22 April 2014

Happy Earth Day

google images


mother earth, i hear your wind...
it speaks softly...
it is a gentle reminder of your love
and your need to be loved back...

mother earth, i feel your sun...
warm, strong...you brown my inviting skin
you envelop me in your rays
you give me light...you sustain me...

mother earth, i love your gifts
your moving clouds, your flowers, your grass, your trees
your rivers...they flow, they make the sweetest sound
you are divine and perfect...

mother earth, i cherish you...
i need you as much as you need me
you want to remain beautiful and unmolested
we should honor your wishes for they are not impossible...

mother earth, may you be allowed your freedom
may you continue to live and breathe
we cannot survive without you...
happy earth day...i celebrate you and the birth of our being


04 April 2014

caught between the lines & the lies

inspired by a revolutionary boi


i read your pain today
it was as real & tangible as my own
you summed up the parts of me that are
have been
might be
incoherent & cohesive, the coming & the going
the lows & the lows & the lows
the hollow expectation that life has some meaning
&  purpose for us
we get so lost in the journey
with such a long distance to happiness & well-being
that’s just how fucked up life gets
a very complicated & isolating & accommodating
darkness we uneasily hold on to
knowing its unsafe passage ends with
a destination landmarked by our scars & our fears

we are confused by the choosing
we are at a dead end...we can go no further

still, we wonder if  (& we hope) the light will come
if the invisibility of this fog will lift long enough
for us to find our way back
find a way to change coordinates & forge ahead
though it seems difficult
like it’s too far to turn back
with not a glimmer  not a hope
nor a rainbow
stormy weather…we’re lost in stormy weather

yet our souls are connected…tethered in the mire…in twists of fates
in the roots of ancient trees...tumbled
by our physical and psychic pasts…drawn together
we are each other’s hope
we're but caught between the lines & the lies

today i read your pain & i felt my own
tangible  real  demanding  relentless
unimaginably excruciating
i got lost in it
but we will get to that place &
it will hold us with love & peace & knowing
& grace us with a more reliable barometer
a better map, perhaps a spirit guide
who will prepare us for the storms
navigate a different path
&  we’ll wait patiently for the darkness to pass
for the sun to lighten our hearts & make us believe again
in a life worth living…in ourselves worth loving 
in you & me finding our way



30 March 2014

Shifting Gears

hey there readers,

for the past several weeks, i have shifted my focus to writing essays that address the intersections of race, class, gender & sexuality.

i knew it would only be a matter of time since my life often reflects those intersectionalities, is indeed impacted by it.

i feel i have a responsibility to myself, and others who find kinship within this framework, to speak to, witness, testify, confirm & deconstruct these realities.

more importantly, i am listening to the calling, the pull of gravity that is propelling me to the center & further away from margins.
google images

although a lot of what has occupied this space speaks to the myriad of issues that consume me (&, i think, those around me), i believe it is time to be more intentional about where these pieces are parked, how much space they take up...

please pardon my dust as i begin the process of  (un)loading & relocating some of my work.  as i shift gears and drive these pieces to another blog.

i'm really excited about this & hope that you will continue to follow me & my eclectic pieces of mind, find something that resonates, & not hesitate to leave your comment (s).  i really appreciate your audience & welcome your feedback.

i'll be sure to keep you posted about my new blog (currently under construction), let you know when it's up & running.

springing forward!

26 March 2014

Published Again!

I am pleased to have an essay featured in For Harriet...

I've identified as a feminist for many years but never have I fully embraced the essentialist view of feminism as “The advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.” Whether intended or not, this narrative has been part and parcel of the white imagination. It’s safe, efficient, expedient, and more often than not, class and race exclusive.
Click the For Harriet link above to read more.

Next week, I have a revised essay being published in Black Girl Dangerous...
I love these moments!

14 February 2014

You are a damn good thing and deserve all the sweetness


While I don't necessarily celebrate Valentine's Day, I don't mind if you do.
But I will say that I think capitalism drives this day. After all, it is "one of the major spending holidays in the U.S. for consumers, and one of the major events on the retail shopping calendar." 

That being said, I do so love me some love. And if you're celebrating love today, I do hope you celebrate it tomorrow and all the days to follow, or this day really means nothing except that you have made some very pushy retailers quite happy. Know that love is more than that.  It is complex and messy and scary sometimes.  You can love someone so hard it hurts, but you got to keep loving as if you've never been hurt before.  I do...I have...and I don't mind. 

The piece below was written by a young woman name Jezebel Delilah X, who has an intimacy with words that draws you into her world and evokes feelings that you knew you had, but hadn't the courage to express, at least not openly. I am a friend (and follower of sorts) of this beautiful, succulent black woman, and am never disappointed in her daily and frequent posts on Facebook where she is not afraid to be naked and vulnerable. I often find myself experiencing my own life through hers.  She is an audacious spirit, incandescent, with so much to give, and you know that the ancestors are speaking when she pours her wisdom onto the page...I love her.  She is a gift. I want to give back.  So please read and enjoy.  You all are damn good and deserve sweetness everyday, honey.  ~roro

google images
    

I once fell madly in love with a womyn who fell madly in love with me, but she was scared. Said I flirted with every one too much. Said she didn't want our friendship to end. Said she thought I was a heartbreaker, too frivolous with romantic language, too generous with my own affections. We processed for hours and hours and weeks and weeks and finally woke up in each other's arms. She texted poems in the middle of the night for me to wake up to the next morning, left drawings underneath my pillow while I showered and brushed my teeth. When I cut off my dreadlocs for the second time, she took them home, planted them in her backyard, and said she wanted to grow a garden of flowers as radiant as my smile. I called her Kween and turned my home into her thrown, my devotion into her crown. I wrapped my body around her and dressed her in lavish. I recognized her magic and chiseled her a wand, blessed it with wishes, rinsed it in dreams. We dreamed of babies and revolution. We loved each other so hard it started to hurt. She interpreted my busy as rejection. I interpreted her hurt feelings as disregard. Love turned into defensiveness. Defensiveness turned into desperation. Desperation turned into resentment. Resentment turned into anger. One day, we combusted. Our bodies repelled. Our hearts broke. Every conversation was an explosion. It was time to transition. I wasn't ready. I asked her for another chance, promised to be more present, more attentive, more engaged, more communicative. She said, " Look Vanessa, I love bread. I want to eat bread all the time. But I'm allergic to gluten. No matter how much I desire that bread, I'm not willing to consume poison." "You're comparing me to gluten, you're calling me poison?" I asked. She said, "You're worse. You're the kind of toxic that taste sweet, sounds healthy, comes dressed up extra pretty, pink box, ribbon on top, delivered with a smile and a hand-written note. Everything about you is a lie." I asked for specificity; what about me was poison, what about me was deception. All she could say was that I was a heartbreaker, too frivolous with romantic language, too generous with my own affections.

In that relationship, I learned the power of manifestation, the ways that words take root, the ways that fear creates texture, the way that anxiety can turn the sweetest love story into Frankenstein. So let me say this: you are health and healing, you are gentle growth, you are abundant with good intention, you are care and compassion, you are the sweetest possibility, you are honesty and integrity, you are forgiveness, you are jeweled obsidian, you are radiance and joy, you are laughter and liberation, you are accountable and self reflective, you are newness and opportunity, you are a banging ass brick house, you are brilliant and poetic, you are quiet when necessary, you are powerful and compelling, you are beautiful and considerate, you are resourceful and insightful, you are dedicated and loyal, you are creative and generous, you are love, you are love, you are love. You are a damn good thing and deserve all the sweetness. You are worthy.

About Jezebel: Jezebel Delilah X is a queer, Black, femme performance artist, writer, filmmaker, educator, and Faerie Queen Mermaid Gangsta for the revolution.  She is a co-host of East Bay Open Mic, Culture Fuck, a member of the story telling performance troupe, Griot Noir, one of the founding members of Deviant Type Press, Senior Editor for Black Girl Dangerous, on the Artistic Core of Peacock Rebellion, and a college instructor at various local community colleges.  She has been published in The Womynist, Full of Crow, As/Us, and Black Girl Dangerous, has written/directed/produced two films that have been screened in the Queer Women of Color Film Festival, performed in a pleathora of local performances, and has been a featured reader/performer at events all over the Bay Area.  She uses a combination of performative memoir, theatrical poetry, and feminist storytelling to advance her politix of radical love, socioeconomic justice, anti-racism, and community empowerment.  She holds an MFA Degree in Creative Writing from Mills College, where she focused on Young Adult Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction. 

04 February 2014

another black history moment: all the writers are white, but some of us got shit to say about it



Today in Black herstory:

Recently on my Facebook wall, a friend sent me this link on the daily routines of famous writers.

After reading only half of the article, I shot back a quick reply mainly wanting to thank her for the recognition (that I'm a writer, too) and point out that there was something in the piece that resonated with me.  I wrote her that "Susan Sontag's [description of her routine] really did it for me...like her, i'm a little bit (oh, hell, a lot) undisciplined with my writing, which is why i'm also not prolific (though i currently have 217 documents, more than half of which are incomplete or [a] clutter of thoughts and ideas for writing projects), and i love doing other things...but in the 21st [century] media/technology frenzy, i can get caught up..."

But then, duh, it struck me that the idea that these were the only (?) famous writers was flawed, and followed up with another comment, an addendum, if you will:

"although...there is a deficit of writers of colors, here and elsewhere these little essays of writing inspiration are derived, which feels heavy in the sense that, as a writer, i am always confronted with the imperialism and hegemony that privileges white (mostly male) writers--as i'm sure most writers of color are faced with--as the only authority on writing and the writing process...books [and advice from writers] like, "i know what red clay looks like," "black women writers at work," and two of bell hooks' monographs: "wounds of passion: a writing life" and "remembered rapture: the writer at work" are far from recognized and less likely to be considered for [respected] commentary on this topic...where [the hell]is james baldwin? langston? octavia? pearl cleage? toni morrison? nikki giovanni? sonia sanchez?  weren't/aren't they popular [writers], too? just a [black her/historical] thought..."

Maya Angelou was the only Black writer recognized, and further recommendations for more of this kind of stuff suggested more of the same: the only writing authority is the white authority.  But what about me? What about you, my diasporic literary sistas and brothas? What say you about your daily writing routines? Are you a morning or late night writer? Do you write every day or only on weekends? Do you prefer cafes or more intimate and quiet spaces?

forget all that writers write bullshit...writers, especially this Black writer, write when they can.  I may find the urge on Monday at 10am, and write till I'm blue in the face, but on Tuesday, I may have to do something else, engage in another kind of struggle...so i write when i can. ~roro

Another stolen Black history moment: there are only marginal moments of Black history within American history.  Moments that don't deliver the width, depth and breadth of Black (or other non-white) experiences.  Moments that delay or withhold truths-- Moments that limit and delegitimize.  Moments that become rote and regurgitated.  Moments of divisions and conquests lest we forget our place. A real cloak and dagger act.

One such cover-up is in the historical belief that all women (only in theory) gained the right to vote when the Nineteenth Amendment was passed.  No such thing, chile.  In practice, it was White women (mostly, middle-class) who would inherit the rights of this passage, which dawned on the 26th of August 1920.  Nary a word about when Black women got this privilege, which was some decades later (racism--no surprise there--poll taxes and such nonsense were illegal barriers to voting/civil rights). Moreover, Black women rigorously participated in the Suffrage Movement, many whom sought (unsuccessfully) to build solidarity with White women, but you'd have to dig a little deeper to find this herstory, and you'd be hard-pressed to find it as relevant content/context to the narratives offered regarding women's history. Historical apartheid prevails. But I digress...excuse my discursiveness. Or don't.

All that to say that there are countless examples of Black folk being uninvited or dismissed from the official (ha!) "American" story as if we would make an unsightly mark on something so pristine and impeccable. And they don't want to be embarrassed...oh lawd, let's not disrupt the status quo!  So our minds continue to be colonized to the extent that even with all this technology and ability to look up and get information on almost anything you want (for the life of me, I could not find a credible link to what routines Black writer practice), we are still pushed so far back from the (digital) center as to be rendered totally and utterly invisible (especially if you make the status quo feel too uncomfortable, then forget about it, you don't exist in the white imagination, and have you ever seen that played out? I have).  If you don't rock the boat, you may get an honorable mention, as did (Black/American) experienced writer, Maya Angelou.  This article basically told me that the Black writer ain't as authentic, disciplined and prominent as the white writers mentioned.

Fuck that. I'm advocating for more exposure to the recognition of Black folk to the literary canon.  As a start.  Hell, why not reconstruct that motherfucker and give it a lot more color and pizazz and straighten out some of those persistent white wrinkles (and could someone tell me why does Stephen King show up under an image search for "famous Black writers"?  See?). More importantly, let's re-define or do away with "famous" cause it takes up way too much space, literally and figuratively and metaphorically and oppressively.  It is a word (in this and other contexts) that ubiquitously lends itself to the perception of dominance, especially when the dominant is so mono-chromatic.

I figure since this is Black history month as well as my birthday month, I may as well raise a little more hell than usual.  What the fuck. I'm just saying.

12 January 2014

Love Intelligence Freedom Equanimity: L.I.F.E. (or something like it)


Towards the end of 2013, I was scrolling through my Facebook page and found a post by someone that included this image (right).  As it mentions, the first three words you find in the puzzle represent what you want in life.

LOVE, INTELLIGENCE, FREEDOM were the first to pop out at me. I took it as a sign. If  those words truly represent what I wanted in this life, how do I begin to manifest it (more)?    


While giving this some consideration, I decided to add another word and letter because the first three created the acronym LIF, so I chose E for Equanimity because it seemed like a great fit (it made me think of foundation/being grounded) and a more appropriate choice of words to complete the puzzle (sometimes this is what life is, a puzzle, and one needs to solve the puzzle in order to solve the mystery of life, your own).  I needed a sign to get me going in 2014 (while wiping away the slate of 2013--it's over, don't you know?).  This felt like a nice start.

On the way to a New Year's day dinner with my friend Elaine, she asked me and two other passengers invited to join us in this 20 plus year tradition, what our word for the year would be. I started off the conversation by talking about the puzzle and how I was was encouraged to use the words as a meditation, something to remind me daily that love, intelligence, freedom, and equanimity was a worthwhile pursuit.  LIFE would enrich my mind, body and soul.  It would feed and sustain me. Elaine's word was fearless, another chose entrepreneurial, and another's was embodiment. I liked them all, and hope the words they've chosen will bring them what they want to accomplish in 2014, in their lives.  So far, here's what I'm thinking: 

Love.  Who doesn't want, need, or give love?  And this entails self-love, the most important love of all.  I know that loving myself would generate more love in my life.  Self-love allows me to accept the things that I cannot (or don't need) to change, and to change the things that are within my power to do so.  Self-love leads to happiness because looking for it outside of myself is not healthy and far from satisfying (I've learned).  I long to embody this more than anything and strive to be more me than anyone else.  I am okay and I am enough. I approve of myself. Love conquers the need to hurt myself or others.  Love is necessary. Most necessary. You better get you some love right now, honey. Sop it up and enjoy the feel, the smell and the taste. Now, give me some.

Intelligence.  With two degrees under my belt, I don't feel the need to go back to school (at least not for another degree).  Like Gloria Anzaldua wrote in her Open Letter to Women Writers of Color, I am still trying to (unlearn) "the esoteric bullshit and psuedo-intellectualizing that school brainwashed into my writing." When I look back on my body of work created during my years as a scholar, I wonder who the fuck was that writing those essays? I now know that only a small portion was coming from me, and the rest, well, it was that "esoteric bullshit".  I'd rather teach myself what I want to learn, or learn more of, especially if that learning brings me closer to myself, or an understanding of things I don't quite comprehend.  And I'd rather write in that voice I lost somewhere along the way because I was trying to hard to intellectualize shit that I didn't care to intellectualize. This isn't to say that I didn't get something out of that experience, cause I did. And I chose majors that satisfied my intellectual curiosity, rather than moving into that experience with the belief that I would have a sure-fire career that made me lots of money. Overall, it was a wonderful experience, I just didn't care for all the over-the-top intellectualizing. I found it unnecessary an unenlightening. Though I can be more thoughtful about my choices and what I desire to live a life full of meaning and purpose. This is not to ignore the theory and practice of personal and collective experiences.  I am a living breathing herstory with a wealth of knowledge behind and in front of me. That's my kind of intelligence. On this journey that is my life, I'm a road scholar. Feel me?

Freedom.  While I understand that there are certain freedoms that I still strive for in a world where being black, female, and economically disadvantaged (in a society that pathologizes being all three), among other things, is a struggle that is as persistent as raindrops in a storm, they are still worth the fight.  That I am still here, because, you know, I wasn't meant to be, is quite the feat, and I consider it a strength. Yeah.  Still, I enjoy the freedom to love, to learn, to give and to receive.  I want freedom, and now I am taking liberties toward that end, to write what the hell is on my mind, in my heart, about my experiences without holding back, and without believing that what I have to say doesn't matter, cause it matters to me.  I want to write dangerously and unapologetically so that my words reveal " the fears, the angers, the strengths of a woman under a triple or quadruple oppression. Yet in that very act lies our survival because a woman who writes has power."~ Anzaldua. A liberation of the mind, body and spirit. Yeah, that feels like some good shit.


Roro's gonna write like the "three-eyed demon shrieking the truth" ~Nellie Wong (photo, google images)


Equanimity.  Now this is what brings it all together, not the other way around. Being at peace with all of me, with my life--how I love, intellectualize and liberate, allows all this to fall into place. Only when I quiet my mind, let go of the negativity (inside and out), will I live the life I want and embody those three words I pulled out of that puzzle and then some. So when the bad stuff comes, and, yes, don't for a moment think it won't, I am armed with that thing called equanimity.  I find this to be quite fascinating because I'm not sure what it'll all look like when I'm done, but I'm going to take my time, breathe, meditate on it as much as I need to, and feel good about the process. Right now, I'm feeling quite rejuvenated. L.I.F.E. is good, dontcha know!

We all can use a prompt--a little support and encouragement. Those words were mine when I opened my eyes to the search and allowed it to inform this post. And since then I've discovered more, because life goes on, and as it goes, so you grow...that's the thinking anyway.  I see beauty, I see health, I see experience, and I see friends...not bad values to write about or be about.  What do you see? What do you want in your life this day, this year or the days and years to follow? What's your acronym? If you don't see the words that speak to you, create your own, and then let them spark you to live that life.  Live it to the fullest. I'm gonna meditate on my L.I.F.E. for a while and see what happens. Now is the time to put the pieces together. I'm a work in progress.  We all are.



22 December 2013

Your grief ain't like mine

my grandma, brother bobo, and moma











I received the call from my brother, Kevin on Sunday, December 1, 2013 at 10:04 am PST..."Bobo died this morning," he said.  I couldn't really detect grief in his voice, but perhaps there was a sorrow that could only be his and no one else's. Certainly not mine.  I was to come to that later, but not in the way that may be expected by most.

We continued to talk briefly about the scant details of our brother's death.  Bobo--our nickname for Ozell, although I couldn't tell you why he came to be called this--made his transition from this life into the next (I strongly believe that our bodies perish, but our spirits linger, sometimes searching and finding another host, but can also remain in limbo when they've left this life unresolved) inside the cold and sterile walls of a prison hospital in Joliet, Illinois.  There was the question of whether or not his body would be released to our mother since he was considered a ward of the state.  You see, Bobo was serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole.  He was never to see the light of day, but I pray that he saw a light of release and relief when he took his last breath.  He had suffered a long time from kidney disease.

However, there wasn't the usual fondness one has of memories about a loved one that we speak of when they have deceased. Things that made you laugh or moments when that person made you feel truly happy or occasions where someone's life left an indelible mark on your own without guilt or shame or anger or unpleasantness. Instead, my brother and I communicated in a kind of somberness expected but without the sadness that I would expect to have at the news of one of my sibling's passing.  Kevin and I  ended our conversation instead with a promise that he would call me soon with more details.

I had been awake only minutes before his call.  I lingered in bed for more than a half hour, trying to collect my thoughts, wondering who to call, and found myself writing a post on my Facebook wall that only casually approached the subject of my loss.  I wondered if my grief would come in the form of tears, and it did, but not as I suspected.  It was as brief as the conversation I'd just had with Kevin. Yet there was a heaviness that followed.  A kind of numbness and disconnectedness that I just couldn't negotiate or understand.  As I stumbled through my feelings, I came upon memories of my departed brother that I knew I had to resolve.  I grabbed my journal and began to write about the scattered pieces of a life I had shared with a brother I hardly knew.

We were only five years apart.  That's not a big gap, but it was big enough to separate us physically and emotionally from one another.  Our growing up only made us grow apart.  By the time he was a teenager, Bobo had already been inducted into the judicial system, first through juvenile detention and later graduating into a much harsher term within the adult prison industrial complex.  He spent a lot of time away from us. We celebrated birthdays and holidays in his absence.  When he was home, he continued to distance himself by spending long periods of time in the street where he fell into the grips of addiction.

Bobo (l), Kevin (r) and me on Christmas, circa 1960


There was this one time he came home for dinner and brought a friend.  It was truly one of those guess who’s coming to dinner moments.  His friend’s name was Janice.  I ascertained from the get go that Janice was not a young woman who just happened to look hard--she had a bit of a stubble on her chin, large hands with painted nails, wore red lipstick and had an even larger adam’s apple--but was a man wearing a dress, high heels and a wig.  Yet I had to be sure.  At age thirteen, I was far from developing a political and social consciousness around sexuality.  I was fascinated by this odd human sitting at our dining room table eating Moma’s spaghetti.  My curiosity got the better of me and I had to satisfy it before I could satisfy my appetite.

I had to be clever about gathering my evidence, so I  “accidentally” dropped my fork on the floor and moved stealthily under the table to retrieve it.  I was a teenage sleuth trying to solve a mystery.  My investigation was made easy since Janice was wearing a dress and hadn’t quite mastered “lady-like” manners (like keeping your “curtain” closed).  Janice’s legs were open wide, and for me, it was an open and shut case.  I’d confirmed my suspicions when I’d spotted the bulge revealed between her legs.  Janice had unwittingly confessed. 

I know that I’d been under that table long enough to be missed, but Janice was a show stopper, a jaw dropper, in that incredulous kind of way; I recalled there being an element of shock and awe experienced by family who struggled to keep the dinner conversation going so as not to reveal their horror (I know my family, they were indeed horrified that my brother had brought someone like Janice home to disgrace us at the dinner table, with our Christian values and all).

That was light fare and maybe one of the more lighter memories I carry of my dearly departed brother.

In one drug induced state, Bobo hung me by my ankles from a third story window and threatened to drop me after I had refused to iron his pants.  I'd told him that Moma said I didn't have to, but he was not to be denied.  I screamed for dear life.  I was terrified he'd drop me, that my head would hit the concrete below, that I'd die at the hands of my big brother who only cared about those rust colored polyester pants that gave an awful stench when the heat from the iron would meet the unwashed fabric.  I promised I would do as he wished and he pulled me up and brought me back inside the porch.  

Everything in between is a blur.  Bobo was frequently in and out of our house and the system.  I didn't get to know him or his story.  Don't know what made him happy or sad.  Couldn't tell you who his favorite recording artist was, whether or not he was a great dancer. Whether or not he had a best friend or a partner he loved deeply and unconditionally. Janice was the only person he ever brought home for dinner, and who later  sliced his back with a straight razor.   

I supposed he liked westerns since the picture above shows him wearing a holster and toy pistol. But in those days that's what all boys got for Christmas. I got dolls and an Easy Bake Oven.  I was Suzy Homemaker, Bobo was John Wayne or Lee Van Cleef.  He seemed happy there in that photo. Something changed, though.  Somewhere along the life he lived he made a detour and decided another fate.  I will never know because these memories are a part of my story. My story about my life with him in it as I remember it.  He had a different narrative.  It's likely that there are different memories held by my remaining siblings.  We all have our memories, our stories. But Bobo's stories about how he lived and why passed away with him on December 1, 2013. 

Everything else is just speculation.  I write this to assuage my pain at his loss. I needed to put to rest that part of my past that called for release, an ending. Now I can let go.  Now I can say goodbye.




17 September 2013

The evolution of light

7:33 pm.  I walk into the house from the second floor balcony and into darkness.  I am forced to turn on the lamp at the side of the bed.  Already?
google images

An end of summer sadness comes over me as the full moon begins to take control of the early night sky, illuminating it like a 100-watt light bulb magnified one thousand times  over.

I make peace with the fact that soon the days will be cut short by the change of season.  I crave summer ale knowing that in a week or so this brand will be out of stock until next year.  Enjoy it while you can, I think, when my next thought brightens my mood...I take notice of the candle burning next to the beautiful flowers I picked just this morning, which had automatically lifted my spirits like a dose of Wellbutrin...I look at the flame and am reminded of what for me is the upside of my sorrow at summer's eminent departure.

I get to burn more candles.

When the days become shorter and darkened by rainclouds or gloomy overcast, candles offer illumination and warmth to the murkiness and complement the sound of rain beating against the window.  I'm feeling mellow already.  I feel new love rising. This transition has to happen.  It is the natural order of things...I go with the evolutionary flow.

I grin at the image I hold of tea light candles and scented votives lining the dresser next to my bed.  Awaiting me is autumn's promise, a winter solstice, and a glimmer of hope. It's an intimacy that comforts me like a warm blanket on a cold November night...
google images

I smile, reassured that there is beauty and benefit in every season, and there is really no need to dread the passing of summer with its warm days, outdoor music festivals, barbecues, salsa dancing by the lake, summer fruit, sunflowers and heightened passion...The fall carries its own splendor, its own kind of romance. I am certain to be overjoyed with the change of color in the sky, with the leaves on the trees that will shed like a furry animal only to come back renewed and blooming with new life...later...

So on the night of this brilliant full moon, I will  briefly mourn this summer's transit as it gives way to a season of flickering lights, earth tones, and another opportunity to find hope and love and laughter; friendships that turn golden with each sunset; pumpkin pie and beer flavors to match...

Tonight I will take splendor as I slip into the inevitable darkness that seemingly comes much too soon. I slip but land firmly in that space between summer and fall, the evolution of light, adjusting my attitude and warming my heart...I shall enjoy what remains of this season and I embrace what is yet to come.
google images

09 September 2013

To have gratitude is to be present, to be thoughtful and to know love…

"Gratitude is the heart's memory" ~ French proverb

Sitting here in a lovely home where I am housesitting for a month and feeling awfully grateful and abundant and loved and protected and cared for.  A complete stranger has allowed me to look after her home in her absence.  Of course I was vetted, as much as one can be vetted in this circumstance, but still.  And only a few days prior to my moving in here for the next thirty days, I was in a home with a family that welcomed and embraced me as if I were their kin.  How fucking awesome is that, and how fucking fortunate I am to have that love… love happens.

Last November I gave up my home of twenty-two years.  For more than two decades it had been my sanctuary, the place I came to for peace, to rest, to play, to entertain and be entertained, to love myself and those who entered that space with all its warmth, laughter, love, kindness.  I surrendered this dwelling that was my paradise for so long because I had lost the ability to pay the rent, but now I realize that I hadn’t lost the ability to be and do all those things that I’d been doing when I could afford to live there.  I am grateful.  

I am grateful for the solitude and quiet surrounding me in this beautiful home, for the peace and quiet that surrounds my soul, for the ability to be present in this moment, to enjoy the blessings that I have in this now and not worry about tomorrow because I know and believe that it will take care of itself. 

In this marvelous moment that is my life, I am thankful for the crickets song bringing music to the night, for the serenity of the neighborhood that make up this community, for the friendliness of neighbors I have met since being here.  Looking out for one another should come naturally.  

I appreciate the opportunity to sit on a deck and look onto the hills as I wonder what the people who live there are up to, and hope that they appreciate what they have even if everything else in life is going awry.  Life and living life is not always easy.  But oh, there is so much charm to behold.  It makes my heart dance.

As I sit here, having had a healthy and filling kale salad followed by a Belgian ale that goes so well with Trader Joe’s Bite Size Everything crackers, I am well aware that there are so many souls out there that don’t have this kind of tranquility and comfort.  I pray for the safety of any woman, man, or child out there who have nothing but a cold and uncomfortable concrete palette to sleep on tonight, as I recognize how fortunate I am that this is not my situation, but it could be.  I wish for a world, an existence where our basic human needs and rights are met without us having to kick and scream for it, cause we all deserve the right to affordable housing, healthcare, a living wage, food, clothing and education that does not cost us our arms or our legs… Why we have to come up against so much resistance to this still bogles my mind and makes me furious.  I don’t know nor have I ever met anyone who wants to be without these things. 

And if I weren’t sitting still, if I was not being mindful and present I may not realize that I have so many more things to be grateful for than not.  A life worth living.  A life worth fighting for.  A life that is mine to live as long as in that living I don’t cause harm to others.  A life full of people who only want what’s best for me, who love me for me rather than assume to know what’s best for me and love only if I meet their conditions for that love.  

I am grateful for the people who are and have been in my life that has made this living a thing to cherish, a thing to appreciate and to live in a way that creates community and love and giving and the wish for the happiness and well-being of everybody, including me. 

It is, in spite of everything, a radiant life.  And I hope to keep living and loving radiantly so much so that it brings love and radiance to those who have been a part of it. 

With my deepest gratitude I share this life and this moment with you.  May you find your moment to be still and find all that makes your life abundant and blessed.

To be continued (as I plan to keep on living and be eternally grateful)…





22 August 2013

poetry by and for the people

the following poem was a collaboration of four creative human beings, latisha baker, brooke blaize, tonie nesbitt, and myself.  created by the people for the people. enjoy.

on a clear night
i stand before you
naked with words
vulnerable in prose
bathing in moonlight
while diving deeply into language    

Langston Hughes (image courtesy of google images)
     
i stand before you
honest and humble
exposed but not ashamed
anticipating the action
of your beautiful mind.    

20 August 2013

The Song of We (revised)


When you hear that song
you know,
the one that I played
for you

Think of me
Feel me bass deep in your heart
Feel me staccato in your mind
Feel me arpeggio in your bones

Allow me to be that melody you seek

Anticipate the pleasure of my blues
dissipating your pain
stop fighting the joy
you know you look forward to every time

I float across your mind in syncopating rhythm…

Are you ready to slow dance with me?
you take one step
i’ll follow your lead
together we will glide in sublime motion

I am that place close to your loveliness

Now you know how divine this love is…


Yeah, that song

courtesy google images

Black August Dreams

courtesy of google images


Once on a dark august night 
you’ll rise brightly to the occasion
you’ll come to me with your magic
magic black & tender & beautiful
as your skin, your smile, your eyes-
not everyone will get to see it, &
i surely don’t want to miss it
jealous of anyone with front row access
'cause i want this special moment all to myself
but if i promise to share you generously
will you allow me to move gently into your splendor?
you only appear once in a blue moon
& in the deep slumber of my black august dreams

i will remember you when I wake

25 April 2013

Mr. Leonard and the Big Bill Hill Show


The sound of Momma's body hitting the wall, the dresser, the floor or, heaven forbid, all three, was enough to make me get up off my ass and run out of the house for help.  Thank god that help was only two flights below.  My two eldest brothers, Rufus and Leroy* were in my grandparents flat watching television with their friends Gregory and Smooth*. 

Before the drama jumped off, I'd been upstairs watching a popular dance program with three other siblings. The Big Bill Hill Show (c. 1967-70) was Chicago’s first locally televised dance party for black kids, between the ages of 10 -13.  It preceded the mass appeal, syndication, and longevity of Soul Train (1970-2006).  Black kids from all over the Windy City would show up dressed to impress to a small basement studio on the South Side to pre-record the thirty-minute show exclusively for black entertainment.  And it was a hit as far as I'm concerned.  As a matter of fact, three of us should've been seeing ourselves on that screen that night.  We should've been grinning from ear to ear at the sheer joy it might have been to watch ourselves on television and bask in the glow of fifteen minutes of neighborhood fame.  That's a big fucking deal to an adolescent (who had already been socialized to worship fame, that dreaded spawn of capitalism) and I'm pretty sure we let the whole world know about it.

Instead, and to our dismay, Momma showed up too late.  Another dream deferred...Three small hopes had been dashed and devastated.  We couldn't be any more let down than this.

Momma finally arrived home in the middle of the broadcast, completely wasted.

“Y’all reaaaadeee?” slurred her words, slightly amused.

Image of kids dancing taken from Google Images

We were too pissed off to respond but gave her a stubbornly unified “We hate you right now!” look.  Y’all know that look, right?  Heads tilted to the side, arms crossed tight as drums across your chest, eyes glaring and ready to shoot sharp objects, upside down smiles set in stone faces, concretized. Hurt. Broken in our anger.  We were truly wounded.  It would take a lot for Momma to make this horrible night go away.

Then, a lot happened. In a few shorts minutes--in the time it took for Momma to tipsily walk past us and our tearless rage, move around the plastic covered ottoman where the black-socked feet of Mr. Leonard rested, into the bedroom whose door had been shut so quickly that all that was left was a fading puff of smoke from the last drag I remember seeing Mr. Leonard take from his cigarette--our anger shifted to fear and horror as we realized things were going horribly wrong for Momma.

Mr. Leonard was a bony, dark-skinned, well-groomed man with thinning hair; he smoked Parliament cigarettes and drank his scotch or whiskey on the rocks. His eyes were unkind, unloving, unfriendly as far as my young, probing eyes could tell.  And he was a bit too quiet.  We didn't chop it up, nor did he seemed particularly fond of any of Momma's brood of five boys, two girls.  Kids can sense these things, we possess a kind of bad adult radar and can smell an asshole from a mile away.  Mr. Leonard’s shit stank.  I didn’t like him.  I think this made me uncomfortable. He may have known that, too. He was around all the time, spending the night and shit. It’s difficult being a kid and unable to voice your objections over the mate of your divorced parent because after all, that choice could have a ripple effect.

That night while we'd waited for Momma, Mr. Leonard had been sitting quietly among us; his ashy right elbow rested on the arm of the light green patterned sofa with its slightly battered vinyl covering, a cigarette held snug between his fingers, a sweating glass of brown alcohol within arms length.  He smoked and drank in succession as if pairing the two for the right flavor or effect.  Not once did he say anything to us as we sat, dressed in our Sunday best, smiles vanishing into frowns, hopes dashing with each passing moment.  We had wilted.  Our happiness diluted.  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  When parents disappoint, life can suck.  All I/we ever wanted that night was to be on the Big Bill Hill Show.

“Heeeyyy, baaabeeeeee,” Momma garbled at Mr. Leonard. Without a word, he lifted his drink, lightly shook the glass to remix the ice and boose, took a long sip, swallowed, and inhaled deeply from his cigarette before putting it out in an ashtray.  He got up from his seat and silently followed Momma into the bedroom.

The noise we heard coming from the wall behind was intense. It became obvious to me that Mr. Leonard's anger (and embarrassment?) over my mother's behavior had escalated, and knowing what I know now, the blows which we could then hear were coming swifter and harder. By then Momma could barely contain her muffled cry. He was trying to hurt her; he wanted Momma to suffer his wrath, show her he was in charge of her attitude and her body. He was male supreme.  And because we were too afraid to open the door and become eyewitnesses to intimate partner violence, one of us had to run and tell somebody. That bitch-ass mothafucka was hitting Momma!  Mothafucka! That son of a bitch had to go!  One of us had to unclench our mouths, eyes and fists, shut so tight that it hurt, in order to get help for Momma.  I was the one…

A woman with hand up from Google Images

I jumped up and ran out into the front hallway and down the stairs to my grandparent’s front door.  I knocked hard and was nervously jumping up and down when my second eldest brother, Leroy came to the door.  Like a kid needing badly to go to the bathroom, I flitted about anxiously, unable to utter a sound.  I had been rendered speechless.  The trauma I felt was unbearable and it had silenced me. Helpless tears fell from my eyes.  “What’s wrong, Ro?" Leroy asked in alarm.  Intuitively he knew something was going on upstairs that required more hands on deck.  He called to Rufus and motioned for their friends to join them.  They gathered quickly in the small corridor outside my grandparents flat and rushed pass me up the two flights of stairs to Momma’s.

When we entered the apartment Mr. Leonard had returned to the sofa, eyes fixed on the television, a fresh drink in his hand, a cigarette slowly burning and dangling between swollen fingers. How hard had he hit Momma? He had tried to kill her? That bastard! He seemed as calm as he was before Momma had come home, before he put his puny, black hands on her.  My brothers Greer and Gerald, and sister, Claudine, were still frozen in their seats as if moving would shatter them into fragile little pieces.  My anger had grown, but Leroy's rage was what filled the room like a large explosion. Boom!  Mr. cool as a cucumber Leonard was about to get his ass-kicked!  He was outnumbered, baby…Pow!  Whack! Whoosh!  Let’s see if Mr. Leonard can take what he dished out to Momma.  As we used to say, “don’t start none, won’t be none.” Now.

Balled and bruised fists by Google Images
To no one’s surprise Leroy pulled a small handgun from his pocket.  He moved closer to the seemingly unfazed Mr. Leonard, with my brother Rufus and their friends pulling up the rear, and pointed the gun in Mr. Leonard’s face. Momma had been in the bedroom recovering from his blows and what I can only imagine, her embarrassment and shame, but came out when she heard the commotion.  Leroy had detonated and there was no putting the pin back into the grenade.  She stood back and the rest of my siblings joined me in standing a short distance away watching this drama unfold with as much attention and anticipation as we would give to any event that drummed up a hint of danger and the promise of a bad guy getting what he deserved.  Someone had turned down the television between the time I left and the time I'd come back with the calvary.

“You put your hands on my mother, mothafucka?” Leroy screamed at Mr. Leonard. No reply.  He pressed the gun into Mr. Leonard's left temple, cocked it; that dickhead didn’t make a move.  Can you believe that shit? 

“Get your black ass outta here before I blow your brains out nigga!” Leroy bellowed.  Leroy raised his hand and hit Mr. Leonard with the gun. The cracking sound was followed by droplets of blood as Mr. Leonard started to bleed from his eyebrow.  I felt both queasy and satisfied at the sight of crimson-colored stains forming like inkblots from a bottle onto his white tee shirt.  He should’ve known better than to mess with a woman with grown-ass children.  What the hell had he been thinking?

“Okay man, okay!” Mr. Leonard finally pleaded as he stood uneasily and stumbled off into the room, a white monogrammed hanky pressed against his head to absorb the flow of blood.  The sound of dresser drawers opened and closed as he gathered what belongings he had into one medium sized suitcase. "Make sure you get everything, Leonard, because you can't come back here no more" my mother soberly exhaled as we all tried to gather our thoughts about what had happened.

I briefly turned my attention to our floor model Zenith where the Big Bill Hill show was nearing the end of the program and reminding viewers like me to tune in the following Friday, same time. The images on the screen were blurred through the clouds in my eyes left behind by a storm.  In less than half an hour my young life had been interrupted by violence. Intimate, too close for comfort violence. Vigilante violence. Violence that entered a space where I had always felt safe.  My take away from this when it happened was not so much that my mother nor I would always be protected from violence, but that violence is inevitable for black women because men like Mr. Leonard exist.  I think I knew then that watching the Big Bill Hill show would never be the same for me.  


Someone reading this has experienced similar patterns of violence and harm.  Someone’s voice has been silenced as a result of domestic/intimate partner or state violence (I pray that no one has been re-traumatized by this account).  Someone may be willing to tell their own story.   I needed to tell this story to push out unpleasant memories taking an inordinate amount of space in my head and heart.  I needed to tell it because violence affects us all even when we're not the intended targets, we get hit by its impact anyway.  Collateral damage.  I needed to write this because someone out there is ready to jump up and fight back.  That could be you.  Come join me.
 

* Names have been changed.