tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3791976156597021722024-03-04T23:30:04.215-08:00Soar | Celebrating Black Women's CreativitySoar is a celebration of the Black women's prose, poetry, fiction and short stories from For Harriet.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16475264614364745493noreply@blogger.comBlogger242125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-81390420983061643372018-10-04T08:04:00.003-07:002018-10-04T08:04:55.139-07:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><br />
</b> <b>By Chelsea McLin//</b><br />
<br />
Tia lay beside me in the grass reciting a series of conversational phrases in French. <i>Bonjour. Parlez-vous français? Oui. Comment allez-vous. Très bien.</i> Her knowledge of the French language was very limited, and as such, these words became cyclical phrases in her daily routine as well as mine. She had been studying French for the past few months because she was traveling abroad for the summer. <br />
<br />
Tia was born in Cameroon, but she grew up in the States. Both of her parents were doctors who devoted their summers to providing free medical care to the people of their home country, and Tia always came along to assist. She had already traveled to Cameroon three summers in a row and hadn’t picked up on the language. I asked her why she didn’t just take a class, get the credit, and actually learn French. But she was persistent in learning on her own. <br />
<br />
“Okay, I gotta go.” She dusted the grass off of her pants and picked orange and olive colored leaves from her hair. The black ringlets bounced over the maple skin of her arms. She was a page out of a storybook. <br />
<br />
“Don’t leave,” I whined. <br />
<br />
“I have to. I’m an artist. I need to make money now because I won’t be making any in the future,” she chuckled. <br />
<br />
I met Tia during the second semester of our freshman year. She sat next to me in Biology. Her notebook barely had any notes. It was full of drawings and sketches. When we were paired up for an assignment, I thought that I would carry most of the weight. Biology was my major. I thrived in a lab. Tia, on the other hand, was a visual arts major. A complete right brainer. I expected her to never show up to our meetings and take credit for work she didn’t do, but she always showed up, and her sketches actually made the class a little easier. <br />
<br />
“You should try it,” said Tia.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Draw?” I shrugged. “I’m no good.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“Any scientist working in the field will tell you that drawing is quintessential.” <br />
<br />
“I don’t know how.” I continued to write in my notebook. She took the pencil out of my hand and drew the model of the human brain on the corner of my paper. It only took her a few minutes, but it was so detailed that it could have been a page in our textbook. She told me to copy it. I gave my best attempt. It wasn’t nearly as good as hers, but it sufficed. She smiled at me with approval. <br />
<br />
“Maybe if all our assignments were diagrams, you’d have an ‘A’ in the class,” I laughed flipping to a clean page. <br />
<br />
“Learning about the organic material inside a dead cat doesn’t move me in the way it moves you, but to each her own.” She gave me a smirk and proceeded to draw the stem of her brain. <br />
<br />
I snuck a peak through her notebook to see any other drawings that might help me during the practical exam. I was surprised to see faces. Faces of our professor, our classmates, and even me. <br />
<br />
I never believed myself to be anything extraordinary. I was mediocre at best. I had bland brown skin, bland brown eyes, and bland brown hair that I always wore in two braids no matter the occasion. I fell into the mythical average with the common folk of the world and considered myself nothing special to be observed. Tia once said that a truly amazing artist didn’t draw for the sake of drawing. Something had to move her. Interest her. And to be found interesting by Tia was remarkably overwhelming. <br />
<br />
“Are you done for the day?” Tia asked. <br />
<br />
“I have one more class, but I’m not sure if I’m gonna go,” I said. <br />
<br />
“Charlotte ‘Cece’ Jackson, you little rebel.” She playfully pushed my shoulder. “If you’re feeling this dangerous, come out with me tonight?” <br />
<br />
“I think I’ll pass.” I stuffed my notebooks into my book bag and pulled my arms through my sweater. <br />
<br />
“Your loss. Call me if you change your mind. <i>Au revoir.</i>” Tia hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. My heart quickened and my body tensed. <br />
<br />
Space and boundaries were words just as foreign to Tia as the French language. I often found myself in uncomfortable situations with her. <br />
<br />
Earlier that week I heard a terrible banging noise on my front door. It was the middle of the night. I lived by myself and only a handful of people knew my address – my aunt, a few friends, and the pizza place down the street. I grabbed my baseball bat. My aunt practically begged me to get it. All these damn crazies out here in this neighborhood. Be a damn fool not to get one. When I opened the door, I raised it high in the air ready to swing. Before I could, Tia darted in front of me topless and yelled boo. <br />
<br />
“God, Tia. What’s wrong with you? I thought you were a killer.” I sighed and tossed the bat on the floor. <br />
<br />
“So you thought you would fight him off with a stick?” She scoffed like I was the absurd one. “What if he had a gun?” <br />
<br />
“Get in here! Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” She began tugging at my clothes. <br />
<br />
I dragged her inside the living room. She had walked all the way from the beach to my place. At least that’s what I could discern from the drunken mumblings. She had been drinking with some guys from her art studio and popped a pill of some sort. Tia dabbled in many recreational drugs, but she never really questioned what she was taking. When the drug hit, she lost control and the first place she thought to go to was my apartment. If I thought about it hard enough, it was a sweet sentiment. She went to a place where she felt safe. <br />
<br />
I spent the rest of the night holding her hair while she vomited all over my bathroom. Once her insides stopped unfolding on the outside, I cleaned her up and gave her one of my shirts to wear. She couldn’t make it to the bed so we just sat together on the floor. I ran my fingers though her hair dusting sand onto the bath mat, and Tia kept talking to me as she slipped in and out of consciousness. <br />
<br />
“I could have killed you.” I slid a strand of hair behind her ear. <br />
<br />
“No you couldn’t. You don’t have good aim,” she said. <br />
<br />
“I played softball in the fourth grade, and Coach said that I was the best hitter on the west coast.” <br />
<br />
“I really like you, Cece,” she chuckled into my stomach. <br />
<br />
“I like you too, Tia.” <br />
<br />
“No. I really like you,” she whispered. <br />
<br />
I shushed her and told her to go to sleep. And wrapped around me like a pretzel, her eyes began to close. <br />
<br />
I skipped my Friday class to visit my aunt Jay. I seldom skipped class unless it was for a very good reason, and Aunt Jay was always a good reason. She lived a few minutes away form campus and had some clothes that she wanted to give me. Spring Cleaning. That’s what she called it despite the calendar reading November. <br />
<br />
She was my favorite aunt out of my mother’s three sisters. Growing up, I often found myself preferring the comfort of my aunt over my mother. She was young. No kids. Unmarried. And the most successful woman I had ever known. Aunt Jay never went to college, but she made a substantial career doing makeup on movie sets. Makeup by Jay. <br />
<br />
When I arrived at my aunt’s house, she had already begun tearing apart her closet. I hesitantly walked into her bedroom afraid of the buckles or buttons that might fly into my face. I announced myself, and a shriek pierced the air. Aunt Jay came rushing toward me with open arms. One of her golden hoop earrings pressed against my face when she squeezed me, and I winced from the uncomfortableness it caused my cheek. She stepped back to take a long look at me, as if this had been the first time she had seen me in years. <br />
<br />
“Beautiful,” she sighed lovingly. “What’s new with you, Baby Girl?” <br />
<br />
“Nothing. Just the same old, same old.” I shrugged my shoulders. <br />
<br />
“That’s not true.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes it is. I live a very boring life.” <br />
<br />
“You’re young, and you got an ass that would make a blind man whistle. You should never be bored.” She smacked me on the butt with a rolled up magazine. <br />
<br />
“School and work take up a lot of my time,” I said. <br />
<br />
“Stop.” She held her hand out in front of me. “I don’t wanna hear another word about work or school. I wanna hear about your life, Baby Girl.” <br />
<br />
“School and work are my life.” It sounded unfortunate, but it didn’t feel unfortunate. It was the truth. When I wasn’t in class, I was studying or working at the science museum or tutoring biology or giving student tours. Most people would find my schedule exhausting, but I enjoyed it. It kept me busy. It kept me from thinking too much. <br />
<br />
“That’s sad.” Aunt Jay walked to her vanity mirror and sat down sorting through some tubes of lipsticks. She tested a plum shade on the back of her hand and then on her lips. She tilted her head to the side and pouted. The color looked nice against her deep skin, but I preferred her without it. <br />
<br />
For a woman who built an entire career around makeup, she very seldom wore any on her face. Her features were too unique to muddy up with paint and colors. High cheekbones. High brows. Dainty nose. Wide mouth. And a very pronounced Cupid’s bow. People stared at her like she was the first painting to ever be created. <br />
<br />
“Are you seeing anybody?” She asked. <br />
<br />
“Nope.” I laughed and lay across the bed to face her. “I don’t have the time.” <br />
<br />
“You make time for things you want.” <br />
<br />
“Exactly. I don’t want anybody.” <br />
<br />
Aunt Jay rolled her eyes and continued to sort through her drawer of makeup. I went to her wardrobe and began picking out clothes. <br />
<br />
Aunt Jay was the big sister that I always wanted, but she ended up being the mother that I desperately needed. When I was sixteen-years-old, my mom and I had a falling out. The biggest fight we ever had. One of her boyfriends got a little too handsy for my liking, and I gave her an ultimatum. <br />
<br />
I ended up at my Aunt Jay’s door step at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. Without any hesitations, Aunt Jay took my bags and set up a spot for me in her guest bedroom. What meant to be a few nights turned into a few years. I never spoke to my mother after that, not even after her diagnosis. <br />
<br />
“Wow. You would pick out the plainest thing in my closet.” Aunt Jay shook her head and took the clothes out of my hands and tossed them in a corner. “You dress like you’re homeless.” <br />
<br />
“Poverty is the latest trend. Didn’t you hear?” I smirked. “I like simple. I don’t want a complicated outfit with glitter and straps and all that stuff.” <br />
<br />
“You can use some color in your life. Something with a little fit. Attracting the opposite sex is a lot like leading a horse to a river.” <br />
<br />
“Who said anything about being attractive?” I scoffed. <br />
<br />
“Baby Girl, if you don’t stop acting like you’re ugly. We got good genes that need to be accentuated by good jeans.” She turned me around and placed a pair of jeans against my butt. <br />
<br />
“I’m not saying I’m ugly. I just don’t wanna attract anybody.” <br />
<br />
“Why are you so anti-romance?” She rolled her eyes. My aunt Jay was always pushing me to date, which I found especially absurd considering she never even looked in a man’s direction. <br />
<br />
“I’m 22 years old. Do I even need to be looking right now?” <br />
<br />
“Just date a little. Sometimes I feel like you’re not even a person, Baby Girl. Just a robot that looks really good and sounds really smart.” <br />
<br />
She brushed one of my braids behind my shoulder, and I flinched away from her. <br />
<br />
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said. “Believe me growing up in this family makes you feel like you have to be resistant to life. And I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to be.” <br />
<br />
After my mom’s funeral, my family disappeared. Everyone went back to their lives as if they had hopped on a plane for a business trip. The boyfriend my mother had been with at the time stayed for a little while, then moved to Florida. My mom’s other two sisters went back to their own families who hadn’t even realized they had another sister, nevertheless knew that she was sick. <br />
<br />
My aunt Jay and I were the only ones that stuck together, which is how it had always been. I wasn’t sad about it. This did not hurt me. I would not let it ever hurt me. <br />
<br />
Aunt Jay gave me two trash bags full of makeup and clothes. Most of it was club attire, but there were a few pieces I could work into my everyday wardrobe. I dragged the trash bags to a corner, then ditched my jeans and sneakers for sweatpants and slippers. I snuggled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and my Biology textbook. I kept rereading the same sentence over and over again, my finger hovering over the words in exhaustion. I closed the book in frustration and tucked it between two cushions. <br />
<br />
I didn’t want to admit that what Aunt Jay said bothered me, but it did. People often found me to be dry, sarcastic, misanthropic, and I guess robotic, too. Those things may have been true at times, but I wasn’t incapable of feeling. <br />
<br />
My phone started to buzz. It was Tia, and my heart sighed. <br />
<br />
“<i>Bonjour</i>. It’s little me. <i>Oui Oui</i>,” she said. At least that’s most of what I could discern. A big roaring noise over powered her voice through the phone. <br />
<br />
“Where are you?” I asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
“This party blows. It’s a bunch of white boys grinding up against each other.” <br />
<br />
“Doing what?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“There’s not even any music playing,” she whined. <br />
<br />
I could feel her eyes roll through the phone. Tia loved to dance. She had been sneaking into clubs since she was sixteen. Of course she was there to drink, but she loved the dancing more. <br />
<br />
“Have you been drinking?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“No. I wish I was. This loser told me,” she cleared her throat and deepened her voice, “‘If you wanna drink, man, you should BYOB, man.’ How the hell are you gonna throw a party and not have any alcohol? We’re in our twenties. Just go to the fucking liquor store.” <br />
<br />
“Want me to come get you?” I stood up and began to look for my keys. <br />
<br />
“Really?” She asked inquisitively. “Yes!” <br />
<br />
“Text me the address. Don’t move.” <br />
<br />
I looked in the mirror to quickly check my face and forgot that I was in my sweats. Impressing others was not on the top of my list of priorities, but I put on something special for Tia. I dug through the trash bags of clothes my aunt Jay had given me and grabbed a pink tank top, black jacket, and denim skirt. The skirt clung to my hips and the pink looked nice against my skin. <br />
<br />
A white house with three wooden Greek letters hanging proudly in front. People were funneling in and out of the house from various exits. I spotted Tia in the sea of people and honked. She raised her head like a squirrel looking for a misplaced nut. I honked again. She began to trudge her way through red solo cups and drunken party goers. <br />
<br />
She opened the door, plopped in the front seat, and grinned. She hadn’t been drinking, but she reeked of cannabis. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and her purple cropped shirt hung effortlessly off her shoulders exposing two defined collarbones. She traced one with the tip of her finger and tilted her head to the side waiting for me to say something. She had to be aware of how pretty she was. No one could ever walk around with a face like hers unknowingly. <br />
<br />
“Do you wanna go home?” I asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
“No,” she sighed.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Then what do you wanna do? It’s kinda late.” <br />
<br />
“It’s like 10 o’clock, Grandma.” She rolled her eyes. “I bought some weed from a kid at the party.” <br />
<br />
She slipped out a tiny sandwich bag from her back pocket and waved it in my face. Not even enough to make a police officer flinch, but my car smelled like a reggae concert. I pushed her hand down and started the car. She smiled and buckled her seatbelt. <br />
<br />
I parked my car on the very end of the bay in a discreet corner home of illegal activity, hookups, and the occasional homeless person. We stepped out of the car and looked for the nearest rock to sit by. She pulled some papers and a lighter out of her back pocket and rolled a joint. After two hits, I was done. She smoked the rest and stuffed the remnants deep into the sand. <br />
<br />
A breeze blew by and that crisp ocean air hit us right in our faces. More than half of Tia’s body was exposed to the elements. She snuggled up to me and rested her head on my shoulder digging one hand into my jacket pocket and the other into the small of my back. Hidden behind the overwhelming scent of weed, I smelled coconut and vanilla from her hair. <br />
<br />
I lost myself in the scent. I lost myself in Tia. I couldn’t be certain if it was the drugs or how good she looked, but I was moving in slow motion. I pulled her by her arm lifting her face close to mine. And before my mind could catch up with the rest of me, I pressed my lips against her neck and her cheek and finally her lips. She kissed me back and leaned toward me until we were lying down flat in the grass and sand. She began to lift my skirt sliding her hand up my inner thigh. I hadn’t realized it prior to this moment, but my body had been begging for her. <br />
<br />
A couple of guys walked past us startling Tia into an upright position. <br />
<br />
“Oh. Don’t let me interrupt you, Baby,” said one guy. He jokingly pushed his buddy and grabbed his crotch. They both laughed. “You girls wanna make it a threesome?” <br />
<br />
He laughed again – this time a little more softly and a little more hauntingly. He inched closer to Tia and me. I tried to pull Tia back, but her body was stuck firmly in the sand. I stood up and positioned myself in front of her. <br />
<br />
“Look, man. Just leave us alone,” I said. <br />
<br />
“We see who wears the pants in the relationship,” he said back to his friend who seemed less amused by the interaction than he was before. The guy let out a long warm breath in my face, and I could smell the liquor. “Don’t be scared, Baby. We just wanna have some fun with you.” <br />
<br />
He grazed his hand over my cheek, and I slapped it away. Inconsequently, my hand also hit his face knocking him backward slightly. I saw the rage swell in his body. His pale skin already blotched with red turned even redder, and his fist clenched. The vein on his right temple throbbed. His glazed eyes twitched. <br />
<br />
Before anything could happen, his friend grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away. He mumbled something drunkenly out into the air and disappeared behind the corner of a drug store. <br />
<br />
When the guys were no longer in sight, I let my body release. Tia still sat in the sand, her face blank. I asked her if she wanted to leave, and she slowly nodded. I rubbed her arm as she walked to the car, but she shook me away. <br />
<br />
When we arrived to her apartment, Tia slumped out of the car before I had even made a complete stop. I quickly shut off the engine and followed her. She struggled with her keys. I took them out of her hand and unlocked the door. <br />
<br />
“You wanna call it a night?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“I wanna be home,” she said. <br />
<br />
“You are home,” I nervously chuckled. <br />
<br />
Tia had two other roommates. One was named Emma, a Christian from Alabama who wasn’t the biggest fan of Tia, and the other was a total recluse, whose name I could never remember. Tia didn’t typically like being at home. She said her roommates “killed her vibe”. But they weren’t home and ` this night felt different. I felt different. <br />
<br />
“Don’t let those guys bother you. They’re just assholes.” I laughed and slid my arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. <br />
<br />
“God, what is wrong with you, Cece?” She nudged away from me and wrapped her arms around herself. <br />
<br />
“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to be with me.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“You can’t be this deluded. That’s not what this is about.” She shook her head. <br />
<br />
“I told you already. Those guys are assholes. A dime a dozen.” <br />
<br />
“Just because there’s a lot of shitty people on the planet, doesn’t mean it hurts any less when they do something shitty,” she said. <br />
<br />
“I don’t see why we’re still stuck on this. Doesn’t it exhaust you to feel miserable?” <br />
<br />
“It just happened, Cece. And it happened to us. We could have been hurt.” She moved around the apartment. Restless. Like she was searching for something. <br />
<br />
“Don’t be the dramatic artist, Tia.” <br />
<br />
Tia stopped pacing and walked slowly to her bedroom. She turned around and stared at me. <br />
<br />
“Don’t be the heartless bitch, Cece.” Tia slammed the door, and I let myself out. <br />
<br />
Anger was an emotion that Tia rarely ever evoked. She had this deep empathy that I didn’t think was humanly possible. She always had patience for the bad guy. <br />
<br />
During her first art show, Tia released a series of photos she took while in Cameroon. While she was introducing her artwork, a tall, lanky young man with a beard and glasses interrupted Tia. <br />
<br />
“Don’t you just think it’s so stereotypical? Everyone does a photo series of Africa when they study abroad.” He sipped from his cup awaiting a response. <br />
<br />
People started to whisper and look around the room as if they were reevaluating her work. Tia sighed and focused all of her attention on the man. Her body never tensed and her face was soft. <br />
<br />
“You’re right. A lot of people do take pictures of Africa when they study abroad, but it’s my home. My roots. Where do you call home?” <br />
<br />
“Michigan,” he said. <br />
<br />
“Now, I don’t know much of what Michigan looks like, but I know if it looks anything like my Cameroon, I would take pictures of it all day.” She smiled and continued with her introduction. <br />
<br />
Everyone laughed and applauded her. She handled the worst parts of people with such grace, and I don’t know if I admired her for it or envied her. <br />
<br />
The following few weeks were empty. The semester was coming to a close, and I had finished all my final projects. The science museum was closed for the holidays. And Tia was gone. She filled every gap in my day. The dinners. The sleepovers. The study nights. I knew that she would expect an apology, but I didn’t know what I would say. I didn’t know what was wrong. <br />
<br />
I spent most of my newly freed schedule shopping with Aunt Jay. She invited me to tag along while she purchased makeup for a movie set she would be working on in Europe. We were standing in front of a display for liquid foundation, and Aunt Jay held two slightly different colored brown bottles in her hands. <br />
<br />
“Two shades of brown and seventeen kinds of beige. I swear I need to start my own makeup line.” She continued to read the labels whispering under her breath the names on each of the labels. When Aunt Jay was buying new makeup, she was only half communicating with the world around her. <br />
<br />
“How’s your life, Baby Girl?” She asked. <br />
<br />
“It’s alright. I got an ‘A’ on my lab exam though.” I picked up a tube of Bubbalicious lip gloss and tested it on the back of my hand before placing it back in its proper compartments. “What about you? This movie sounds pretty cool.” <br />
<br />
“It’s the biggest set I’ve ever worked on. And I’ve got so much to do before I leave. I have to restock my makeup. Go to the bank. Go to the post office. Check on the house.” <br />
<br />
“What house?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Your mom’s house.” Her voice softened. “That nosey neighbor across the street, Linda, called and said that one of the windows is cracked and calling attention to thieves and savages. Lord knows that woman’s got a stick up her ass so she’s probably just exaggerating.” <br />
<br />
When my mother passed away, she didn’t have much to give away. Her insurance policy covered her funeral expenses and her debts. The house was meant to go up for sale, but Aunt Jay stepped in and bought it. It was such a lousy investment. She never used it for anything. Occasionally, she rented it out to folks on vacation, but other than that the house was a waste. <br />
<br />
“I don’t get why you don’t just sell that place already. It’s raggedy.” <br />
<br />
“It’s not as bad as you remember.” Aunt Jay slowly slipped her hands into her bag and pulled out a set of keys. “Do you think that you could check on it for me?” <br />
<br />
“No. Aunt Jay.” I clenched my teeth. Aunt Jay was persistent in me seeing the house when my mother died. And I was always persistent in telling her no. <br />
<br />
“C’mon, Baby Girl. You’d be really helping me out.” She jingled the keys. <br />
<br />
I normally had a reason to say no. School was my reason, but she caught me during a lull. I hesitantly grabbed the keys from her. She smiled and gave me a light squeeze on the arm. <br />
<br />
My mother had been sick for a long time, long before she had been even diagnosed by a doctor. Aunt Jay kept asking me if I was going to say goodbye, but in my head, I already had. Why do it a second time? Nothing would be really different except for the addition of a medical gown and a couple of monitors. Aunt Jay told me that I was cold. Everyone did. My mom’s boyfriend even begged me to come to the hospital. <br />
<br />
He showed up during one of my shifts at the museum. I didn’t know who he was at first. My mom had a revolving door of men so it was hard to keep up. We went to the coffee shop by the dinosaur exhibit, and he told me that my mom was really sick. Her liver had completely given up on her. It was all information I had already known, but he thought it might sound better coming from him. <br />
<br />
“I have a daughter back in Florida,” he said sipping his coffee, “and I know it would just really hurt me if I knew she didn’t want to see me. Probably more than dying.” <br />
<br />
“If you’re anything like my mother, I’m sure your daughter would be hurting just as much.” <br />
<br />
He sighed and reached into his back pocket for a small white card and handed it to me. Carter’s Carpentry. <br />
<br />
“This is my business card,” he said. “If you change your mind, just give me a call. I don’t care what time. Give me a call. Okay, kid?” <br />
<br />
I nodded. I had to admit the last man might have loved my mom, but I still never went to go see her. <br />
<br />
Aunt Jay was right about the house. It was different than I remember. She must have had it repainted. It seemed brighter and bluer. I went inside and quickly surveyed the surroundings. Nothing seemed cracked or out of place. <br />
<br />
My mom’s house was a small two story right on the beach. I was always so surprised that we could afford a house in that area. It wasn’t the nicest spot, but beach front or nearly beach front property was always expensive. One thing I could say about my mom was that she made sure I always had a roof over my head. No one could ever threaten to take it away from us. <br />
<br />
I walked to the kitchen and went through the cabinets and drawers. Aunt Jay didn’t give specific instructions on what she wanted from me. Most of the drawers were full of junk. Old batteries, those weekly pill holders, and receipts. All things that should have been thrown out right after the funeral. I did come across an old photo of me when I was around seven or eight. Same bland brown pig tails and a toothless grin. My mom was pushing me on a bicycle. <br />
<br />
Before looking at that picture, I had forgotten that she really was beautiful. She looked like a mom. I tucked the picture in my back pocket and closed the drawer. <br />
<br />
I was getting ready to call the job done when a drop of water leaked on my face. A small pool of water formed at the ceiling, and I went upstairs to see its source. A nice steady stream of water was leaking from the bathroom sink. I felt the tile beneath it. It was all soft and mushy. I grabbed the tool box from the hall closet and used the Allen wrench to tighten the bolt around the pipe. The leaking subsided. <br />
<br />
I went to put the wrench back in the tool box, and I slipped on the bathmat. I grabbed onto the shower curtain for support, but I ended up yanking it down with me, falling into the bathtub, and hitting my elbow hard on the soap dish. I started to laugh. <br />
<br />
I laughed until it hurt. Until I couldn’t breath. Until I was sobbing. Until my body couldn’t tell if it was excited or in pain. I sat in the tub for an hour just to catch my breath. <br />
<br />
I rested my head on the very edge and let my arm dangle tracing the bathmat with my index finger while whispering the same words over and over again. <i>Bonjour. Parlez-vous français? Oui. Comment allez-vous. Très bien. </i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-48569718608087103132018-10-01T13:44:00.000-07:002018-10-01T13:44:02.362-07:00Many Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwMoC9Eo1D06d4RFNnmurVe6tNoBe5R0CTtVY_YhiZkb2uXT4psre4y9HugZD1BjUDKKmpNZmShOci1vYBqv-ohKBwqkFTNhbdYqrG07K0LA9jzUmp172hlXXe-PHC3HNhc2apw-0KBg/s1600/tonl-1.jpg" width="100%" /></div>
<b>By Hope Ward//</b><br />
<br />
I have found myself searching for the thing inside myself that refuses to let my light dim<br />
the thing that protects my holy<br />
the thing that allows me to be funny <br />
and intelligent <br />
and vulnerable <br />
and insecure <br />
and powerful <br />
<br />
<br />
all at once <br />
<br />
I am a black girl who is ferociously determined and incredibly sensitive<br />
<br />
I am a black woman who is actively protecting the black girl within,<br />
making up for the way I let the world abuse me; <br />
making up for the way I let me abuse me<br />
<br />
I am a black woman trying to make space for myself in myself, <br />
unlearning the self hate the world imbedded inside of my small brown body<br />
<br />
I am a black woman who <br />
remembers being ridiculed for being dark by grandmothers <br />
remembers being poked and prodded at by white classmates<br />
remembers sticking fingers down throats to reach perfection <br />
remembers thinking whiteness was synonymous with perfection<br />
<br />
I am a black woman soiled in trauma that I’ll be unlearning for the rest of my life; <br />
<br />
that I’ll be decoding for the rest of my life<br />
<br />
I am a black woman who is many things <br />
<br />
and is determined to be them all at once.For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-4127389848438770782018-07-03T06:01:00.001-07:002018-07-03T06:01:57.785-07:00dirty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNN4CJDIZdXw6iM03QCKEOlQ8M4xfa_nrZ-S3_OwDlduiXTq5cfPxWEEaElGi4YseeHuSNF1JyVFWgisO4AIgbJLHdsnP3NQWvnAKfxBGFy3oMqma5jwNI8pnKzRfacoFoeRfU7bJm9U/s1600/dreamstime_l_100869598.jpg" width="100%" /></div><br />
<br />
i fell to your feet, worshipping the ground you walked on<br />
<br />
Perfectly submissive, just as you asked of me<br />
<br />
Little did I know I would remain there, in the dirt below your feet…for a decade<br />
<br />
i had to wash off the dirt of shame and stand up...<br />
<br />
for myself…for my sanity.<div><br />
</div><div><b><i>//By Cheryl Denise Bannerman</i></b></div>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-4403272332199294392018-07-02T17:02:00.001-07:002018-07-02T17:02:38.459-07:00X<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnY97zLu9BhQS00tMo_WpjdIffG2isW2-8e4iNqJOv3lJBmEc8lKk7eFm3pBfWUXv9alsWKvWuw_7PY_k-ngcDfKnJiM20bIkz9OI4o3Yr2kKfVu7YfLQImxkPg5p7qH9Rx4TXDYCJP8/s1600/dreamstime_l_19092780.jpg" width="100%" /></div>
<br />
The verdict is in. <br />
<br />
The world agrees with HIM.<br />
<br />
I am not pretty enough.<br />
<br />
My weight is not low enough.<br />
<br />
My stomach is not flat enough.<br />
<br />
And what the F*&% is a BMI anyway?<br />
<br />
Will I ever meet HIS expectations?<br />
<br />
The world’s expectations?<br />
<br />
Have the right look, the right voice, the right attitude.<br />
<br />
What does it take to be loved by HIM? By the world?<br />
<br />
Now convincing myself I am NOT good enough.<br />
<br />
I draw an X in BRIGHT RED and start again.<br />
<br />
This time I recreate me for ME, and not HIM. Not the World. <br />
<br />
I am a new ME.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>//By Cheryl Denise Bannerman</i></b>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-55000648909835437942018-06-19T09:11:00.000-07:002018-06-19T09:12:04.064-07:00Distraction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="1254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvdBi8iQ7xzm-q8KbysVuyDPEm7WxmrGFNbO_qrna3IXTcmv4VgBl0Rr5-nHfa-klvqog4RweDXVkgkLWUDH42-J8GBN1uDHH9G6WyLPXTenGQ7v7SwIx5KqF4A9fmBvS4OEWEmFMjIc/s1600/iStock-914989964.jpg" width="100%" /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b><i>By Olivia Travis//</i></b><br />
<span class="s1"><b><i>
</i></b></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I probably should have been listening</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">when you wandered into the kitchen</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">to tell me what I did wrong--</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">this time</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">but I couldn’t stop thinking about that gnat I’d seen</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">and how it must be dancing all over my meatloaf</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">by now</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">and how come there’s gnats anyhow</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">when it’s nearly November?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Is it this unseasonably warm weather,</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">do you think,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">or those bananas you bought</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">at the market today</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">and I wish we argued less.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I would so much rather:</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>curl into the warmth of the small of your back</span></span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">than be right.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<i><br />
</i> <i><br />
</i> <i>Olivia Travis is a Cleveland bred, New York based playwright, poet, and screenwriter. Her works have been showcased as part of the Renegade Reading Series, featured in literary publications including Surgam and TINY, and produced on the stages of Columbia University and the Tony Award winning Cleveland Playhouse. When she’s not writing, Olivia can be found devouring true crime documentaries and bread.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-84274387557894262722018-02-16T10:22:00.000-08:002018-02-16T11:14:07.201-08:00Adulthood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWLROFZUfzNua2QHh7GbuuAazHNYP7Ys4J1Spz_dooi4-k7Wac_lMTZyWKfjm9LUuRLlOR6_KiuE-d4NQGzVp66qrI1Nfl8POW9T1-WbhB3SOmTcAE5KsR-XcOYx574QR75y4wvunkH4/s1600/coffee-makes-everything-possible-picture-id629111916.jpg" width="100%" /></div><b><i>By Maya Washington//</i></b><br />
<br />
Everyone at my table groans<br />
about the dry chicken breast, while I<br />
<br />
am so proud of myself for speaking up,<br />
asking for a Vegetarian plate.<br />
<br />
When the server clears the table<br />
I acknowledge him with a smile<br />
<br />
because life is servitude.<br />
And he is Latin, and maybe<br />
<br />
I flirted a little before requesting<br />
that Vegetarian plate.<br />
<br />
And maybe I am aware that<br />
I am a guest today.<br />
<br />
Here at yet another white man’s<br />
corporate table.<br />
<br />
And perhaps my grandmother never broke<br />
bread with the white folks she worked for.<br />
<br />
So I drink decaf coffee because the server offers it.<br />
He is a graceful and dignified man.<br />
<br />
I lose interest in the chocolate mousse cake,<br />
with its chocolate shavings perspiring.<br />
<br />
I convince myself that the coffee<br />
will keep me from nodding off<br />
to the drone of the distinguished keynote speaker. <br />
For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-86275603939546524562018-02-10T12:11:00.000-08:002018-02-10T12:12:08.285-08:00etheree for black women<img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxvil8mFTv0ypSpXtECGBU-rk_b2eLP6Xe-Vwudh0u4ktfBZfVV_CK_YgIn4P4IQnhFemx9Y8HCX-H7tL93DmYTOfpepMb8ay2Hu6j6t8qhPj6X0vzJG1TviCKrW982dcFFNVpJDitgc/s1600/iStock-636455720.jpg" width="100%"/><br />
<div><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><b><i>By JP Howard//</i></b><br />
<br />
black women we be trying to hold worlds <br />
on our backs, in our hearts without fail <br />
some days we fail at perfection<br />
black girl magic is a mask<br />
we pull off when night comes<br />
alone in our world,<br />
weight off our backs <br />
we exhale <br />
(a) lone <br />
heart<br />
<br />
we<br />
whisper <br />
in pillows <br />
wet with our tears<br />
our untold secrets<br />
we breathe without our masks<br />
we sit still in our silence <br />
some nights we float on crescent moons<br />
black girl magic shining under stars <br />
we gather our pieces before daylight <div><br />
</div><div><div>etheree for black women was previously published as a <a href="http://www.splitthisrock.org/poetry-database/poem/etheree-for-black-women" target="_blank">Poem of the Week</a> on Split This Rock’s poetry database</div></div>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-67263944333777973732018-02-07T21:30:00.000-08:002018-02-08T07:10:37.325-08:00Whipcrack<img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQnS3iTZnSMLzUi3m5s4QPt8Kp1LC6LG9QDEU8XxJluoh2YFHtIqp0eAurHF2k8sa7cVDEeev_uFippsyuE4URvoo1rXMwDsPblDTpDz8d6U_NeF5QuDFxoE-I5nuPDnJcC1w0kJHyV4/s1600/tropical-storm-picture-id627067972.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<b><i>By Rachel Hughes//</i></b><br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b> She rubs the thin scar atop her shoulder and remembers home. Palm fronds, groves of tall grass, being rocked to sleep against Gran’s warm breasts. She holds onto those moments and cups her shoulder against the others. Blades like teeth, bands culling women from each inlet closer and closer down the coast, Gran whistling a switch through the air, pretending to drive her off, chasing her only blood away, landing one sharp hit as she shouted, “Stop! Stop! That boy steal me coin!”<br />
<br />
Gran had burned all the little sack dresses, every ribbon, the rush doll, and hurled the collection of pink shells back into the sea. She had cried and clawed the sand but Gran told her that it was the only way. Their few neighbors might not tell but no one else must know. So Gran cut her curls to a close crop, stitched a tunic and pants, and began carving her granddaughter a phallus. Gran steeped it in tea, rubbed it with cooking oil, staining the wood to match her skin and showed her how use it. When she looked through it as if it were a sailor’s scope Gran slapped her hand and had her drink cupfuls of water so she could practice placing the phallus under her small lips. Gran showed her that it would catch her urine and stream it outwards like a man instead of downward like a woman’s gushing waterfall.<br />
<br />
When the men came sweeping through the village, Gran came running outside windmilling her switch. They had already held each other and sang and cried and tried each night to say goodbye just in case the men came in the morning. She wanted to curl into Gran’s arms but instead she turned and ran away from her, cutting a path through the band of men. She plunged into the groves heading toward the shipping docks far away, all the while with the sound of Gran’s voice yelling, “Stop! Stop!” still in her ears.<br />
<br />
Gran had told her to cat her way onto the biggest boat she could find. “Look for boxes stacked tall. Wherever they moved to that’s the boat for you.” She hid close to watch and wait. “You must be luck to them,” Gran had told her. “Sailors are suspicious. Men are always afraid. You show them how lucky you are and they carry you onto their boat gladly.”<br />
<br />
She kept her eye on a laden ship and when the last box was being boarded she leapt out from a coil of rope and told the men with a laugh that they had one last thing to carry onboard. They spat and shooed at her until she pulled the wooden phallus through her pants opening and drew a box in a shaking line of urine on the dock. When she asked the men if they knew how to play Two Jump the captain laughed, his palm clapping like thunder against her back. He told the coxswain, “Put this runt in charge of clearing the bilge and trapping rats. If he can’t work we’ll drop him overboard or on whichever hump of land we pass next. Working for scraps, mind you, no pay.” And with that she became a sailor.<br />
<br />
Those first days the sea heaved and she with it, purging the few meals the men took to sneaking her. She thought of green waves over white sand and Gran perched in the shade. She shed each tear quietly at night and each day her thin legs grew more steady until she could run even as the ship pitched and rolled.<br />
<br />
Now she is much stronger. Slightly under fed, yes, as they all are at times, those long stretches at sea. Her muscles don’t so much grow as they lengthen like braided rope, but she has muscle nonetheless. She is trim after sprinting down sandy beaches, after swimming in green-blue inlets, after Gran had told her to run from the men when it was no use fighting. So she runs now the length of the deck and climbs the lines like she climbed the palms, hand over foot, lightning quick. The men take to calling her Whipcrack.<br />
<br />
The small buds that had worried her when they sprouted on her chest settle flat into nothing at all, which is a luck. There would have been no hiding Gran’s round chest. One day she feels a thin veil of hair draped above her lip. There’s just enough color to it that it catches in sunlight. When the men finally notice it they slap her shoulder and grin. She would have removed the hair with a poultice, like Gran did once every many days, if she were home. The men, some shirtless in their labor, tease her about being still so scrawny after these long years at sea. One loudly announces that at next port they are going to buy Whipcrack a woman so his little nuts will finally drop.<br />
<br />
She nestles the wooden cock Gran carved by hand in a practiced move and pisses over the railings alongside the men, her shipmates. She shakes her piece of wood once or twice to loose the last drips, resists the urge to tap it against the railing, and furrows it back in her trousers. It’s tied to a thin bit of tarry string that’s wound about her waist. She lets her wood dangle against her thigh but unlike the men her cock stays hard all the time. Maybe she should buy time with a woman at the next port. Leave her little cock tucked away and just ask to be held against soft breasts, rocked to sleep, think of home: drawn on kohl eyes, yards of colorful wraps, pink shells lined up outside the door.<br />
<br />
“You have to be luck to them,” Gran had told her. “You have to let them believe you bring them all types of small luck so they have no reason to pitch you into the water.”<br />
<br />
She can catch fish, aim a hook toss, hit a target, little things Gran had taught her that sailors are suspicious of, but she’s still small so the captain sets her to cleaning the deck or squatting in the crow’s nest or chasing after rats when the ship’s cats are full and lazy. Bracketed against every day, every chore, every meal she earns, there is a longing for warm water, not this cold chop of a big open sea. She had jumped in once from one of the skiffs, dove in after the captain’s dagger when it tumbled from his meaty hand, slippery with bait guts and blood. The fish he held in his other fist flapped its body, trying to fold itself in half. She came up out of the water much the same way, convulsing, mouth blinking, so cold no sound came out of her compressed lungs. The captain laughed and had the crew haul her back into the boat. They laughed at her too and slapped her back until she stopped coughing and then slapped her head for being foolish enough to dive in the first place. “You never would’ve caught it,” the captain spat in the water. “Things sink away faster than you think. Even if you could’ve reached it the cold would swallow you up before you could make it to free air.” Back onboard the ship the men carried her about the deck on their shoulders. They shook her and slapped her back some more and shouted, “Ahoy! Whipcrack!” or “Whipcrack’s our lad!” and “Let’s toss him in again! Can you swim, Whipcrack?”<br />
<br />
She figures another year, another few runs, another many ports before she’ll hit dry land one day and stay there. She’ll tell the men that she’s off to find a woman. They will laugh and wish her luck. Another year, another few runs, another many ports before her blood will come. Gran had shown her how to roll a cloth stunt but she’d have no way to hide the bloodied rags, no way to clean them, no place to hang them dry. She imagines the mastline streaming with ribbons of red and brown. The nest, trimmed in frayed fabric, round and swaying like Gran’s broad hips. She sees their reed beds tucked close, hot coals under a burnished kettle, and a little rush doll being swept out to sea.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-54499709867007045032018-02-06T09:19:00.000-08:002018-02-06T09:19:12.816-08:00And Then We Pray...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div>
<b><i>By A.R. Woodard//</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
We mopped it up. Soapy, sudsy, sturdy.<br />
We polished it. Til it shined brand and new. <br />
When it was almost clean enough to share <br />
we stared upon our reflections.<br />
...and then, we pray.<br />
<br />
The bleach cleaned clothes hid our sins.<br />
Masked the tears and the trauma.<br />
And while we dressed the lie <br />
The demons lurked.<br />
...and then, we pray.<br />
<br />
We cleaned and sprayed<br />
Washed and mopped.<br />
We straightened and dusted. <br />
Spit and shined.<br />
Our arms were tired and our necks sore. <br />
Not once questioning what we do this for.<br />
<br />
Never do we heal. <br />
Nor do we talk. <br />
Only clean. Only cry. <br />
Only clean to only die. <br />
<br />
<div>
And when death comes to collect us <br />
In our ragged house<br />
With our stained clothing <br />
By our dusty cabinets <br />
On our dirty floors.<br />
We’ll know we prayed...<br />
<br />
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For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-42445503779428640162018-02-03T15:22:00.000-08:002018-02-03T15:26:16.233-08:00Lost Signal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUs5UZyNJothhNJH4DuyDJ2snfSa07JtBcXjs_3r_IHg-bFFtcLLhd4cXVVA8DS5JaS7JLJLQ7RuT0xbfPFQwQQqmay8uXcEFzZIti444iCIbTLoBQaOmBglLt-vNeWFFXfiJh4hqBMs/s1600/checkinghermessages.jpg" width="100%" /></div>
<b><i>By <a href="http://soar.forharriet.com/search/label/Jazmin%20George" target="_blank">Jasmin George</a>//</i></b><br />
<br />
“Yo, can we talk about how that fat bitch followed Richy out the store? Did you see how she was walking?”<br />
<br />
My heart sinks. I can hear the laughter on the other end. I know that laughter. It’s the laughter that derives from disbelief. Disbelief at the thought that someone so low has the audacity to have an ounce of confidence. <br />
<br />
“Nah, she wasn’t even fat though,” Richy says while chuckling. Although his words challenge his friend’s statement, his laughter confirms a gentle reassurance of the evaluation.<br />
<br />
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” I ask angrily desperate for him to know that I can hear his conversation.<br />
<br />
But the dreadful beep sound repeats three times on the phone indicating a broken connection, and the dread seems to transfer to my soul. Something is not right. I’m a cancer. I’m intuitive. I know better than to pursue this relationship any further. But also like a cancer, I need answers. What the fuck just happened? I start pacing around my shared bedroom at 2 am asking this question repeatedly as I try to hear a ringing with every attempt to contact him again. Nothing. It goes straight to voice message. Did he just block me? <br />
<br />
“Hey, Camila, sorry to wake you up, but do you mind letting me use your phone for a second? I just wanna see something real quick.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” my roommate says weakly out of her sleep “sure.”<br />
<br />
I hurry and dial the number that has been the source of confusion for the past few days. I thought we hit it off alright last week. There was so much sexual tension between us. Again, there’s silence and then his voice message. I breathe again and a cool air fills my lungs. Relief. His phone must’ve died. I frantically begin typing on my phone, “Hey, are you still coming over?” 15 minutes pass and my heart starts to quicken when my phone rings. Sorry, Camila for the loud ringtone, but I don’t wanna miss my opportunity by falling asleep. Opportunity for what? To see him? To look him in the eyes and confront him? To see how he plays off his conversation with his friends when he comes upstairs with me? I don’t know yet. Things are moving too fast. I read his message with urgency: “My bad, my phone died. I got off work a little while ago and I’m still here. You want me to come over? I’m a little tired but I’ll still come if you want me to.” The words just spill out before I have time to really think: “Yeah, I want to see you. You can just sleep over.” “Alright” he writes, “I’m on my way.”<br />
<br />
How could he entertain that conversation about that woman at the store? I feel a connection to her, somehow. I mean, I reacted to that conversation as if they had been talking about me. D.C. guys are so strange. I don’t understand them. If Richy doesn’t like fat girls then why did we hook up last week? Even though he didn’t initiate that conversation with his friends, isn’t he guilty by association? Why did he agree to see me tonight? Is he doing it out of pity? I open my phone to look at my Tinder conversation with him and remember that I deleted the app. Was it him who initiated the conversation? I don’t look so different from my photos on there, do I? Why does this scenario always happen whenever I try to move on from someone? They end up having full control over the “relationship,” and I either concede or leave. I replay what I overheard on the phone. Those laughs send me back to years prior. Back to the days when I worked out so much just to escape that laughter. The laughter that filled my heart with anxiety and locked me in the center of focus. Nowhere to run. Definitely nowhere to hide. The venom in the laughter pushing me so far away from the person or group that not even ten of my long-limbed arms could reach the source of such a sound if they wanted to. <br />
<br />
<b><i>//Jazmin is from the Bronx and is currently a second-year English Master's student at Georgetown University, where she focuses on critical race theory, semiotics, and Black womanhood and trauma as her interests. She loves stories and the art of storytelling, which have prompted her to work on her own creative voice.</i></b>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-11490978948122452292018-02-02T08:40:00.000-08:002018-02-02T08:40:45.996-08:00on the woman with the issue of blood: a requiem for white women's tears.<img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDT5q0HgaKaYhIWu0vqEplcLSwl3AIgYLMUugb-6tzaLDc7lIq4BD1WgDEyHlpNIzveVI7V4qglx7szsU8lsS_Q-V08L3ywJeNmT6ewMXHAEH9I49bKbTUMQ6bfl2fOLgQfSyYV7Ja6g/s1600/portrait-of-young-black-woman-picture-id669921756.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<b><i>By Shantell Hinton//</i></b><br />
<br />
for years, she had been bleeding.<br />
unable to heal.<br />
unclean.<br />
named for her condition, the discharge between her legs paralleled her status in community.<br />
spewed out from an orifice and holding a significant stench.<br />
she was never seen as human.<br />
only as a hemorrhage on the fabric of society.<br />
<br />
yet, in one moment.<br />
after years of failed attempts to be seen and cared for.<br />
this woman came to a clot in the crowd.<br />
where the flow of people had gathered around a man.<br />
a man whose clothing could ebb her disparity.<br />
bravely, she reached to His hem.<br />
power absorbed her dis-ease.<br />
she had been healed.<br />
<br />
i wish more women knew who they were.<br />
or knew their condition at least.<br />
that they are not mary nor martha.<br />
nor dorcas.<br />
nor phoebe.<br />
but that they, too, are the woman with the issue of blood.<br />
that their fragility and woundedness.<br />
bleeds on everyone around them.<br />
<br />
for i have been in too many situations.<br />
where she has looked to me to be a balm.<br />
after she’s bled her pain upon me.<br />
smeared her blood upon my garments.<br />
riddled me with her guilt.<br />
and stabbed me with her wounded aggressions.<br />
how am i supposed to help you heal, when your condition causes me harm?<br />
why am i your savior, when your ontology has been killing me since i left the Motherland?<br />
<br />
black women.<br />
are not your living sacrifice.<br />
we are not your play things to cast your soiled belongings upon.<br />
our hair is not the garment that you can touch without permission to be made whole.<br />
our skin is not the towel to dry your tears.<br />
we are not your jesus.<br />
and your bleeding has got to stop.<br />
not because we don’t understand your pain.<br />
not because being unseen is foreign to us.<br />
not because we are too concerned with our own healing.<br />
no, white woman.<br />
you must stop pressing into the crowd.<br />
because you choose to bleed on us.<br />
with bile fermented by your fathers - watered by the frequency of your tears.<br />
and, you refuse to even acknowledge that you’ve taken off your bandage.<br />
infecting us all with the same dysentery we are trying to get rid of.<br />
<br />
for years, you have been bleeding.<br />
unable to heal.<br />
yet, your virtue has been built upon my “uncleanliness”.<br />
your tears believed as truth while my worth has been a lie.<br />
and, as you wear the stench of this hypocrisy like lingerie.<br />
dawning your blood-stained banner.<br />
i pray you find jesus before you find me.<br />
bc my wholeness is not yours.<br />
white woman.<br />
and your feelings are no longer my concern.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<b><i>//Rev. Shantell Hinton, M.Div, currently serves as the Assistant Chaplain at Vanderbilt University and is a recent graduate of Vanderbilt Divinity School. Shantell received a Bachelor of Engineering from Vanderbilt University and a Master of Science in Electrical Engineering from Colorado State University. She has worked bi-vocationally as an Process Control Engineer and Worship Coordinator for her church. She is a proud member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. and the National Society of Black Engineers (NSBE). Her research/interests include the intersections of activism and public theology, pastoral care, creating liturgy, and freelance writing.</i></b>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-39005169779087093942018-02-01T09:25:00.000-08:002018-02-03T15:25:11.004-08:00Pink Elephant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="1183" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50vgIIjc9P2UNmqMS4N2tvTIGbxnJQjHVTEv5qNUw26RFnLuj_WDE3Oiqk7Q2htdJtKzwnkpYNTTVYA142VkqzRi7FH7Z2JkWYr-SsAfrjYZG3gCSrcEeMxfD3mF13hnSVy4yjY7xNvI/s640/iStock-531685188.jpg" width="100%" /></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>by <a href="http://soar.forharriet.com/search/label/Jazmin%20George" target="_blank">Jazmin George</a>//</i></b></span><br />
<br />
<b> 2000-2005</b><br />
“Stand up straight, Jazz! You can’t be a princess and watch over your royal subjects slouching!” <br />
<br />
It was her way of telling me that my height was a valuable trait only found in royalty. This encouragement was great until I told an Ikea employee that he had to let me into the bouncy ball playground on account of me being a princess and him being my servant. After that, my mom kept the uplifting to a minimum.<br />
<br />
“Everyone get in line from shortest to tallest. Be careful not to mess up your clothing! You don’t want to have funky clothes on Picture Day,” my teacher says as everyone rushes to get in line. I make my way to the back of the line triumphantly.<br />
<br />
“Wow, you’re so tall! I wish I were your height!” I hear from a few classmates, and I smile out of genuine happiness. No one gets to be this tall if they’re not royalty. <br />
<br />
That was back when being the tallest was cool. <br />
<br />
It’s safe to say that by high school, being tall was out of fashion. My mom foresaw this moment coming when she made me official princess of the entire world. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b> 2012</b><br />
“Hey girl, what are you writing down?” I lean over and ask a fellow classmate in 9th grade Physics.<br />
<br />
“Funny that you ask! I’m making a list of people in our grade and assigning them animals that I think they match.”<br />
<br />
“Did you do mine yet?”<br />
<br />
“Yup! Yours is ‘pink elephant.’”<br />
<br />
“Pink elephant?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah! You know that saying, ‘there’s an elephant in the room’? I think you embody that pretty well. You’re so straightforward and say what people don’t wanna address.”<br />
<br />
So she isn’t saying this because I’m fat or because I’m 6’2”? “But why pink?” I ask. Pink as in feminine? Or pink as in loud and noticeable?<br />
<br />
“Eh, you know. Hypervisibility.”<br />
<br />
Oh, so it is because I’m fat. And tall. Well, at least partially. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b> 2014 pre-graduation</b><br />
“Hey Perry! What are you up to right now?” I ask, already beginning to scoop down next to him on the hallway floor.<br />
<br />
“Hey! This is my lunch period. So I’m just gonna hang out here for a bit.”<br />
<br />
“Cool, I’ll sit with you. Anything new going on in your life? Any love updates?” Perry’s 6’6” and gay. I’ve never seen him romantically with someone at school before. I wonder whether his height or his sexuality has been more marginalizing in his search for romance… He’s attractive, but I just don’t know any other classmates who are openly gay in our grade. It’s the lower east side though, so he might have some luck outside of school. Oddly enough, I find some comfort in knowing that we may share mutual difficulty in finding people who are interested in us because of how tall we are. He always looked slightly uncomfortable in his own skin.<br />
<br />
Casually ruffling through a bag of multigrain chips he says, “Nah, not really. I had this thing with a guy for a bit but we just broke it off. What about you?”<br />
<br />
“Me?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, you.”<br />
<br />
Oh, boy, I think. “Guys don’t pay me any mind! I haven’t even kissed anyone before.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, but you have a sex drive too right? You can still find others attractive.”<br />
<br />
I start shrinking in my place on the floor. “Yeah I guess you’ve got a point there.” I look around to see who’s hearing this convo and then down at my crossed legs.<br />
<br />
“And you’re just as deserving of love.”<br />
<br />
Ugh, where is this going? This just got even more embarrassing. I’m invisible. “Well, I don’t know about all that. I mean, yes. I think you’re right, but it hasn’t changed the fact that no one’s ever liked me before. I can be real with myself for a hot second and admit that being this tall and, well, fat is not going to bring the boys to this yard.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<b> 2014 post-graduation</b><br />
“Girl, let’s go into Sephora, since the D train was quick. We can kill some time while we wait for your sister.”<br />
<br />
“Ok!”<br />
<br />
“I want to see what new perfumes they have.”<br />
<br />
Walking towards me and my friend is an employee. He is just about my height. “Hi, can I help you two with something?” he asks.<br />
<br />
I look over at Giselle, annoyed that he’s stopping me from reaching our destination. “Uh, not really, thanks though.” Was he one of those anti-Black Black guys, who was going to police us around the store until I told him to hit the road?<br />
<br />
He doesn’t move. <br />
<br />
Still sharing a look with Giselle I reply, “Yeah, actually can you show us where the Bvlgari perfume is?”<br />
<br />
“Yes! It’s over here.”<br />
<br />
Once we arrive, I say, “Ok, thank you,” fully expecting him to leave.<br />
<br />
He still doesn’t move. Why is this fool still here? Focusing on the selection in front of me I hear him say, “You look like you’re in heaven right now.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, perfume is my life lol.” Stop saying ‘lol’ out loud.<br />
<br />
“Where are you guys from?”<br />
<br />
“I’m from the Bronx, and my friend, Giselle, is from Chicago.”<br />
<br />
“And what’s your name?”<br />
<br />
“Jazmin. And I see that yours is Brady.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, nice to meet you.”<br />
<br />
“Same.” Can he stop smiling at us? I wonder which one of us he likes. In Italy, everyone liked Giselle.<br />
<br />
“Do you two want samples of anything while you’re here?”<br />
<br />
“Oh my gosh! We can get perfume samples? Give me a million.”<br />
<br />
“I can give you two.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll take it!”<br />
<br />
“Yo, you’re really funny.”<br />
<br />
Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know, I say to myself. “Why thank you, good sir,” I say out loud while curtsying. “I’m going to go get the perfume over there.” When I come back, I see Brady and Giselle talking. He probably likes her. “Here you go!” I say focusing on getting free perfume.<br />
<br />
“Alright you two. I’ll be back in a minute.”<br />
<br />
“I have to tell you something later,” Giselle says secretly as Brady walks away.<br />
<br />
“No! Tell me now!” I protest. He must’ve asked her out. Of course she would be the one to get a date while she was on a trip visiting a friend in a different city.<br />
<br />
“He likes you.”<br />
<br />
“No way.” Why am I not excited? It must be because I’m not attracted to him.<br />
<br />
“I swear he does. He told me that he wants you to come back to the store.”<br />
<br />
“Really? But he’s not cute. What should I do?”<br />
<br />
“I say go for it! It’s the summer before college and you said you wanted experience. I say you hit it and quit it.”<br />
<br />
“Hmmm, that makes sense. I won’t be so nervous to hook up with a guy I’m not attracted to. I’ll get some ‘practice’ before I leave for school.” Finally, 18 years later.<br />
<br />
“Yes girl. Get your man.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>//Jazmin is from the Bronx and is currently a second-year English Master's student at Georgetown University, where she focuses on critical race theory, semiotics, and Black womanhood and trauma as her interests. She loves stories and the art of storytelling, which have prompted her to work on her own creative voice.</i></b><style type="text/css">
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</style>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-76949162158959149192017-06-13T07:27:00.000-07:002018-02-01T13:03:36.653-08:00The Knot: A Tribute to Henrietta Lacks<img border="0" width="100%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrSyeRONbxlsKXdj5tzdKmCadbkngJSSR54sNoU_dEFjH5wlV4iWs8P92i8_qzo7hXMQlPXU9fNupGiSpiywrmW4XJPvYkOXdLhXmCeP4yI_yVqnkF_AW16KiLBfcQTZ1V0yEp-3R58w/s1600/130807125010-henrietta-lacks-exlarge-169.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>by Maya C. James</b><br />
<br />
Henrietta Lacks (born Loretta Pleasant on August 1st, 1920) was a woman.<br />
<br />
When she felt the first twinge of pain in her abdomen, Henrietta thought it was a baby. A fragile gift that would change her life, just like her other five children had. As she prepared her small home for another child, the pain worsened with each passing day. <br />
<br />
“It’s like a knot”, she would try to explain to her family, as the pain moved beyond her womb.<br />
<br />
She felt like she birthed twins instead of a single child, and the pain was the greediest of the two. It grew a mouth before anything else, a greedy orifice that consumed in excess. It was never enough to take her energy, or space in her body, the knot had to have her life and her joy too. <br />
<br />
“Look how I grew, Henrietta,” it whispered to her.<br />
<br />
Henrietta Lacks farmed tobacco for a living.<br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>When her eyelids drooped and her hands shook to pick the tobacco, the knot talked even louder. It tugged at her plain skirt, at her old work boots that looked oversized on her small, jittering body. It was always smiling and always eager to grow. It wanted to expand past its natural boundaries, and had to take bits and pieces of Henrietta’s health to do so. As she picked the tobacco and strained muscles to the point of unending soreness, the knot tugged on her skirt again.<br />
<br />
“I can be strong even when you are not.”<br />
<br />
The knot grew taller, stretching, yawning like a lion on a rock. It swiped at her life and toyed with it like a yarn ball. When she packed up and moved to the city, it followed her—twisting her abdomen as she found work in the steel factories at Sparrow’s Point, then nipping at her ankles as she walked among Baltimore’s row homes. <br />
<br />
“A little more room,” it demanded, sitting on her skirts as she purchased her first house.<br />
<br />
Henrietta Lacks was diagnosed with cervical cancer. She was treated at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.<br />
<br />
She had to be strong, but the Knot found a way to pry at the cracks in her shield. It could not create enough weight to snap her, but just enough to push down until she lay down in her own grave. <br />
<br />
It wasn’t until the very end that it became inevitable that her cells would multiply and crowd and shut down her system. The knot would stand over the weakened body, tugging at her skirt and encouraging her to continue to come play again, anxious to show the strength that she created.<br />
<br />
“Come on, Henrietta, wake up.”<br />
<br />
It stayed with her until the doctors pulled the knot by its hand and locked it into a small container, renaming it something ugly and poisonous. <br />
<br />
During her treatment for cervical cancer, doctors conducted a biopsy of her cancerous cells. Henrietta did not consent to this biopsy.<br />
<br />
The knot never died, not fully at least. It only allowed itself to be tamed on occasion, rearing its ugly head whenever it saw fit. Henrietta, however, was too mortal, too dark, and too strong to be allowed to live longer. As she suffered and labored, her other self expanded in its prison until it was cut down and controlled. <br />
<br />
Her cells, known to scientists as the HeLa cell line, helped to develop the polio vaccine. The doctors tested on her cells for years without her family’s knowledge.<br />
<br />
She suffered until the end, and they only could watch on. <br />
<br />
“Why aren’t you awake?”<br />
<br />
Suffering took on many forms. But waiting for the inevitable was the worst of all emotional pains.<br />
<br />
“Henrietta? Come on and wake up already!”<br />
<br />
Henrietta died poor at the age of thirty-one, leaving behind five children and a husband who could not afford health insurance.<br />
<br />
The doctors carved a name into the test tubes, while her family could not afford to carve a headstone. <br />
<br />
“HeLa.” That was all she was to be known by to the world. <br />
<br />
In the early 1970s, a large portion of HeLa cells became contaminated by other cell cultures. As a result, members of Lacks' family received numerous solicitations for blood samples from researchers hoping to learn about the family's genetics in order to replace the contaminated cells. Alarmed and confused, several family members began questioning why they were receiving so many telephone calls requesting blood samples. In this way, the family learned for the first time that samples of cells from Lacks's tumor had been saved for research…<br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>Henrietta’s liberation never came. Not from the doctors, at least. Although her family thought she was laid to rest, she was kept alive in the most artificial way possible: renamed into a cell line, refused acknowledgement, and virtually erased until the necessity for more of her samples arose. <br />
<br />
Maybe one day, after the family was allowed to lay Henrietta down to rest, she would be free—not just known about to researchers, but truly laid to rest. In the mountain that was her life, she would ascend, her children pushing, and her husband pulling her towards the peak. Henrietta would reach the top and dance like a queen, the weight of cancer lifted from her shoulders. Then with her arms above her head and her skirts dancing around her like clouds on the tips of crane feathers, Henrietta would be free.<br />
<br />
Henrietta’s cells have been bought and sold by the billions, yet she remains virtually unknown, and her family can’t afford health insurance.<br />
<div><br />
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Immortal-Life-Henrietta-Lacks/dp/1400052181/ref=as_li_ss_il?_encoding=UTF8&me=&linkCode=li3&tag=forhar-20&linkId=dd443e54e50f749a453c47ec6b24540a" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=1400052181&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=forhar-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=forhar-20&l=li3&o=1&a=1400052181" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></center><br />
</div><i>Maya James is a freelance writer based in Maryland. She has written and performed speeches in front of various audiences, mainly politicians and diplomats. When she’s not writing or reading, you can find her drinking sweet tea or boxing.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-41349938948748026452017-06-01T14:49:00.001-07:002018-02-01T13:05:43.327-08:00Her Name is White Feminism And She is Your Toxic Friend<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZ6ldTQK6qGT0Axokoi7VdGoRjWX4dd7vGccUw5Xqit_hqu3IxjbN6Bym0MUmMB4MCwv2j5EPtWK-QbJ98Ia1tnDRwoAT2KHHDzuVbWRajxNAY7uRTHOfZG1LS8JD8lO-5lQr8EpLqsU/s1600/headdress+%25281%2529.png" width="100%" /><br />
<br />
<b>by Alexia Komada-John</b><br />
<br />
She got too drunk at your mutual friends birthday party and screamed at the DJ because, “How could they play THAT song!”<br />
She complains that everyone falls in love with her.<br />
She borrows your clothes, steals your food, and adopts your favorite restaurants, without asking you, telling you, or giving you credit.<br />
<br />
This is White Feminism, she is self absorbed, emotionally fragile, and reckless with your feelings. She is your toxic friend. <br />
<br />
She has a “complicated” relationship with her father, but he keeps her well connected through his fellow union members, fraternity brothers, camp buddies or bosses who’ve “just seen something in him.” He brags about how he pulled himself up by his bootstraps. She complains loudly about people who get “handouts” or “unearned” advantages.<br />
<br />
She doesn't have any old friends; they have all betrayed her in some way or another.<br />
<br />
When she begins dating a new boy (because white feminism is not intersectional, she is cis-gendered, straight, ableist, and believes she transcends class) she disappears from her life and yours.<br />
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She never asks you questions; conversations with her are about her.<br />
<br />
She makes comments about how much she hates drama but she just can’t seem to escape it.<br />
<br />
She projects her priorities, experiences, and opinions onto you.<br />
<br />
She cancels on you at the last minute all the time but makes snide comments all night if you’re fifteen minutes late.<br />
<br />
She breaks your dishes, shrank your shirt in the dryer, and lost your favorite sunglasses. She giggles and calls it clumsy but she’s careful with her own things.<br />
<br />
She keeps an emotional scorecard in all relationships and she makes you feel guilty about asking her for favors.<br />
<br />
She has mysterious injuries and emotional wounds that conveniently present themselves at big moments in other people's lives.<br />
<br />
She puts picture of you on Facebook where you look terrible but pictures of her must be screened for pimples, fat arms, frizzy hair, bad angles, and no make up.<br />
<br />
She always assumes the hot person is flirting with her, and if they ask you out, she crashes your date.<br />
<br />
She doesn't clean up after herself, she leaves physical and emotional messes behind for someone else to deal with.<br />
<br />
You feel bad about yourself when she's around; she makes you feel invisible.<br />
<br />
And when you confront her about how she has hurt you, belittled your feelings, and upstaged you at key moments, she feels attacked, and becomes consumed by her own hurt feelings.<br />
<br />
She is manipulative and always finds a way to be the victim, so when arguments with her end you feel unsettled but lucky that she’s not mad at you.<br />
<br />
Ultimately disagreements with her leave you feeling angry, confused, and like a bad friend; but it’s not you. It’s White feminism.<br />
<br />
White feminism has lived a life of privilege and rather than fostering gratitude and confidence, it allowed her grow into a self centered and immature adult.<br />
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She made a scene when you took her to your parent’s anniversary dinner.<br />
She makes fun of you behind your back.<br />
She left you stranded on your birthday for some random guy.<br />
<br />
You realize you owe it to yourself to end this friendship.<br />
<br />
And when you do, you start to see that you have more room in your life for people who value your differences and help you to feel secure in the world.<br />
Relationships based on reciprocity and understanding.<br />
Friends who see you.<br />
<br />
Welcome, Intersectional Feminism!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>Alexia Komada-John is a recent graduate of Wesleyan University, living and working in New York. She is a lover of the oxford comma, a long time feminist, and an advocate for an inclusive and considerate society. </i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-42610441759063224292017-06-01T11:12:00.000-07:002018-02-03T11:31:56.562-08:00Get Out: A Hair Horror Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_5TbfxrCQR0MWawcol6D4ymNR_41_6CQFaPbxeHVvdII0Rm0lohdMgsEiYtnQQFtbpCgglH8na2jePGTXO_eU60Due4jpM6ROi7yiPRhFMw1X5GcvSVIcs0wPxKNxCDD6XSLJZ4ln3c/s1600/getout+%25281%2529.jpg" width="100%" /></div><br />
<b>by Valencia Clement</b><br />
<br />
I saw women walk in and out<br />
Of the doors of Felicia’s house for years.<br />
Her house was older than ours<br />
& there were vines that lined the wooden panels<br />
on top of the walkway to the backyard,<br />
It was quite an odd sight for Jamaica Ave<br />
I swore that place had magic,<br />
Women would walk in one way<br />
And come out a little different, with a pep in their step<br />
<br />
My mom finally let me come inside with her<br />
One day in elementary school<br />
“but you have to be quiet” she said<br />
When I stepped inside Felicia’s house<br />
Her kitchen was unlike any kitchen I’d ever seen<br />
<br />
The sinks weren’t for dishes or food.<br />
They were for Mizani and Just For Me.<br />
Most of the time I played outside with the boys<br />
Skating, racing and wrestling on the concrete.<br />
I wanted to have a little taste of the women’s world<br />
The moment this crossed my mind, I heard an inaudible whisper.<br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>The next day was most dreaded day, wash day.<br />
It’s not that I didn’t want to be clean,<br />
There just had to be a better way, I thought<br />
As my mom poured another bowl of water over my head<br />
<br />
I covered my mouth and nose when I felt the<br />
Soapy water stream down my temples, into my ears<br />
My mom began combing through my coils<br />
& She broke a comb in my coils<br />
But that wasn’t all… something broke inside of her<br />
She was done.<br />
<br />
By Friday, I was at Felicia’s house<br />
& The small indistinguishable whisper had grown quite annoying.<br />
Felicia cloaked me in a black cape<br />
Smeared petroleum jelly on my edges and scalp<br />
And began coating my hair in opaque whiteness<br />
It was cool at first then I felt a light stinging<br />
<br />
Light stinging transformed<br />
into intense agony in moments<br />
But I did everything in my power to keep<br />
my pain from escaping my body<br />
but I failed and a whisper escaped like a small scream<br />
I smiled as a tear fell from my eye. <br />
<b>Get Out!</b><br />
<br />
The most painful infliction was the silence…<br />
From Felicia,<br />
From the other women in the salon,<br />
From my mother.<br />
<br />
I let out a silent “help” seep from my eyes<br />
And my mother jumped to my rescue<br />
Thank God, I thought.<br />
“Felicia, it’s time,” she said<br />
but Felicia said, “no, her hair is thick”<br />
She couldn’t save me.<br />
<br />
I got up and paced in pain<br />
And felt a cool breeze coming from the open door<br />
I looked outside and saw the boys playing outside<br />
What did I do? I thought as I burst into tears<br />
<br />
Felicia rushed me to the sink<br />
And washed my coils, kinks and chemicals down the drain<br />
When she was finished<br />
She sat me in front of the mirror<br />
I saw my mother’s confused eyes in the mirror<br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>I studied the room and saw unbothered women<br />
Waiting under dryers for their turn at the chair.<br />
I looked outside<br />
The sun had gone down<br />
& novelas were playing from Felicia’s living room.<br />
I finally glanced at the stranger in front of me<br />
& <i>Ay Dios Mio</i> shrilled at the top of the tv actress’ lungs<br />
<br />
My hair lay limp, dead and wet<br />
On my shoulders<br />
“Do you like your hair?” Felicia said<br />
<i>No, No, N-No, No, No, No, No,</i> I thought<br />
But I breathed in, exhaled and smiled<br />
“It’s lovely, thank you”<br />
<br />
<i>Valencia is a Haitian-American poet from Jamaica, New York. She graduated from Vanderbilt University in 2016, and is currently pursing her Masters in education policy. She believes art is the intermediary to finding truth. She hopes to empower other people to express their collective histories through creative expression.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-4335829868297100802017-05-11T05:54:00.000-07:002018-02-03T11:32:50.883-08:00A Mother’s Day Card to Mothers Who Lost Their Children to Police Brutality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="1024" width="100%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg157M0FaBm85uWt3lAIOJvbKz3SH_yZBfSulXJTX87QvD2A_NLTMf7j_xmx3wjMVJZtBP1ikbrf76NPn_hzmxRGkFxLXFMCIFOsT9YLWvFDam1c679j6L_Vfg9kqEZ0Au-qeZk08NJXSs/s320/mothers-portrait-cover-photo+%25281%2529.jpg" /></div><br />
<b>Dr. Candice Bledsoe</b><br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>“Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.”<br />
<br />
The dove weeps for your children’s souls that were taken too quickly from the <br />
<br />
nurturing arms of Mama.<br />
<br />
Singing Negro spirituals in open casket funerals, the wind of disbelief continues to kiss your <br />
<br />
cheek like a mosquito sucking blood from the skin.<br />
<br />
You know it’s there, but you’re too tired to swat at it.<br />
<br />
Numb. Outraged. Dazed. Silent.<br />
<br />
Your memory is filled with soloists singing Precious Lord, O’ Mary Don’t You Weep, and The Lord’s Prayer. <br />
<br />
Visions of crowded churches with open caskets of Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Jordan Edwards, Emmitt Till, and other nameless black boys who have died in America’s dream.<br />
<br />
What do you say to a mother who’s lost her child to police brutality?<br />
<br />
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”<br />
<br />
She will never her those four words again from her child.<br />
<br />
With an aching soul, you muster of the words to share for the family.<br />
<br />
During your grieving, consoling others that everything is going to be alright.<br />
<br />
As you meet the eyes of other Black mother and you realize, she is not protected from the pain that suffocates you. We can be you in an instance… <br />
<br />
…and we know it.<br />
<br />
Screaming silently, you relive the moment when you heard your baby was gunned down like an animal.<br />
<br />
What does one say to the women of color who lost their children to police violence?<br />
<br />
“Happy Mother’s Day, M’Dea.”<br />
<br />
The loud sound of shuffling cards in shopping malls overshadows the hollow cry of those who buried strange fruit too soon. <br />
<br />
Howling cries during the night, racing memories of baby bottles, and tasting the smell of gun smoke comfort you on Mother’s Day.<br />
<br />
Your baby taken and your life changed forever.<br />
<br />
Mothers of Trayvon, Mike, Jordan you join into a new sisterhood. <br />
<br />
You thought your boys would wear white on Mother’s Day. <br />
<br />
Like all the other children do when their mother passes away.<br />
<br />
But the mothers are left.<br />
<br />
Alone.<br />
<br />
What does some someone say to women of color who lost their children to police violence?<br />
<br />
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.<br />
<div><center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</i> <i>Dr. Candice Bledsoe is a faculty member at SMU's Simmons School of Education and executive director of the Action Research Center in Dallas, Texas. Her research explores equity, access, and the experience of underrepresented students in higher education. She has received numerous fellowships including: The National Endowment of the Humanities, the New Leadership Academy, National Center for Institutional Diversity, University of Michigan, and Boone Texas Project for Human Rights Education. Dr. Bledsoe is the recipient of the 2013 SMU Women’s Symposium Profiles of Community Leadership Award. Dr. Bledsoe received a Doctorate in Education from The University of Southern California.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-77883837797775234702017-04-25T06:55:00.000-07:002017-04-25T06:56:17.194-07:00There’s an entire village that lives on top of my head<b><img alt=" photo iStock-506041866.jpg" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/iStock-506041866.jpg" width="100%" /></b><br />
<b>by Hanna Ali</b><br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>There’s an entire village that lives on top of my head <br />
<br />
At night, they gather in the wide-open space of my forehead <br />
<br />
The elderly resting on each eyebrow, toddlers hiding behind my earlobes <br />
<br />
They’re all waiting for me to fail <br />
<br />
Waiting for me to unbecome the person that we all agreed that I should be <br />
<br />
(Prettier, quieter, less of myself) <br />
<br />
They gather for a close-up of mistakes <br />
<br />
Things like: falling in love with the wrong man or <br />
<br />
Disappointing my parents or <br />
<br />
Waiting for my parents to disappoint me or <br />
<br />
Forgetting who I really am, where I’m really from, over there and not here <br />
<br />
I hear them sucking their teeth inside my mind, mixing languages and <br />
<br />
Causing confusion by yelling over one another, the elders demanding respect <br />
<br />
Whilst the young bachelors sneak in a few looks <br />
<br />
They’re all trying to out-do each other’s high notes <br />
<br />
Sometimes I stay quiet for days, eavesdropping on the little women <br />
<br />
The ones that enjoy tangling my hair and making art out of my weight <br />
<br />
There’s an entire village that lives on top of my head <br />
<br />
I can’t drown them out in the bath <br />
<br />
I shaved my head one summer and it only made it easier for the children to run <br />
<br />
Sometimes I hold my breath just to see if they lose oxygen <br />
<br />
Bleeding makes no difference either, just more scars to count <br />
<br />
So, I learn to behave, to speak when I am spoken to <br />
<br />
And to keep my body so clean that there is nothing to gossip about <br />
<br />
If you see me mumbling, it’s only tell them to be quiet because I am a good girl <br />
<br />
It took a village to drag my sins out into the open <br />
<br />
On the tip of my nose where a bonfire was set and little girls ran circles around the shame <br />
<br />
At night, the ashes were used to mark all the places that still hurt <br />
<br />
In the morning, this is a map of how far we’ve come <br />
<br />
Me and the village that lives on top of my head <br />
<br />
<br />
Hanna Ali is a PhD candidate in SOAS where she specialises in African Identity; a theme that features heavily in her creative writing. A former child refugee and a full-time citizen-of-the-world, her writings are concerned with unpacking what it means to be lost. She was recently short listed for the London Short Story Prize 2016. <a href="http://www.hannaali.com/">www.hannaali.com</a> @HannaAliFor Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-32300429500345504912017-04-05T09:51:00.000-07:002017-04-05T09:52:13.112-07:00My Body As Home or What I Wish My Mother Knew <img alt=" photo iStock-502197229.jpg" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/iStock-502197229.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<b>by Arielle Gray</b><br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>My body as a home feels<br />
warm like the shine of the sun on slick skin<br />
Feels like my mother’s arms after a long absence <br />
My body as a home feels like<br />
like ripe fruit on my tongue<br />
feels like<br />
I’ve bought this space<br />
feels like paying emotional rent to exist in my flesh ain’t working no more<br />
feels like wanting to shed my own skin ain’t worth it no more<br />
My body as a home feels like <br />
there ain’t nothing much holier <br />
than this casing for my soul<br />
Like I am a prism of light<br />
Like I am how the universe starts <br />
Like I am no longer coffin <br />
Like something green can finally grow here<br />
Like I finally know what its like to fall asleep <br />
believing I am made of stardust<br />
And earth<br />
And more<br />
Like, Now, this is hallow ground<br />
like I will bring you to your knees<br />
like the holy thing I am<br />
This is sacred space nigga<br />
and tithes are due<br />
IOUs are no longer acceptable forms of payment<br />
for this house<br />
for this house is now home<br />
and I now know<br />
that being home in here<br />
means there is no longer space for you <br />
or for strangled roots <br />
This body as a home <br />
is a house <br />
without you.<br />
<br />
<i>Arielle Gray is a Boston based freelance writer, graphic artist & music journalist. You can catch her stalking live shows around the city or eating Lucy's on Mass Ave.<br />
</i><br />
For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-53555825560206295842017-04-03T11:01:00.000-07:002017-04-03T11:03:14.987-07:00Hydrangeas and Orchids<img src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/iStock-96374885.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<div class="p1"><span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Hydrangeas</span></b></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">By Thea Matthews</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><i></i></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>Your </i>father left me </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">for dead with soiled </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">pampers and </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">a scorching </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Lavender Blue</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">larynx on his 1960s Green carpet. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I laid there limp </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">in the </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">living </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">room, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">tears destined to preserve me, I cried for you; I</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">screamed <i>Mommy</i> until I passed out. Yearning </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your presence cradled me until I was 9. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Then at 12, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I spoke through an eroding esophagus, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">a belly on fire from secrets, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">a compressed throat, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">a murmurous heart–– </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I told you what happened. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Silence </span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">befell You. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You did what you could only do</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> as the frightened, helpless abused</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>little girl you are </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">trapped inside an inflated body of </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">comforting blubber and dark sagging skin.</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You were so scared. </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">lips </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">shivered/ </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You froze </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">for the next </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">10 years.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">[<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> ]</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But you have such a loquacious tongue </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">when avoiding grief. You tested my </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">unwavering love with muteness.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You ripped me out, pulled me up,</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I was once a dutiful daughter.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Now, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I am merely a bouquet of Hydrangeas </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Slowly languishing in the Autumn wind</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">stranded, without water.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But still, I love you.</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Even after you </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">continued to devour a </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">pyramid of marshmallow coated </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">roasted yams, mash potatoes, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">cranberries, seasoned stuffing, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">and slices of baked turkey</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">when seated sandwiched between </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">me<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>and <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>him.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Following the family’s Thanksgiving prayer, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">bite after bite, I lost appetite</span></span></div><div class="p7"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I began to purge.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your taciturnity devalued me.</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your swollen </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">tongue nearly </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">broke my dignity.</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But still, I love you. </span></span></div><div class="p8"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You tried to protect me––</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">A woman shielding her daughter </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">from catcalls and whistles. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">A woman cursing grown men </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">on street corners for staring too long, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">yearning to comb her daughter’s 12-year-old curves. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But woman, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your silence made you <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>a bystander</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">after I said your father molested me. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I must help you, </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">never stop loving you. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You easily feel unheard, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">you hyperventilate.</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your lungs tighten</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your voice drops. </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You talk in circles. </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I remind you to breathe. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">And although I wish I could wrest </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your karma, </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I can’t. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your hair thins in loneliness and your</span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">blood clots in worries. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I see you. </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I forgive you. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I hold my Truth </span></span></div><div class="p7"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">regardless if you </span></span></div><div class="p7"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">hold mine too. </span></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br />
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</script></center><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Orchids</span></b></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">By Thea Matthews</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I.<br />
Fluttery opalescent moth wings </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">orbit my Light. Strong North Dakota</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">winds remind me to stay humbled. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Jolted awake, <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></span></div><div class="p7"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">Silence</span><span class="s2">––</span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The stillness of Joy</span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Absence of incarnation </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Cessation of all desires </span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">awaits remembrance. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Although my eyes saw the first sunrise, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">my heart remembers the Harvest. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Seeds root themselves in fecund soil. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Seeds grow in </span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Silence. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Orchids, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">equanimous and upright, </span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">open their fuchsia arms. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">With their subtle grin, they hum</span><span class="s2">–– </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Strong souls,</span></span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Rebloom. </span></span></div><div class="p8"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Never doubt your propensity </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">to radiate boundless Light. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">When you see a moth, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Spirit is near you. Stand tall. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Erect. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Illuminate</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">your decipherment of what is True</span><span class="s2">: </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are worthy of love. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are more than </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">locked bedroom doors </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">screaming into pillows</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">signed executive orders </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">confederate lies sputtering </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">“you don’t belong here.” </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><i></i></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>Your</i> blood fertilizes this Land. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Our Land/ I give birth to. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are more than <br />
crying on cold bathroom tile floors</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">policy governing uteri </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">treacherous red-tie speeches </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">military missiles/ drones</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">bullets erupting arteries</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">bombs bulldozing your home. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are more than </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">clenched fists/ spray canned “die pigs” </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">tear gas defiling your lungs</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">shattered bank windows</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">masked faces/ rifles, black combat <br />
boots splitting faces on asphalt. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">More than borders </span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">More than skin. </span></span></div><div class="p9"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are whole.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Complete. </span></span></div><div class="p8"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> (II.)</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Complete </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">like impermeable heat</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Feel Spirit’s long-lasting embrace</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The embryonic rhythm of life</span></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You are immortal. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">In your mind, serpents hiss</span><span class="s2">––</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">you are hopeless, helpless, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">nothing more than the incest. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Believe you are nothing. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Believe you are powerless, </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">wallowing in an empty riverbed</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">with a worn noose tied around your neck. </span></span></div><div class="p3"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But remember, Strong souls</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Your tears/ shackles created by someone </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Else’s fears, flood your cavern with </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">inflammable oily water. Purify. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Keep your lungs and heart open. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Relax your spine. Stretch </span></span></div><div class="p6"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">your groin. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Today’s march was yesterday’s frontline. </span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Tomorrow is another struggle. Your faith</span></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">turns limestone to loaves of bread/ Your </span></span></div><style type="text/css">
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<div class="p2"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Faith walks on water. </span></span></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Thea Matthews is a Poetivist (poet + activist)/ Spoken Word Artist who frequents San Francisco’s Bay Area literary scene. Recently, one of her poems, "Protea" was published through the online feminist blog RAG QUEEN PERIODICAL (2017), and "Tempest" was featured in the anthology "Sweet Wolverine: a Collection” (2015).For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-10810158019455904942017-03-21T12:09:00.000-07:002017-03-21T12:12:34.033-07:00Anomaly: The Toll of Police Brutality Across the Diaspora<img alt=" photo iStock-653187232.jpg" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/iStock-653187232.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<b>by Valencia Clement<br />
</b><br />
I. <br />
I hate ultimatums<br />
but this decision is black and white:<br />
It's between the Ivory Tower or the Collie block<br />
& I can’t go back to the murders and suicides<br />
of people, I never got to say good bye to<br />
<br />
I won’t go back to driving <br />
Through Queens streets at 25 mph seeing<br />
Pictures on every other street corner <br />
memorializing those who didn’t make it<br />
<br />
I don’t miss the hour-long bus rides from my home,<br />
Through the hood, to my high school neighborhood<br />
Where there are gyms, grocery stores and clean sidewalks<br />
<br />
My anxiety is correlated to the pressure placed on me<br />
It’s clear the relationship is strong <br />
And I just can’t go back.<br />
<br />
At this point I'm so unstable <br />
The movements in the dark shadows have me looking over my shoulder only to find nothing, <br />
The ache in my back never stops throbbing, <br />
My heart beats hard and fast in my head <br />
& this migraine hasn't gone away for 4 days <br />
<br />
I’ve been here before<br />
You know, that feeling when you can still speak <br />
but it hurts to form words and ideas…<br />
I just need silence before I break.<br />
I don't want to end every semester <br />
One split end away from a nervous breakdown.<br />
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</script></center>II. <br />
As if on cue, my life is sent into chaos<br />
When the same "model police department,"<br />
who walked besides Vandy students <br />
during protests in Midtown<br />
found themselves on the Eastside, scared shitless. <br />
Even if they don’t have hate in their hearts, <br />
they’ve been taught brown skin signals guilt.<br />
<br />
They can't even tell the difference<br />
between stopping crime and destroying our community.<br />
They relentlessly rain down bullets on black and brown bodies <br />
Because they don't see a human being, <br />
they just see skin<br />
<br />
III. <br />
When the news story broke <br />
& I saw his name all over my timeline in the articles<br />
I broke into fear <br />
Could this be a typo? <br />
Jocques Clemmons<br />
Or Are they be talking about my father, <br />
Jacques Clement, <br />
Or my uncle, Jacques-Mary, <br />
Or my grandfather, Jacques Auguste,<br />
Being murdered in his own neighborhood?<br />
<br />
I was shaking as I walked into class <br />
With Jocques on my mind…<br />
Flashbacks of statistics popped in my head, <br />
Of my damning urban studies readings, <br />
Of my teacher ignoring me when I’m the only one raising my hand<br />
& I wonder who’s next <br />
<br />
I try to explain to my teacher <br />
Why “predictable outcomes for Black students”<br />
Makes me feel invisible in this elite sea of white<br />
Bur she calls me an “outlier” and moves on <br />
<center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center>IV.<br />
Today the Nashville council meeting <br />
Was rightfully decolonized by protestors.<br />
Brown people mobilized in the name of Jocques <br />
& for the community to know:<br />
they are not suffering alone<br />
<br />
As I see a sea of brown hues protesting, I wonder:<br />
Where were the women’s march protestors today?<br />
If we’re lucky: writing hashtags and wearing safety pins.<br />
<br />
How is it that the great equalizer doesn’t accommodate for difference? <br />
Can’t pull myself up by bootstraps if I don’t have shoes.<br />
No matter who is President, or what law gets passed<br />
my skin will be a glaring signal<br />
<br />
Therefore, my existence is an act of defiance<br />
& Black lives matter.<br />
Because even if you thought <br />
he was just a thug or a statistic, <br />
He had a life, a family, a daily struggle, <br />
A favorite snack, dreams, fears, and memories.<br />
& all the world cares about is if he was <br />
a statistic or an outlier. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Valencia is a Haitian-American poetess/writer from Jamaica, New York. She graduated from Vanderbilt University in 2016, and is currently pursing her Masters in higher education policy. She believes art is the intermediary to finding truth. She hopes to empower other people to express their collective histories through creative expression.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-61992204358936760832017-02-01T14:30:00.001-08:002017-02-01T14:31:26.526-08:00Stale Cigarettes: A Poem About Survival<a href="https://imageshack.com/i/pmapemb2j" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://imagizer.imageshack.us/v2/xq90/922/apemb2.jpg" width="100%" /></a><br />
<b>by Vanessa Taylor</b><br />
<br />
My aunties have a seat reserved for me at their table<br />
pack of cigarettes set aside<br />
They don’t know when I’ll come<br />
‘n neither do I<br />
We only know I belong<br />
‘neath clouds of smoke<br />
stale Pepsi in a room temperature glass<br />
<br />
Did you know that when you move<br />
From stale Georgia heat<br />
Anger adapts to a colder climate? <br />
Did you know your legacy isn’t the house you were born in<br />
Or houses your aunties defended from their own husbands<br />
But carved into your bones?<br />
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</script></center>Did you know that you can no more run from that table<br />
And that chair<br />
Than you can run from shadows?<br />
<br />
My aunties don’t know when I will arrive.<br />
Some of them were old woman when they came<br />
And some of them sat down when they were young<br />
After they laid with their first man and realized<br />
the Devil hides in his touch.<br />
<br />
I don’t do love poems<br />
So excuse me.<br />
This is the closest I will get.<br />
<br />
My grandma tells me about her sister<br />
How my grandmother followed her here from Georgia<br />
Followed the bruises & the unanswered questions<br />
To the doorstep of a too small house, with too many children<br />
And not enough man present<br />
How my grandmother told her sister<br />
“Pack his bags for him. I’ll get a job”<br />
<br />
And I think that’s a good introduction to that table. <br />
<br />
If you ask my grandfather he’ll tell you women there are bitter<br />
But beneath their smoke there are greens cooking<br />
And homemade pies<br />
Cabinets full of spices with labels worn down from use<br />
Nothing bitter, only homey. <br />
<br />
If you ask my uncles they will laugh with their bellies full of liquor<br />
tell you those women only complain <br />
But they stopped complaining as soon as they took their seat<br />
Hands rubbing knees tender from hard wood floors<br />
They learned quiet prayers never saved their mothers<br />
So they transfer whispered pleas into fists<br />
Learned to lay men out<br />
And grab sisters by the hand.<br />
<br />
The men of my family will tell you it is a table of women who don’t know how to love.<br />
And you will regret your setting the way I did mine.<br />
<br />
But my grandmother tells me stories about men<br />
<br />
How tragic is it that our strength as Black women rests on how hot the pot is on the stove<br />
On how clever we are<br />
On how fast we can run<br />
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</script></center>How tragic that we had to build a hymn<br />
From a disturbed choir<br />
Organ pipes stuffed with money<br />
We don’t let him know we have<br />
<br />
Our legacy rests in screen doors<br />
Slamming on broken backs<br />
In a table of aunties & sisters & cigarette smoke<br />
Grits bubbling on the stove just in case<br />
Just in case<br />
He always has a way to come back<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Vanessa Taylor is an organizer and writer from Minneapolis. Their work focuses on addressing the intersections of being a queer, Black Muslim and their own lived experiences.<br />
</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-46406113171057824292017-01-11T07:10:00.000-08:002017-01-11T07:10:32.839-08:00Once Upon a Time, Our FLOTUS Was Black<b><a href="https://imageshack.com/i/plhsIsMAj" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://imagizer.imageshack.us/v2/xq90/921/hsIsMA.jpg" width="100%" /></a></b><br />
<b>by Mariah Williams</b><br />
<br />
My niece, who is just a baby, will be too young to remember her. And my cousins, even though they would have seen this confident figure stand before them on television, will not know what the first Black First Lady truly meant or who she was. I will not let them forget. I will remind them when they are older that once in the White House lived a confident and proud Black family – a Black man, a Black woman and their two little girls who transformed into two beautiful young women. I will tell them about the 8 years of hope, of what it felt like to look on TV and see someone who looked like us in the highest seat of power in the United States. I will remind them why this matters. I will tell them the history of our people, of tattered, beaten and broken down bodies, of the mental, physical and psychological pain inflicted upon us for centuries. I will remind them that there are people who do not want us to tap into our greatness, people who see our black, brown and beige hues and view us as inferior, as less than, as ignorant and unworthy of the freedoms and luxuries this world has to offer. I will tell them that while their history books may only speak of us as slaves and sufferers, we are in fact a great and triumphant people. That we are strong, persistent, relentless, passionate, sympathetic, intelligent, intellectual. We are beautiful. I will tell them to always remember this, no matter what the world says. No matter who they are told to be. I will remind them of the giants that came before them, including Michelle, in all of her grace and beauty, in all of her confidence and magic. My little cousins and niece will know that the impossible is possible, that little black and brown girls like them can be bold and loud and have their voices heard. That they can do anything they set their minds to. That they are boundless. I will tell them why this matters and that some people view women as inferior, as less than. I will tell them that there are people who see us as subservient, who believe that we should reside in just the corner of the room, that we should not have a seat at the table, that a chair should not even be made available to us. I will tell them that the color of their skin complicates this, that their fight will be twice as hard. That negative stereotypes about who we are have pervaded every inch of society and that at times it will be difficult to escape this. But, I will remind them to be encouraged by the women who came before them. By Michelle. Harriet. Angela. Zora. Maya. bell. Alice. Coretta. Assata. Chimimanda. I will tell them so they do not forget, so that when their teachers teach them the history of this country, they know that folks that look like them are rooted in, around and through all of it. So that when they learn about Lincoln and George, they also learn about Obama. So that when they learn about Nancy and Hilary, they also learn about Michelle. I will make sure they never forget what they are capable of, of what they can be, and I will tell them, “once upon a time, y'all, our FLOTUS was Black and she was magical.”<br />
<br />
<i>Mariah Williams is currently pursuing her Masters in Urban and Regional Planning at Virginia Commonwealth University. She is the founder of <a href="http://blackgirlsmeetup.org/" target="_blank">Black Girls Meet Up</a>, an organization dedicated to creating spaces for the being of Black women and girls. She aspires to become an urban planner who advocates for affordable housing and inclusive communities for people of color.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-89707954413689070362016-10-31T07:41:00.000-07:002016-10-31T07:52:46.250-07:00A Poetic Response to the Misogynoir That Dominates Popular Culture<img border="0" src="http://imagizer.imageshack.us/v2/xq90/923/n5DfBE.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
<b>by Carla M. Cherry</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thank You, Amber Rose</b></span><br />
<br />
<center><img alt=" photo 1e458820-ceb0-4aff-956f-c33ef31b443c.png" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/thehlmn172/1e458820-ceb0-4aff-956f-c33ef31b443c.png" width="100%" /></center><br />
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</script></center><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Objectified<br />
</span></b><br />
<br />
Trick Daddy<br />
driving around talking about<br />
Spanish hoes and white hoes<br />
getting finer than a motherfucker.<br />
If they learn to fry chicken<br />
us black hoes<br />
will be useless<br />
unless we tighten up.<br />
Daniel Holtzclaw<br />
driving his police cruiser around poor neighborhoods,<br />
picking on black women:<br />
sodomizing and raping<br />
compelling fellatio at gunpoint<br />
because he thought no one<br />
would notice.<br />
Chasm between them two ain’t exactly river deep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Carla M. Cherry is an English teacher and poet from New York City who has been published in Anderbo, Soar, Obscura, Dissident Voice, Random Sample Review, Eunoia Review, MemoryHouse Magazine, Down In The Dirt, and In Between Hangovers. She has also published a book of poetry, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Feathers-Butterfly-Wings-Carla-Cherry/dp/160047182X/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&linkCode=ll1&tag=forhar-20&linkId=593213137c2b9f98af877e7a9edf335a" target="_blank"><b>Gnat Feathers and Butterfly Wings</b></a>.</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-49838976433120936822016-10-17T09:57:00.000-07:002016-10-17T09:57:59.796-07:00Congratulations: A Short Story<b><img alt=" photo iStock_11023701_MEDIUM.jpg" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/thehlmn160/iStock_11023701_MEDIUM.jpg" width="100%" /></b><br />
<b>by Jasmyne K. Rogers</b><br />
<br />
I stood up from my center in the middle pew. The mustered hope abandoned my being; my legs grew weak from the pressure. More than three-dozen pairs of eyes studied me, awaiting my motive. I had practiced. Practiced well in my vanity mirror the night before. Wrote the speech in my leather bound journal praying that my scattered words would discover conformity in the margins. However, my words betrayed me, abandoned me at show time, and left me in awkward silence. The preacher tilted his glasses on the bridge of his nose with the bible cupped firmly in his hand. His eyes searched and waited for my announcement.<br />
<br />
I had nothing. <br />
<br />
Damon’s mother sat in the front pew on the right side and my eyes met hers for a fraction of a second. She knew I was in pain and her eyes immediately met the tiled floor in avoidance. Someone coughed and it brought me back to reality: standing up in the middle of a packed church witnessing the love of my life marrying another. <br />
<br />
The abandoned thoughts called upon fear and before my legs failed me completely, I rushed down the aisle and out of the chapel doors.<br />
<br />
I heard a faint, “You may kiss your bride,” as I tripped down the last concrete step leading from the church to the parking lot. Tears welled in my eyes for the rest of the world to see. I quickly gathered myself and shook uncontrollably to bridle the raging emotions. I pressed the keyless entry remote to my Acura and slid in the driver’s seat as the hot leather warmed the back of my legs. Before I knew it, my hands firmly gripped the steering wheel as warm tears stormed my reddened cheeks. <br />
<br />
I imagined the chapel doors would burst open and I would make out a tall, medium-build man running in my direction through my blurred vision. He would tap my car window lightly as I pushed a stray curl behind my ear and let down the window. He would give me a faint smile and wipe my tears with the back of his hand and say,<br />
<br />
“I love you, Nena. I want to be with you and only you.” <br />
<br />
Tears stormed my face again when I realized my imagination would never manifest into reality. The chapel doors were still closed and there was no man in a tux running toward me.<br />
<br />
No one showed up for me. <br />
<br />
I sped off into the horizon at the quite rude awakening and revelation that punched me squarely between the eyes. <br />
<br />
I vowed to never return to Lowndes County, Alabama as a result. <br />
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</script></center><div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Nina Simone filled the room as my head bobbed rhythmically to the melodious tunes. The sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries and chicken stir-fry saturated the room as I poured a glass of white wine for two.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, baby,” he replied. He took his glass and resumed gazing at me with wild curiosity. <br />
<br />
I began humming and really getting into the beautiful vibes of being “young, gifted, and Black” that Nina sung of, unapologetically. His eyes marveled at the sight of me simply being on that Wednesday evening.<br />
<br />
“Nena,” he whispered.<br />
<br />
“Hmm?”<br />
<br />
“I have a question.”<br />
<br />
I turned the stove eye down to low and covered the saucepan and sat down on the barstool next to him.<br />
<br />
“Tell me why you don’t want to go home to visit.”<br />
<br />
I chuckled and darted my eyes, wanting to avoid the subject altogether. I did not want to travel down that road. The path was painful. <br />
<br />
“That wasn’t exactly a question.” <br />
<br />
“Will you tell me?” He pleaded, gently grabbing my hand.<br />
<br />
“I pulled away slightly and got up from the barstool.”<br />
<br />
I wasn’t ready to go back <i>there</i>—referring to the physical and mental state where hurt engulfed me. I had finally started gathering my Self and getting back to happy. I did not need to detour and travel down that road. It had taken so damn long to find my way. I blocked the memory.<br />
<br />
“Nothing’s there for me,” was my simple reply. <br />
<br />
He rubbed his eyebrow and I knew at that point, it would be a long night. He had asked the question before and I avoided it all the same—usually by bringing up a different subject, turning on some soul music and engaging in a dance, or initiating passionate lovemaking. Or all of the above. Before I could switch from Nina to Marvin, he had grabbed the iSound remote and powered the music off. I shifted my weight from one foot to another. He studied me in my awkward silence. My eyes darted around my petite kitchen as I searched for words.<br />
<br />
None arrived. “That’s your home and I know you love your family, Nena. Why do they have to always come here to see you?”<br />
<br />
“They like visiting me, Tate. They enjoy getting out of the country and coming here for a spell.”<br />
<br />
He wasn’t buying it. He shook his head as I watched his expression change from concern to puzzled. <br />
<br />
“I don’t get it, Nena. You speak so fondly of your younger years growing up in the country. Your eyes light up when you tell me the stories. What changed? What made you not want to go back there?”<br />
I closed my eyes and tried my hardest to block the memory attempting to surface. Tate’s concern was triggering it. This was not the time to deal. This was not the time for tears to storm my face as they had done five years ago. <br />
<br />
“Can we just talk about this later?” I pleaded as I uncovered the saucepan and stirred the stir-fry.<br />
<br />
“Fine,” he said. I forced a smile as I walked to his space, rubbed my hand across his Caesar fade, and planted a subtle kiss on his forehead. He wrapped his right arm around my waist as his left hand powered the iSound back on. Marvin Gaye filled the room as his left hand searched and felt the warmth between my thighs. The brewing passion trumped the remnants of pain that wanted to escape; they all meshed into one under the guise of lovemaking. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I awakened to someone gently playing in my hair. I looked up and smiled at the sight. Tate smiled and planted a kiss on my forehead.<br />
<br />
“You were crying in your sleep again.”<br />
<br />
Before I could mutter a word, he kissed my lips with fervent passion.<br />
<br />
“I understand. The revolution of the soul in silence. I love you, Nena Sims.” <br />
<br />
<i>The revolution of the soul in silence. </i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The old file cabinet opened with a clunk as I fished through the manila folders.<i> Shoot, it has to be in here somewhere.</i> I kept fishing through the folders until my hand ran across the leather bound. And there it was, tucked away between the <i>1 World 4 Love and Engine Number 9</i> folders for my nonprofit affiliations. I drew a deep breath as I grasped the leather bound journal. The journal had been one of many graduation gifts from my father. “Write life in here, Neen. Nothing short of it,” he had said, as I watched the tears glaze his eyes. It was more than just the tears that glazed over in his eyes that engrossed me. It was the subtle, yet powerful fight that resided in his being. He fought with the courage and grace of an African warrior. It marveled and saddened me, simultaneously. The increase in aggression signaled the worsening in his condition. “Daddy, I love you so much,” I had said as his fragile body vibrated from our embrace.<br />
<br />
“I love you too, my Neen. Be great.” I found solace in my daddy’s embrace for two more weeks. He transitioned in his sleep and I felt pieces of my soul transition with him to glory. It transformed me something serious and I found myself appalled that the world didn’t stop because my daddy passed away. Now I realized that during that time I was searching. Searching for something to fill the void. I wanted Damon to fill the void so badly. He became my attraction and distraction. He encompassed everything that made my world all right.<br />
<br />
My heart started to flutter from the repressed memories that wanted to surface. Tears flowed freely as I opened the leather bound journal. Soon as I flipped to the page dated 06/29/2011, my iPhone danced across the cherry oak desk. <br />
<br />
“Hey honey.”<br />
“Hey, my love. How’s your day?”<br />
My eyes smiled as Tate’s voice calmed my world’s storm that was surely brewing.<br />
<br />
“Slow day today so I’m just catching up on paper work,” I replied, running my hand over the journal.<br />
<br />
“Cool cool.”<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong, Tate?” I pushed the journal aside and looked out the window. <br />
<br />
“Have you made up your mind about going home?”<br />
<br />
My eyes shifted from the two men scatting on the corner outside to the journal now on the edge of my desk.<br />
<br />
“Nena…”<br />
<br />
I listened to the men conjuring the raw magic of jazz fuzzed with blues. The man wearing a periwinkle blue tee and wrangler jeans lifted his head to the friendly skies as a hard melody escaped his soul.<br />
<br />
“Tate,” I whispered as the melody penetrated my soul. It reminded me of something. It was familiar.<br />
<br />
“Give me some time.”<br />
<br />
“Okay baby. Talk to you later. Love you, moon.”<br />
<br />
A faint smile formed. “Love you too, sun.”<br />
<br />
I drew a deep breath and focused my attention to the men outside.<br />
<br />
The man dressed in periwinkle blue had found his rhythm and his raw magic transformed into a passionate truth. His buddy snapped his finger and bobbed his head—effortlessly attaching ad-libs to his rhythm of blues. His music brought life to the corner of Edgewood and Courtland. It brought life to my soul and a soaring revelation:<br />
<br />
It was high time I faced the music and the truth that I forcefully tucked away in the corners of my mind and in the delta of my soul. It was time. <br />
<br />
I grabbed the journal and opened the first page.<br />
<br />
<i>Graduation night, May 2010.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Today was dope! I finally walked across the stage and received my degree. Everyone was so proud and glowing in their caps and gowns. God is so good and has done amazing things in my twenty-two years of life. It especially made me happy to see my daddy’s eyes sparkle. They haven’t sparkled in a while. Damon says he has a surprise for me tonight. Marriage, maybe? ;) I cannot wait. Today is hands-down the best day of my existence! Thank God for life!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <div style="text-align: center;"><i>-N.S. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Memories filled my office as I remembered graduation night. Damon picked me up around eight that night and we went to the park. I remember his cologne—it was a perfect combination of fragrant and strong. We had frequented the park many times, but that night seemed quieter. Damon’s eyes darted from the smile outlined on my face and his phone that vibrated endlessly in his pocket. <br />
<br />
“Nena,” He called to me as I twirled around the cherry oak tree—feeling like a carefree little girl.<br />
<br />
“Can we talk?” His eyes met the ground.<br />
<br />
For the first time that night, I noticed a shift in Damon’s demeanor. My own happiness had clouded my awareness of his behavior.<br />
<br />
“Sure,” I said, walking a straight line from the tree to the swings.<br />
<br />
He took a seat next to me. I begin to propel and lift off the ground until he grabbed the chains of the swing, preventing me to fly. <br />
<br />
“This is serious.”<br />
<br />
I looked him squarely in the eyes as his eyes searched everywhere except my eyes.<br />
<br />
“I haven’t been happy. I have a lot going on and lot to figure out. I don’t have time for a serious relationship right now. I want to live a little.”<br />
<br />
The words gut-punched me and I choked from the unanticipated hurt. Things had been going so well for me. Hell, it was the day I graduated from college.<br />
<br />
“Why now?” I managed to splatter the words into the night air.<br />
<br />
“Because. I felt it would be the best time. I did not want to tell you while you were studying for finals. I was being considerate of you and what you had going on.”<br />
<br />
I sucked my teeth and rolled my eyes.<br />
<br />
“This is beyond fucked up, Damon.” I removed myself from the space in his presence and walked down the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
“Nena, where you going, man?”<br />
<br />
“Home,” I yelled into the night air.<br />
<br />
“I drove so how you getting there. Wait baby, I’ll drive you.”<br />
<br />
I turned around and my eyes could stop bullets in mid-air.<br />
<br />
“Baby? I’m not your baby and I don’t need you to take me home. I can walk.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t be mad, Nena.”<br />
“Fuck you, Damon.” I said and stormed off into the night.<br />
<br />
He remained on the swings gripping the chain with one hand. His phone had finally stopped vibrating. I heard his low voice soothing another. <br />
<br />
The tears didn’t fall until I made it home to my bed.<br />
<br />
<i>Whatahelluvaday</i>. May 21, 2010. <br />
<br />
<br />
The music was louder now and a crowd had started forming. The men continued as though it was still only them. Still scatting. Still conjuring raw magic and passionate melodies erupting from their beings. A tear trickled down my cheek as I watched their music heal themselves and others, simultaneously. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My hands trembled a little as I lay diagonally across my bed and flipped through the journal. Erykah Badu’s <i>Baduizm</i> Live album from ’97 played softly from the iHome speaker—creating a soft and peaceful ambience. <br />
<br />
The date glared at me and I couldn’t fight the tears.<br />
<br />
For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to weep as Badu soothingly coaxed me with “you don’t have to cry/cause I’ll be right by your side.” <br />
<br />
My entire body shook uncontrollably as memories shifted into the present.<br />
<br />
The day of my daddy’s funeral fucked my world up. 06/29/2011. Breathing seemed hard. It seemed selfish. My perception was blurry. Everything seemed a mirage. Nothing was real except my daddy’s cold, lifeless body in the blue casket. I remembered Marvin Gaye’s “Distant Lover” playing over and over in my mind to keep me calm. I remember my mother’s deep and piercing moans from losing her best friend and husband of sixteen years. I remember the pain. Everything else was fleeting, but the pain stayed. <br />
<br />
My pillows were soaked from years of pain being released. I did not even hear when Tate called out to me softly and got in bed beside me.<br />
<br />
He caressed my head as I cried myself to sleep in his arms. <br />
<br />
Badu still bellowed softly in the background:<br />
<br />
<i>You don’t have to cry. Cause I’ll be right by your side. </i><br />
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</script></center><div style="text-align: center;"><b>***</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I awakened to a mild headache at the top of the morning. I gazed up at Tate as he slept with his left arm wrapped around my abdomen. I smiled at the sight and thanked God for allowing this man to merge onto my path and enter my life with love, patience, and passion. Tate Williams inspired me beyond measure. <br />
<br />
His energy. Damn, his energy. <br />
<br />
He made me melt even in his calming silence.<br />
<br />
I slid from underneath his arm and went into the kitchen for an aspirin and glass of water. It was still pitch-black dark outside. I drew the kitchen curtains and swallowed the aspirin and gulped down the filtered water. <br />
<br />
Badu trailed from the bedroom into the kitchen. This time she was singing of packing light. The song allowed me to drift into my Self. I sighed and tiptoed back into the bedroom. Tate was still sleeping peacefully with his left arm now thrown across the plush satin pillow I arranged as a makeshift prop in my absence.<br />
<br />
I flipped the leather bound journal open as I sat Indian style on my wooden living room floor. <br />
<br />
06/29/2011:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>He never even said goodbye!!!! </b></span><br />
<br />
My nerves turned somersaults in my stomach as my mind finally reconnected to the memory I had blocked for five years: the day of Damon’s wedding in my hometown.<br />
<br />
Everything grew silent. I could no longer hear Badu. I did not even hear the birds chirping to welcome the morning sun. Everything became a feeling instead. A wave of emotions came to my surface. This time, I allowed them to be. I sat Indian style on my living room floor and wept. I was finally able to say goodbye to the painful memory that I had tucked away in the basement of my mind to fester. I cried because Damon did not even say goodbye. I cried because the people in my hometown pitied me. <i>Lord, that poor girl of Jody Ann. She ain’t been the same since her daddy died. And now she standing up in this here church ‘bout to make a fool of herself over this boy. A pity and a damn shame. </i><br />
<br />
I remember that moment in the church vividly. It was happening again for me. The lump in my throat and my sweaty hands as my knees buckled when I stood up for what I deemed as Love. But Love led me out of that church. Love led me here—to the space where I could combat the painful memories. Love wants me to be free.<br />
<br />
<i>I wish you well, Damon. Congratulations. Goodbye. </i><br />
<br />
I got up from the space and went back into the bedroom—removing the makeshift prop and placing Tate’s arm over my now settled stomach. I smiled as I nestled up under his muscular medium frame. <br />
<br />
He stirred and kissed my forehead.<br />
<br />
“Are you okay, Nena?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I said, my voice laced with newfound confidence and power as I looked into his eyes.<br />
<br />
Tate grinned and pulled me in tighter. He knew.<br />
<br />
“I want to go visit my family next weekend. I’m ready to go home, Tate. It’s time now.”<br />
<br />
“I’m proud of you, Nena Sims. Congratulations, baby.” <br />
<br />
I exhaled—my soul lifted. <br />
<br />
It felt damn good to experience freedom after the silent revolution of the soul.<br />
<br />
<i>Love. Congratulations.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Jasmyne K. Rogers is a native of Wilcox County, Alabama and graduate of Georgia State University. She thoroughly enjoys writing soul stories that reflect our history, culture, and progression. Her work has been featured on For Harriet, Blavity, Ayiba Mag, NU Tribe Mag, and Centum Press. Her collection of short stories and poetry entitled Soul Stories will be published by Bahati Books in early November. Her soul story, "Peace After Revolution," will be featured in Brown Girls Books' latest anthology, Single Mama Dating Drama, on October 18th. Connect with her on Twitter: @poetic_jaszy.<br />
</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379197615659702172.post-50853836502154155712016-10-15T16:04:00.001-07:002016-10-15T16:05:24.618-07:00For Toni Morrison<img alt=" photo Screen Shot 2016-10-15 at 5.59.31 PM.png" border="0" src="http://i789.photobucket.com/albums/yy172/thehlmn/thehlmn158/Screen%20Shot%202016-10-15%20at%205.59.31%20PM.png" width="100%" /><br />
<b>by Maya Black (White) </b><br />
<br />
<div class="p1"><div class="p3"><span class="s1">for years, i have envisioned dialogue with the artist who has opened my eyes to a world. a world of creativity, something of nothing </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">in those years, i have procrastinated and neglected my artistic spirit from reaching out to the mind of lyrical literature. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">the creator and mastermind of lyrical literature, Toni Morrison, has set the reality of black lives in writing and with those words has opened a spiritual cortex that transcends one’s own reality. </span></div><center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"> my thoughts, dreams and ideas have been stirred by the words in your writing. </span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"> your writing touches some part of my existence, whether if it is from the past, present or future.</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"> it is unexplainable, ineffable yet reliable. </span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"> </span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"> your words speak truth which makes them trustworthy. </span></div><div class="p4"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">the works of Song of Solomon, Sula, and The Bluest Eye creates an experience for me. they tell stories of beliefs, african-american customs and ancestral spiritual existence. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">my first time reading your work, i was seventeen years old in a public school english class. english books are typically traditional and/or old english classical literature choices and are comprehensible for the student if it is of their personal interest. Sula was my teachers reading of choice, the choice was revolutionary and timing was essential because that year as a student i was struggling emotionally. </span><br />
<span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> from what I remember in two thousand twelve, Sula was an expressive character. she knew what she wanted. her personality is directive and full of spirit. the environment reciprocated Sula’s behavior and lifestyle. she was in tune with herself and her surroundings. her connectivity among herself and the world was deviant but controlled. reflecting on myself, i noticed a lot of times i was Nel and Sula.</span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>i did not know i could resemble non-fictional characters.</i></span></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>I did not notice, I had a story</i></span></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i> historical significance</i></span></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i> spiritual sensibility </i></span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i went running for more, and found The Bluest Eye… or i could admit that it found me</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">then i found myself, or part of me from the past and a little bit of the present.</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">Claudia and Pecola were there and in them there was my story, my truth and tragedy</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">all in words, but inside of me..</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i was amazed that my experience, my feelings were articulable </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">a sense of self grew; i had something to talk about because i realized my problems were real </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i was not alone.. </span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p5"><br />
</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i was in awe, for a while and felt inspired, destined and known. worthy and empowered. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i read more then finally…. Song of Solomon was presented to me from the hands of my senior english teacher.</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">what i found in the experience of reading Song of Solomon was the beauty of passing the physical world. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">I first read this book in two thousand thirteen, but felt it was right to experience the reading again in </span></div><div class="p3">august of two thousand sixteen</div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p5"><center><script async="" src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script> <!-- Large --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9450107725766363" data-ad-slot="6852641998" style="display: inline-block; height: 280px; width: 336px;"></ins> <script>
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</script></center></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">as always, your words transcend my reality.. my truth and my tragedy </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">while reading Song of Solomon, or what I like to call it my SOS, i was celebrating the life of my </span></div><div class="p3">Daddy who was turning fifty-two on august third. </div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">as a gift, i decided to write a letter to him in honor of his exceptional parenting and express my </span></div><div class="p3">gratitude, love and respect for him as my Daddy</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">what I felt while writing that letter is indescribable.</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">the tears that followed the words were necessary and connected </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">similar… so familiar like the love and appreciation Milkman had for Pilates, and Pilates for Jake (<i>her Daddy)</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i read that book into my Dad’s last days, six days after his birthday </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">since then, SOS clearly interpreted ancestry and the spirituality of life </span></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><i></i></span><br />
</div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i> the cycle of spirituality and ancestry = the existence of life</i></span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">SOS guided me for what i was going to experience spiritually</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i read and finished SOS on the hospital couch with my Daddy</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">at one time we happened to look at one another with silent concern.. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i ask him “you need anything?” he says no.. </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i remember there was a glow in his eyes..</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i watched my father fight his disease, spirit first</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">like an angel, <i>Jake, </i>he did not surrender to fear and despair </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i was his precious, protected and boldly poised Pilate</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">just how Pilate carried her father with her until she passed her spirit along in the universe, </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"> I feel the spiritual responsibility to do the same</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">i witnessed his last breath, the riding of spirit into the universe </span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">my daddy taught me so many things, but in his last days he taught me how to live, speak, fight and be</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">the beauty of spiritual being</span></div><div class="p5"><span class="s1"></span><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"><i></i></span><br />
</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i>do not fear death</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i>do not fear the unknown</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i>carry the spirit of what made you, not makes of you…</i></span></div><div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i><br />
</i></span></div><br />
<div class="p3"><span class="s1"><i>be bold, black and beloved</i></span></div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
<br />
Maya Black (White) is a scholar at the University of Louisville and director of the non-profit KY Recovery Resource Center. If Maya isn't working, traveling or reading, you can find her facilitating a black girlhood empowerment program, GLOW, at the Louisville Urban League or enjoying a coffee at a local shop</i>For Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09683917312535044896noreply@blogger.com