractions of a second to realize that this was their retribution for having to go around me when i merged in front of them. if i was them, i'd have been upset, too. but that's where it would have ended. i would have thoroughly cussed them out (without looking at them or making eye contact) from behind the wheel of my car while driving away. i only wished that was the end of it for me. the minivan driver confirmed that it was indeed retribution when the window rolled down and a brown masculine arm came out and artfully flipped me the bird with a passionately dramatic flourish. i laughed out loud! my thoughts were, no worries mon, nobody got hurt, and i'm happy to be alive, aren't you? shooooot. i'm going home.

i don't get that gesture often, and i don't do it to others. but i understand the people who do it. they're angry. they're probably in a hurry, and then this donkey's posterior orifice comes and does something stupid. and they take it personally, because they see their car and the space they're taking up in the road as an extension of their person. and you know how people get when they feel violated or disrespected. it's like when the white guy stepped on gian.carlo espo.sito's (buggin out's) jordans in do the right thing.

but i personally draw a line. i allow myself to verbally vent, but not in a manner that's directed to the other driver. i don't refuse to let people in, nor do i cut people off out of spite. i don't make eye contact and i don't make gestures. i don't tailgate and i don't roadhog. i don't follow people, and i don't carry a weapon in my car. i've seen enough network news magazines to know that stuff can get you killed. and i'm too young and too cute to die. and dangit, i just got this car. it's too young for an accident.

this is exactly why i refused to attempt to pass the minivan driver after they cut me off. they baited me - they wanted me to pass them, i'm sure, so that they could yell at me, or cut me off again, or perhaps even worse, side swipe my car or knock me into the median - you never know what can happen. instead, i decided to ride at a safe distance well behind them and keep them in my vision at all times. we rode together for miles. every lane i got in, they got in. they slowed to a 50 mile an hour crawl while everyone else was doing maybe 65, 70 miles an hour around us. i really wanted to just go home, but i was afraid of their anger, and too cautious to try to pass them. i reached for my cell phone in case i'd have to call the police.

finally, miles down the road, i rode in an "exit only" lane that i didn't intend to take, and they drove away. but even then, i drove cautiously, hoping they didn't stop ahead of me to watch for me from the shoulder so that they could follow me home. it was a nervous little ride, but i made it in one piece. i am sorry for the part i played in that little drama - i should have waited the entire 20 minutes it would have taken for infinite space to open up before merging onto the highway if that's what it took - and i'm sorry if having to change lanes inconvenienced them, but i worry about what may happen the next time someone pisses them off. i'm also glad for them that i don't have a violent temper or a gun, because when they cut me off and flipped me the bird, they put their own life in danger. you never know who you're dealing with on the road, family.

be careful out there.

the scent of fried fish

The first Nyla story: Prodigal
The second Nyla story: Stranger

Mama should have taken me with her, Nyla thought.

It wasn't fair that Kevin got to go to Philadelphia with her and Nyla had to stay home. With Arlene. But they needed one more pallbearer for the funeral Mama was going to, and Uncle Junior and Uncle Billy couldn't take time off from work, so they couldn't go. Kevin was just big enough, thanks to this recent growth spurt, to go help carry Mama's cousin since school was out. And there wasn't enough Greyhound money for three.

Ever since news of the trip came, Nyla prayed to Jesus to be able to go with Mama. For two whole days, Nyla silently protested in her heart against being left behind. She was too afraid to poke out her lips or appear to be upset - that was a sure way to be left at home and earn Mama's displeasure. If she was going to get Mama to change her mind and tell them to get another pallbearer, or maybe even reach into that rusted coffee can Nyla knew was under the shed for more ticket money, she was going to have to be really good and make herself useful for the trip. She asked Mama who would carry the bags. She sat with Mama while she packed her bags and suggested which hat would be best. She asked Mama who would make sure her old pearl earrings from Granddaddy were safe. And when Mama assured her that everything would be fine on the trip, tears welled up in Nyla's eyes. She opened her mouth to cry out, you can't leave me here with that woman! But somehow she knew all was lost. So she simply sat on the bed after willing her tears not to fall, and watched Mama pack her Bible in the suitcase.

Mama sat down next to Nyla and put her arm around her shoulders. "Nye, baby. You shouldn't worry about me and Kevin being gone. We'll be back. Your uncles will be here, and Arlene is your own mama, and she loves you."

Before she could stop herself, Nyla flashed accusatory eyes at Mama, knowing full well that Arlene was no more her mama than Kevin was. A stranger, even. A stranger she couldn't remember ever being around without Mama or Kevin there, and now here she's supposed to believe Arlene loved her? Arlene doesn't even know how to get Nyla's grits right, leaving the sugar out and everything! An angry tear broke through her will, and Nyla looked down quickly to wipe it away.

Mama understood more than Nyla realized. "I'll call you every day from Philadelphia. I'm going to miss you while we're there, but we'll be back soon. But Nye, this is about family. I have to be there for Cousin Emma, and you have to trust me about Arlene. Be patient. Now, go on and get my hat box."

And that's how Nyla wound up at the bus terminal standing next to Arlene, waving goodbye to the only family she felt good around, save her uncles, who were always working. In fact, she and Arlene had to walk back home together, alone. Nyla hadn't realized this when they first set off from the house with Uncle Junior in the borrowed truck, or maybe she wouldn't have even come to say goodbye. Junior had to take the truck back in time to get back to work, so here she was, walking beside Arlene. Red toenail polish wearing, no slip under the dress baring, scar on her face having Arlene.

***

She felt so awkward walking home from the terminal beside her, scared to speak, scared to reach for her hand, even when they crossed streets. At some point during the walk, Arlene's heart resigned itself to the fact that they'd have no talk of her love for Nyla or her shame at letting things get so distant between them. Now she understood more of what her own mama went through trying to love her as a girl. Nyla's stoic little face didn't cry when Mama and Kevin rolled away on that bus. Her jaw was set. Her body, stiff. She's me, all over again, Arlene saw. A tough little bird, and she hates me.

The house loomed up in her vision from blocks away as Arlene realized that with Junior and Billy working until well after nightfall, she and Nyla would be completely alone for the first time since Junior carried her into the house weeks ago, bleeding and grieving and probably scaring Nyla to death with the very sight of her. How much did she understand about Fish? Did she know about Little Boo? Would Nye listen to an explanation? Did she need one? They climbed the steps, walked across the porch, and entered the house, in silence. Nyla grabbed a newspaper from the coffee table and went back to the kitchen.

Arlene stood, watching her, and took a deep breath as her eyes settled somewhat absentmindedly on the kitchen doorframe. Except her mind wasn't absent. It was keenly present, listening to Nye opening the newspaper, smelling the grease from that morning's fried fish, remembering how she hated to be approached when she was angry, and debating whether she wanted to walk into the kitchen or go outside to the front porch.

She took a step.

voyeur

so i was driving, but at the time i was stopped at a traffic light, and this young woman walked across the street in front of my car. her hair was long and beautiful, and she'd washed it this morning, just like how i've been doing the wash-and-air-dry all summer. i gave her hair and facial features the once-over, knowing she didn't notice me, trying to determine if this fair skinned girl was black or not. (she was. and that's a whole 'nother topic - how we're indoctrinated with the need to put folks in boxes and figure out what they are...) but anyway, she led my gaze to light upon a man standing on the corner she was headed to, who seemed to be enjoying his morning coffee. he was about my dad's age and complexion - i liked him and his middle aged belly immediately. i noticed that as the girl approached him, he looked rather indifferent to her presence... but the moment she walked past him, his head turned to watch her walk away from him. i did a double take. did he just check that girl out? that's so funny! he's all old and stuff. but i kinda doubted what i saw, and in that instant, i noticed another woman walking up with a great figure and a beautiful head of hair. i thought to myself, i bet he'll check her out. and sure enough, when she turned the corner, his head did too. he started at the top of her head and worked his way down as she walked away.

without hesitation, because i knew the light would soon change, and i just had to get it in, i rolled my window down and teasingly hollered,

"you know you ain't right, lookin' at dem girls!"

he turned around, surprised that he was being watched, and then a little sheepish for having been caught being a dirty old man. he looked in the car and saw me laughing, and started to laugh at himself along with me.

i said through my laughter, "you need to leave them pretty young girls alone."

and he said, "aww, i ain't hurting nobody! shoot, i'm looking at you, too." he laughed. he addressed me as if i was some niece that had caught him pinching his wife's booty. "no harm done, long as i don't..."

"yeah, i know, i know!"

the light changed. i had to go.

i grinned. "you have a good day!"

"you too!"

i giggled off and on for the next five minutes.

going to the fair

yes, i did pick up eight books that i'm proud to own, a mix of fiction and historical/biographical nonfiction. and yes, i did miss the workshops because i got there late (which was not my fault, 'cause i had to wait for my passengers to convene before i finally hit the road). and yes, i realize that the gathering was what folks collectively put into it. and no, it wasn't the rain sprinkles or clouds. it was the other stuff, like the fact one of the two blocks seemed to be predominantly food, jewelry and clothes instead of books. and then, of the books that were there, most were what a friend of mine has termed, "ghetto fiction."

i'm sure there's a term they use for it in publishing that isn't so charged. i realize that the word "ghetto" has in recent years become a word that no longer carries the innocuous "ethnic enclave" meaning that you may find in a dictionary. folk generally use the term now with disdain, or alternatively bothersome, with praise, when talking about the bad stereotypes, character flaws, and various degrees of shady activity and ignorance that folks like to pin on poor urban minorities. the term ghetto fiction has been used, at least by my friends, to describe the legion of books that are being marketed en masse to black folks, often by black folks, seemingly everywhere that books are being sold to black folks. the books are all paperback. most of the covers have pictures of black people on them (to reassure us that we're not picking up a book about white folks, since surely, we wouldn't be interested in reading about anything or anyone other than ourselves.) many times the women are wearing really provocative clothing, or no clothing at all. and the men all look angry, with bandanas on their heads. if you read the back cover, you'll often find that the protagonist faces some dilemma that has something to do with "the streets," "the hood life," or "the game." many of these books are like extended written versions of the lyrics and videos of the latest r&b or hip hop songs. their plots commonly twist and turn around drug culture, sexuality, and violence. some are cautionary tales. others are simply tales, like ma.rio pu.zo's the god.father, except that the characters are black and poorer, but somehow even more glamorous and daring. unfortunately, the books are often poorly written and edited, with predictable plots, unimaginative language and character development, rampant misspelling, and bad grammar outside of dialectical speech or narration. publishing houses (first the small ones, and increasingly, bigger and bigger ones) are really cleaning up with these books, with the exception of the many that are independently published.

i've read some of these ghetto fiction novels on the rare occasions that i have overestimated certain books because the cover didn't fit the profile. i avoid these books like the plague. i grew up reading classic short stories by writers of all colors, and my introduction to black authors' novels and poetry came from toni mor.rison, maya ang.elou, james bald.win, rich.ard wright, nikki gio.vanni, and the like. i'm a snob. i've had prime steak, i don't want canned potted meat now. to me, ghetto fiction is a dented can of potted meat. that's been sitting in the corner store since it fell off the back of a truck when the store opened seven years ago. that's been sitting untouched on the shelf through numerous fumigations.

anyone can write a book. get their little cousin who took art at the vo/tech to draw a cover. get their little sister who has a computer to type it up and edit it. get some money from somewhere and print it, selling it out of the trunk of their car. don't get me wrong, i'm not knocking the hustle. some folks even start small publishing companies, some of which specialize in creating and marketing these books. i find that to be very enterprising and smart. there's a demand, and they're just supplying it.

but at what cost? some folks say they're glamorizing immorality and the kinds of lives that we shouldn't want for ourselves. others say that the books have gotten people reading who wouldn't otherwise be reading. (unfortunately, young people can be included in this population.) but i'll be honest, i'd rather this trend stop now. i hate the idea of our literary ability as a people to decline because we expect and demand less creativity and skill from the folks and write and tell our stories. it's actually not the subject matter that grates at my nerves so much as it is the treatment of the subject matter and the bad quality of the books. it's getting more and more difficult to find new creative books by black authors that fall outside of the ghetto fiction or ter.ry-mc.millan-sistagirl-dilemma trends. could it be that aspiring black authors will one day choose to write ghetto fiction merely because it's the lucrative genre, instead of striving for their own personal literary heights? could ghetto fiction dull the senses of those who would otherwise be skilled readers with discriminating taste? in other words, would the nightmare that's happened in the black music industry happen in the black literature industry as well? would i wind up being a "backpacker" author, hustling my book underground to the "conscious" heads 'cause i'm too old school and counter-trend for the mainstream publishing houses to sign me, 'cause i won't sell out and write a simple book with no style, value, or nuance just to move units and keep the people simple yet hungry for more to dull their intellect?

i actually heard a very annoyed someone ask at one of the booths, "do you have any lang.ston hughes here?" as if they'd been looking all day. i felt their pain.

i'm nervous. the harlem book fair made me nervous. not just for my future in writing, but for all of us.

milkman's sister

there are many ways to express love.

one of them is to stay out to support a sistapoet who's on her way out of town to pursue an academic dream, staying until every last drop of the send-off has dripped, even if it means that my body wasn't going to hit the sheets until something-to-three in the morning.

wait for it...

*yawn* (excuse me.)

i also noticed lately that a lot of the poetry i write - the substantial majority of it, in fact - is love poetry. notice, i didn't say romantic, i said love, because love is bigger than the erotic and sentimental, though i do write romantic and sensual pieces. i write poems that are in tribute to different kinds of people, like women, men, black folks, my old neighborhood, and my dad. i have other poems that are about my disappointment in certain events, like the aftermath of hurricane katrina or the incidents where people lose their lives to violence and receive no justice because of apathy. still other poems center around my identity politics, and where my place is in this society and the various microcosms of society i deal with, and more often than not, those poems are written towards the love of self, the love of the Creator, and the love of others. i suppose it's fitting that my poems all boil down like greens to love in one way shape or form. i'm happy about that. i'm very pleased to know that the contents of my mind that my expressive side feels imperative to share with others is essentially all the stuff about love.

my faith teaches me that the two greatest and most imperative things a person can do are to love the Creator and love the neighbors (more than you love yourself, which is really just an extension and natural companion to the other two acts of loving.) i think i actually understand that ordering too. because in order to love the Creator, you have to earnestly be open and respectful of and generous toward Someone you can't even reach out and put your hands on... unless you can recognize that that loving Someone's breath respirates in every person you'll ever see. and that alone is enough reason to be open and respectful and generous to everyone who will allow you to be, and to at least be respectful from a distance if folks force you to. i think that once you've done that, then maybe you can truly do that for yourself. because without that first understanding, we love ourselves merely out of self-interest and intrinsic self-preservation. that's such a biased and limited love - it's the kind that allows us to criticize and doubt and hold contempt for our fallibilities and shortcomings that perhaps we'd be able to forgive if we could love ourselves with the same lack of conditions with which we can look at a stranger and love what we see. the more we practice the effort, the less we see good reason to put exceptions and conditions on love, with others and with ourselves. i walk several blocks in the city most mornings, and i pass all kinds of people. practice makes perfect, so i look at them and i try to see myself in them. well, not so much myself, but the part of myself that is like the part of them that is in common to both of us because it's both of us and not of us, that Divinity - that shared original breath some people call soul, or spirit. it gets easier as i continue to try. i've seen myself in middle aged asian ladies, and weather beaten old homeless dudes, and cosmopolitan white girls walking their little dogs, and brothers riding low in their seats listening to hip hop loud at eight in the morning. it's the most amazing thing.

i've noticed lately that my posts lately keep going back to the spiritual. i don't plan this stuff. i just write where the words take me. i try not to beat folks over the head with my spirituality and my faith tradition, 'cause one of my main gripes with it is that people who preach generally annoy the hell out of me. i can get past those who are self-righteous, or those who are regurgitating stuff they haven't even understood or internalized yet, and those who are condemning. but it's the persistence of those folks who don't realize that only those who have ears for what you're saying will be the ones to grow from it. and whoever ain't listening for it, won't be ready until they are listening for it, in which case the best you can do is plant a seed and keep it moving. i'm not here to save anyone. everybody has to decide if they even need saving, and if so, from what, and only then will a decision they make on how to get what they need hold any water. only then will they know whether or not to accept or reject the seed. till then, their ears are closed, and they're just going through the motions of apathy or ambivalence or perhaps even persistent rote activity, with no ground being gained. i live and let live, and hope that my living speaks louder than the oft-repeated phrases in a misunderstood paradigm of religious thought that dull the ears of the otherwise willing.

anyway, that was a big digression. or maybe not, 'cause i was talking about love, after all, and that all fits in - because i love folks, or at least am learning how to really do it. and because of that, i will set aside my pride as best i can in order to respect that there is always hope in the Divinity within them. i'm learning the art of it as i go along. and i like that my poems and blogs are telling the story of how i'm coming closer and closer to understanding. for now we see through a glass darkly... (ooh let me stop before i start mangling first corinthians (one of my favorite toni morrison characters) up in here. i didn't even know this post was gonna go there...)

have a good weekend.

because i said so dammit

what is it about my pride that is so fierce when someone tells me i'm wrong? why does it vex me so? it shouldn't. people are wrong, all the time, all over the place. the world keeps turning. more often than not, we don't hate people just 'cause they're wrong, with the exception of stuff like, oh i dunno, making up reasons for war and bullying everybody into going along with you. but besides stuff like that, being wrong is so not that big a deal, especially if you make some kind of mistake. honestly made mistakes are really just these understandable little occurrences that happen to everyone.

there's a possibility that i made a mistake. to my understanding, i have not. there are only two possibilities, that i have, or that i haven't. and the world won't end if i did, in fact, make a mistake. but to some extent, it's a matter of remembering what i have or haven't done, and i remember doing what i was supposed to do. i'm confident that i have not manufactured some recollection of not making a mistake in order to dub over having made one. i was there. i know. i'm not wrong!

i don't like how condescending people can be when they think you're wrong. i wonder if i'm like that when i think someone is wrong. i'm argumentative by training, yet smart enough to know how to choose my battles. but sometimes it can take all of my restraint to take the humble route and allow folks to say what they believe without correcting them and being... right.

i am so often right that it's difficult to carry either being wrong, or being possibly wrong, or being presumed wrong, with grace. i am usually on the other side of the divide between right and wrong, comfortably ensconced in the superiority of righteousness, generously taking the high road by using discretion to decide whether or not to condemn or to lovingly and patiently correct whoever has made a mistake, or uttered a faux pas, or misspelled something beyond recognition.

i attribute some of my struggle with this to my experience with my dad. bless his heart, he always means well, but in true virgo fashion, he is quite the critic, and even when he's wrong, he ain't wrong. i never really liked his self-righteousness much, or the fact that he didn't even realize (or care) that he was so proud that he was beyond reproach. funny how the traits you dislike in others may very well irk you despite the fact (or because of the fact) that they're traits that mirror your own. i like to think of myself as openminded and humble enough to own up to my share of being wrong. and in many respects, i do, and i'll readily admit when i've been in the wrong, whether reluctantly or eagerly. but it's not so easy when i disagree. if i subjectively believe that i'm right, that's all that matters, besides using my acuity with words and the strength of my will to make sure whoever else may be "confused" about my righteousness gets set straight on the matter. i suppose that i can do better than that, and i suppose that i can try to recognize that my subjective opinion is but one side of an objective reality, and that just because i find myself to be right, that doesn't necessarily mean that i am.

pssssshhhhhh, who am i kidding. i know myself. i'm more likely to hold on to my opinion and inwardly accuse my opponent of some inferiority - a warped memory, a blind eye, a swollen sense of pride, a lack of intelligence, a judgmental impatience. this, my friends, is why my faith tradition is important. i have to believe in a Creator that's better and more perfect than me. otherwise, understanding of my human frailties and forgiveness of my mistakes would take a backseat to condemnation, and my memory and existence would be forever marred by my shortcomings through the infinity of existence, long after the earth reclaims me.

green girl outgrows clothes

there are times when i feel like the Lord just wants me to deal with my chronic impatience. today and yesterday are some of those times. i have exhausted more time and gas and energy and sweat than usual in the last 24 hours, and i have not been a happy camper. pick a moment - the moment i realized an expensive package delivered to me was knowingly delivered to the wrong person, and that i had no control over when or if i would ever see it. or maybe the moment i really wanted to be there for someone and i couldn't because i was obligated to do something else... or wait, maybe the time i had to really really relieve myself to the point where i considered relieving myself in the street... or the moment i noticed my mobile phone - my ONLY phone - had no juice and i had no access to my charger. or maybe pick the moment when i was held up for about five extra minutes on the way to work because of a road hog who insisted on driving in both lanes, or the minute i realized i was rushing to leave for work so fast that i forgot deodorant after my shower, causing me to buy a stick even though i already have three at home. maybe try picking the time when i looked at the sky and saw and felt rain, but had to go to three stores just to find one umbrella. which didn't keep my legs and feet from getting wet. speaking of legs and feet, maybe pick when a cramp seized my calf muscle so hard it woke me up overnight, and still is stiff today. or maybe choose when i bit into a piece of fruit salad before realizing that maybe i shouldn't have. and i'm having a bad hair day. and my sunglasses, the ones with sentimental value, are broken. i never have so many things go so inconveniently for me in such a short 24-hour period. people keep talking about some mercury retrograde thing. look, i don't know what it is, but it's making me nuts. i need a break.

i've been telling myself not to overreact to things. that all these things are inconveniences that will all soon pass and be remedied. that there's no need for me to act out and make situations worse. that it wouldn't be worth it to cuss out the folks who might deserve it. that some of this stuff is very much my fault for being hasty and allowing stuff to distract me. but you know what? sometimes all the good sense in the world is no decent match for full-blown frustration. all these things are happening as if annoyances have agreed to play tag-team wrestling - taking turns burning up my energy and time. it's hard to be reasonable when you feel like every step you take in any direction is liable to wind up in some doo doo. i could soooooo relate to the incredibl.e h.ulk over the past days. i so wanted to choke that man who giggled at me at the carrier for my package when they told me that yes, they had messed up, and wow, that sucks for me. i so wanted to cause him bodily harm. or at least to cut him to the quick with something scathing from my lips. and after i'd held onto my hometraining and left the store with my dignity intact, i got mad with myself for being non-confrontational and not venting my frustration.

but now, i am writing. all isn't well with the world, but it's a little better. i'll get phone access back at lunch. my carrier is supposed to be getting my package back, and if they don't i'll just do what I have to do to get what want, no less blessed just because of the inconvenience. i woke up in the comfort of my pleasantly cooled home, after a comfortable sleep, and had the health and means to get to work and earn some money. all that other stuff is just other stuff. i might have a popsicle with lunch.

fo-cus-er

FOCUS.

Merriam-Webster says:

Main Entry: focus
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): fo·cused also fo·cussed; fo·cus·ing also fo·cus·sing
transitive verb
1 a : to bring into focus b : to adjust the focus of (as the eye or a lens)
2 : to cause to be concentrated <focused their attention on the most urgent problems>
3 : to bring (as light rays) to a focus : CONCENTRATE
intransitive verb
1 : to come to a focus : CONVERGE
2 : to adjust one's eye or a camera to a particular range
3 : to concentrate attention or effort
fo·cus·able /-k&-s&-b&l/ adjective
fo·cus·er noun

I find particular value in the third definition of the intransitive verb: to concentrate attention or effort. Writing is my friend. Books are my friends. Poetry and I are becoming friends. And in that vein, I've treated my relationship with the written word much like how I treat my relationship with friends. Casually. I relate to the craft of using and reading the written word when I feel like it. If I need pleasure or release or solace or companionship in written words, then, in that instant of need, that's when I grab a pen, or curl up with a book, or venture to an open-mic or poetry concert or slam. If I don't feel like it - if I'm otherwise preoccupied, I know that the affection I have for reading and writing is constantly there, and ready to flow like water from a tap when I need it. In that way, my casual friendship with words is even better than the one I have with my living, breathing friends who are sometimes needy or unavailable or disappointing.

Now, there's nothing wrong with having this casual approach towards the written word. However, if I have dreams of being able to write things and have my words spread out beyond my physical reach, to eyes and people that I may never even see, then I am entering another world. A world of measurable predictors of attention and financial success. Whether I edit and bind my book(s) myself or whether I have a major company do it, there are considerations of supply and demand, target audiences, marketability, production costs and profit margins, shelf space - things I know precious little about. It's a whole 'nother world. A world where a casual relationship alone just won't do. It's business, not casual. And a business relationship means that I can't tell the written word, "I'll see you when I see you," or "I'll be around when I get a chance." A successful business relationship takes a concentration of attention and effort. It takes focus.

This is why it is important that you love what you do. I intend to invest my attention and my effort into the written word every chance that I purposely make. I have to. This is business. And because my nose will constantly be stuck in a book or alternatively, my eyes will always be on a computer screen as I type or read, and I know my fingers will often be scribbling writing ideas on post-it notes or forcing the poetry of my mind into my black and white composition notebook, whether or not I think I have anything to say, or whether or not I've been christened with the sweet nutritious water of inspiration, I had better like - LOVE - what I'm doing. This is how I know I'm doing the right thing for my spirit. In a perfect world without bills, I know I would quit my job to do this full time - no, scratch that, more than full time - just to get it done and done well.

Remember when I was blogging every day for the discipline of it? When I slacked off, I was not as personally fulfilled, and it took me a while to get my rhythm back. I learned from that. Focus will help me to be a more prolific writer with a better sense of my strengths and weaknesses. Focus will help to keep folks coming to my blog because they'll know I won't disappoint them by posting erratically - and that's important to me because their comments give me food for thought and keep me writing. Focus will get me closer to my dream of having something between two covers that I wrote, with my first name and my parents' last name on it. They can take it to work and say, "See this author? This is my child." And my children can take it to show and tell one day and say, "See, my mama wrote this book. She writes all the time - she says focus is important. She writes me stories from my ideas, and she writes for grown-ups too. We see her books in the bookstore. And that's her picture in the back. My mama is a writer." That's what focus can give me.

good morning

i am thankful for my faith tradition that keeps me out of big trouble and encourages me to take responsibility for my actions and attitudes. i'm thankful that the Creator has given me a heart that desires goodness in all things. i'm thankful to have a job with air conditioning, and for the food and drink i've had to eat and drink this morning. i woke up happy and cared for and i'm thankful for that, too. i'm thankful for honesty and friendship, for long lazy days and good things to read. i'm thankful that there are people who are thankful for me. i'm thankful for prayer. i'm thankful that my grandma and my parents are still healthy and independent and that i still have time to prepare for when they need me. i'm thankful that my children are but thoughts and intentions and that i still have time to prepare for when they have beating hearts and open mouths. i'm thankful for craig's list and monster and blogger and writerblocks and hotmail and haloscan. i'm thankful for forgiveness, the passage of time, and both the persistence and the weakness of memory. i write and i communicate and i articulate and from that i grow and foster others' growth, and for that, i am truly thankful. thankful to be increasing in wisdom and discernment. thankful to have so many constant opportunities to choose to change. i'm thankful for my car. thankful for my financial prudence and knowledge. i am thankful for my dreams. i am thankful for good boo lovin. i am thankful that the true meaning of that sentence remains an enigma to the reader, though it holds much meaning for me. i'm thankful for my body, all its strength, and its excellent design, the persistent breath within, and its beauty. i am thankful for free nights and weekends, and for my mom and dad. and music! and laughter! and fruit! and children! and love! and popsicles! and poetry. and i'm thankful that i understand the importance of appreciating stuff.

laid to rest

it has served me well for the better part of a decade, that bed. right now it is either leaning against the no parking sign where i left it last night, or taking a ride to that bedroom in the sky in the back of a south jersey sanitation truck. *sigh.* it was my first bed that was bigger than a twin. the first piece of furniture i ever bought. the only piece of furniture in my first apartment for the first few days. i bought it at the corner store with money i earned at my summer temp job down near baltimore's inner harbor. i'm not joking when i say corner store, either. there's a furniture store at 33rd and greenmount (or at least there was one then... it's the area you see in the opening montage of ch.ris rock's movie about the brother who ran for president - the name escapes me now - yeah, i know the movie was set in d.c., but i also know my old neighborhood when i see it, and that stuff in the background is in b-more, right up the street from the store on the corner where i bought my bed.) my bed was cheap. i was making about $9 an hour, full time - the most money i'd ever made in my life to that point - and i was itching to get out of an uncomfortable roommate situation. i'd just handed over first month's rent and security for my first apartment, a converted attic within walking distance from both campus and the hood storefronts where i could get chicken boxes with the little square rolls for two dollars if i was ever out of instant grits or oo.dles of noo.dles. i didn't have no s.ealy, s.erta, or k.ing c.oil money. so i paid $99.00 plus tax and delivery for a full size, no-name, no-pillowtop, no warranty mattress with no exterior satiny quilting, the boxspring, and the frame. the men who delivered my bed put it on the porch and my downstairs animal house neighbors helped move it up the two flights of stairs, in the middle of summer, to my empty hot box - a truly humble abode.

i was so proud.

i was an adult, taking care of myself. i had keys to my own place and a brand new bed i'd paid for myself. don't stop, get it, get it! if nothing else, i didn't have to sleep on the floor.

that bed rode with me through college and two graduations. though i did eventually get more furniture, i still ate on it, studied on it, wrote in my diary in it, wrote poetry in it, read and listened to music in it, prayed beside it, took sick in it, consoled myself in it, made love in it, and cried over lost loves in it. in the numerous times i worked numerous jobs at once to keep the bills and rent paid, it was there to support my weary body. it moved with me three times, even though the springs began to lose their spring, and the lining began to peel off the bottom of the boxspring, and i had to cover the top with a feather mattress to make the thing bearable to sleep on. it was so silly: the feather mattress was a twin size. the bed was a full size. i'd set that mattress in the middle and the sides would be all hanging bare, like the edges of bread slices when you put a hamburger on it. but i loved my bed - was thankful for and proud of my bed - it was the symbol of my independence and the beginning of my adult life.

it's been several years, now, and i am both the same and a different person. moving, AGAIN. and eager to embrace the changes that are happening in my life, and in that vein, many things are being tossed in my purge - first, to prepare for a smaller apartment, and secondly, because i'm not a big girl, i'm a grown woman. my hand-me-down couch. my fam.ily doll.ar college tupperware. the dishes and glasses i bought at a yard sale for $20 the weekend after i moved into that first place. my hand-me-down microwave with the broken timer dial that still works, no matter what all my friends say. ("how am i supposed to know how long it's been in there?" "it don't matter - just touch it to see if it's hot - shoot, it'll be done when it's done, and shutup talking about my microwave! my auntie gave me that!") no matter what, everything i owned was a miracle to me. i was, and still am thankful for every thing i had, no matter whether i bought it cheap, or it was someone else' s trash - it was all blessing in my eyes. God has blessed me and continues to do so. ax about me. ask my visitors if my dwelling places were anything less than welcoming and as comfortable as love could make them. ask the guests who i've surrendered my bed to whether or not they slept well at night.

last night, i slept on my fold-out loveseat. i'll be getting a nice new wooden futon with a spring mattress for this new place, that will probably be a guest bed when i move on up into homeownership. but before i move too quickly, i just had to stop and acknowledge that old bed jostling in the back of some green trash truck, and how thankful i was for the blessing.