By Nefertiti N.
Ribbons atop a perfectly wrapped package
An illusion
No one said it would be easy
And the answers are just beyond reach
No defying the laws of gravity
No bending the rules of nature
No turning back time
No magic wand
Just life
And work
And work
And work…
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
amor noveau 2
she was ready and knew by the look in his brown eyes that he had something special in store for her. her moans turned to sighs as he gently teased her. more nibbles here, another kiss there. her skin craved him and her body needed him. but his impatience was thinly veiled. just as quickly as he showered her with kisses, he grabbed her roughly by the waist and pulled her close. her dress long gone, had left her revealed in only the most intimate of ways. her breath caught in her throat as he whispered in her ear. "ma belle...mon amour." his voice touched her at the very core of her being and her heart swelled with emotion. her head dropped back as she lost herself to the sounds of the saxophone and the piano -- so sharp and so clear yet so perfectly intertwined, who would ever doubt that they were meant to be coupled. "nina...nina...", his voice trembling as he whispered her name over and over. she let herself be carried away on the wave of desire that he so expertly crafted. his hands continued their exploration. her nipples. her navel. and finally, the one spot that had been screaming for his attention. rough and gentle. gentle and rough. he let her know that she was as much his as he was hers. primal instincts took over as she bucked her hips, searching for the one thing that would completely satisfy her. she was ready to have him. she was ready to take him. she was ready for all of him.
by wynsters the tigress (inspired by Felicia's "amor noveau")
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Amor Nouveau
His hands were rough and wide as if all his life he's never known the softness of a woman's touch. He caressed her doll-like face almost scratching her smooth ebony skin. He wiped away the sweat off her nose with his fingers and tasted the salty liquid. He held her close to him. His big arms coveing her, she felt safe. He held on tight as if he were afraid to let her go. She looked into his almond-shaped chocolate brown eyes and melted. He stared back into her. She kissed his soft full lips after which, he placed two smaller ones on both of her cheeks.
"Nina," he almost growled her name as he spoke softly into her ears. His soft French accent lilting his words. "Cherie, si belle." She smiled at him as he kissed her, unzipping her dress with his hands. Watching it fall to the floor, he kissed her neck. "So beautiful," he repeated. She let his hands explore her skin, closing her eyes to feel the sensation.
He left a trail of kisses on her shoulder, nibbling on her arms. He kissed her elbows, her hands, her fingers...She moaned gently, not wanting it to end. He held her as John Coltrane played "Naima" in the background. She loved the feel of her skin on his, his skin on hers. She knew where the night was heading. She was ready.
(to be continued, maybe)
"Nina," he almost growled her name as he spoke softly into her ears. His soft French accent lilting his words. "Cherie, si belle." She smiled at him as he kissed her, unzipping her dress with his hands. Watching it fall to the floor, he kissed her neck. "So beautiful," he repeated. She let his hands explore her skin, closing her eyes to feel the sensation.
He left a trail of kisses on her shoulder, nibbling on her arms. He kissed her elbows, her hands, her fingers...She moaned gently, not wanting it to end. He held her as John Coltrane played "Naima" in the background. She loved the feel of her skin on his, his skin on hers. She knew where the night was heading. She was ready.
(to be continued, maybe)
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
remember the time
january 8, 2010
as i got off the train, the air was damp, in that way that it can only be after a day of continuous rainfall. i took a deep breath, several actually, as i walked down the steps onto the street level. it was late and i momentarily wondered where i would find the energy to walk the few blocks home. i paused at the bottom. one, two more deep breaths. i held my head down as i began my walk. shadows grew and changed shape as several street lamps flickered on. i imagined several worlds taking place behind those shadows. worlds where people did extraordinary things. worlds where dreams took flight and no one ever doubted their existence. i wondered about those worlds as i continued my journey through a world that had begun to bore me. i heard others walking behind me: a mother speaking softly to the baby in a stroller; a student blasting music in his earphones, lost and drowning in the sound. others walked more quickly, with more determination, as they scurried past me. my nostrils filled with smells that made me cringe. garbage, dog shit, exhaust, life. instead of washing it all away, the rain allowed it all to linger. i felt heavy, like a plow. pushing my way through. but not with an ease. rather, with a difficulty that bordered on apathy or insouciance. i felt disengaged, carried by the current of the world, to a place that lacked vibrancy; to a place where life has no definition. i should have run. i should have cried out. i should have done anything to force that life, any life, back into me. but instead, i slowed my pace, kept my head down and continued to walk. toward that place that held neither life nor meaning to me.
wynsters the tigress
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The L Word
written by Felicia York
She wondered how long she could keep the melancholy at bay before it spread itself all over her face like a billboard on a highway. It was her little secret - the elephant in the room about which they all wondered but never dared to ask. How did she cope with it all? She mired about her daily life pretending not to care, not to notice the growing void which food nor self-administered orgasms could fill. The chasm within her mined itself a tunnel to dark places she'd long buried. There were places in the dark where the Sun would not shine again. She soothed herself, shaking off the day with vodka and coke and let the music play around her while she searched the recesses of her mind, numbed the voices in her head and let the rhythm take her.
Her gripped her waist, smiling at her smelling like someone else's man. She did not care, renting him for the night, placing her hands around his neck, letting him dance with her, taking the lead. She felt safe with him as he manipulated her body. She was in her own little world as her breath smelled of cheap wine and desperation. How long would she live like this? Clouding her mind with happy thoughts, she would not dare speak the words that danced on the tip of her tongue. She moved with him until the bottoms of her feet burned and the sweat dotted her brow. She kissed his cheek and thanked him as she disappeared in the night out of fear she would turn into a pumpkin.
She rode the train, ignoring the looks from the men who glared at her. What could they really offer besides broken promises and hard thrusts in the dark with half-flaccid penises? Maybe she needed those things to help her remember. She needed to remember she was a woman underneath the armor she'd built around herself. She couldn't remember the last time she felt safe and vulnerable in a man's arms. There were things she needed that she would never utter. She would never speak them to a soul because she knew the difference between want and need. She possessed a needing that was never fulfilled. Devastating.
She shrugged it off. She was tired and she would have to go home to face what she'd been running from all along. For the truth was that no matter how hard she tried, she could never run from herself. She would always have to face the loneliness that burrowed into her bones and rattled within her, radiating with each heartbeat; she had no choice but to face it. It would have to wait for another night. That night, she self-medicated, washing the pain away with borrowed smiles and spirits. Morning would come as it always had. The morrow would bring a new day with her old lover. She still wished for something that she quite possibly could not have: change.
She wondered how long she could keep the melancholy at bay before it spread itself all over her face like a billboard on a highway. It was her little secret - the elephant in the room about which they all wondered but never dared to ask. How did she cope with it all? She mired about her daily life pretending not to care, not to notice the growing void which food nor self-administered orgasms could fill. The chasm within her mined itself a tunnel to dark places she'd long buried. There were places in the dark where the Sun would not shine again. She soothed herself, shaking off the day with vodka and coke and let the music play around her while she searched the recesses of her mind, numbed the voices in her head and let the rhythm take her.
Her gripped her waist, smiling at her smelling like someone else's man. She did not care, renting him for the night, placing her hands around his neck, letting him dance with her, taking the lead. She felt safe with him as he manipulated her body. She was in her own little world as her breath smelled of cheap wine and desperation. How long would she live like this? Clouding her mind with happy thoughts, she would not dare speak the words that danced on the tip of her tongue. She moved with him until the bottoms of her feet burned and the sweat dotted her brow. She kissed his cheek and thanked him as she disappeared in the night out of fear she would turn into a pumpkin.
She rode the train, ignoring the looks from the men who glared at her. What could they really offer besides broken promises and hard thrusts in the dark with half-flaccid penises? Maybe she needed those things to help her remember. She needed to remember she was a woman underneath the armor she'd built around herself. She couldn't remember the last time she felt safe and vulnerable in a man's arms. There were things she needed that she would never utter. She would never speak them to a soul because she knew the difference between want and need. She possessed a needing that was never fulfilled. Devastating.
She shrugged it off. She was tired and she would have to go home to face what she'd been running from all along. For the truth was that no matter how hard she tried, she could never run from herself. She would always have to face the loneliness that burrowed into her bones and rattled within her, radiating with each heartbeat; she had no choice but to face it. It would have to wait for another night. That night, she self-medicated, washing the pain away with borrowed smiles and spirits. Morning would come as it always had. The morrow would bring a new day with her old lover. She still wished for something that she quite possibly could not have: change.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Spoken By The Walls
Written By Kwesi D.
It was a thing that could not be whispered about comfortably even between confidants, not broached in a room off to the back, with the doors closed and the windows lowered, where two or three might have been gathered, drinking heavily and talking openly, with words distorted by the alcohol and a whizzing fan or perhaps a heater, making it difficult for eavesdroppers to decipher. It was too personal. It was just the type of thing that could not be clearly conveyed or willingly articulated. And a man is a creature of pride in numerous measure, and conditioning. It was too personal. It was the type of thing that could not be described freely, without the threat of interpretation. No. This rejection, this insult were for my heart alone to bear; the devastation, for my chest alone to attempt to restrain within its brittle walls.
The dead ancestors themselves would know for certain that one can only speak for oneself in love and other matters. Love was the subject. Love misused was the secret I hid behind my confident stride, with my shoulders pressed out, broad and foreboding, and a head held up against the sun. I felt the women swelter under their dresses when I appeared and regarded them, but I was dying inside. A love discarded flooded my consciousness. It overflowed into all of my happy fantasies and drowned them out. It banished me from the city and into the bed to gaze blankly at the walls, to watch them swell and deform from too much focus. It withdrew me from the company of others like salt water retracting slowly across sand. This insult, this heartache was mine alone to hoard. It was too personal.
It is the notion that love is the highest achievement of the living that holds us captive, setting us out upon unknown paths, making the lonely feel that they have failed somehow and question their purpose; their worth. Thinking that the divine had finally blown its kiss at me from the heavens or the outer galaxies or right here in the invisible dimensions, I flung open my doors to catch it. I watched it soar in and land on me like a little bird and allowed it to remain. Good sense and restraint were pushed aside and the wish that I might walk with you was dominant; it was paramount like the idols that send believers to their knees. I fell on my knees and cried when it was done; I cried and trembled; I cried and cursed my own weakness; I cried out my shame in a place that no one could see. A man is a creature of pride, after all – a creature of pride and conditioning.
The dead ancestors would know for certain the many mysteries of all there is to know, all that the living have yet to comprehend. They must see, from their positions, the end of the long stone path and grasp its maneuvers and meanderings; they must watch as one day unfolds into the next by design and predict the steady course of a healing heart. They have to know, before the unknowing, that he will once more find comfort in the contact of others; feel his way back to the world; acquiesce to a friendly gesture; see his way back from desolation; raise his head once more in the sunlight; stride with true confidence in good time; and genuinely smile at just the right moment, smile and look into just the right face; reconcile with love at last and wait once more for a kiss from the divine.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Pariahs
written by Felicia York
They sat huddled together in corners where the draft nor The Undertakers would catch them. Hiding in the darkness, they wept; some out of fear but others out of habit. Their tears could not be heard in the witching hours of the night.
"We must catch them all and make them pay!" he bellowed in the dusk to his men. "They're, they're...writers!" He spat the brown chewed up tobacco on to the gravel. The men took their horses searching with their lamps and when they found one, they would stamp out the imagination from each and every one of them with their steel-toed boots.
His mother held him close as her voice trembled. "You be safe now, ya hear?" He grasped his notebook in between them close to his chest. The ink smear apparent on his left hand. "You are the best of us, " she finished as she let him go down underground with the rest of the outcasts. He would run and hide in the shadows of the city, pretending by day to be a banker or lawyer and feverishly writing at night. She held her chest, feeling the ripping apart from her youngest child.
They burst into the door not moments after he'd taken the back way. They knocked her down. "Where is he?" they demanded. "G-gone," she replied, the tears streaming down her face as the slight smirk dared not reveal itself. They threw open closets and tore through drawers searching for some clue. Dissatisfied, they left her in chaotic peace. In her hand was a note he'd written. He said it was the most important words he would ever write. She opened itand smiled. "Mama, I love you forever. Mama, I'm free."
They sat huddled together in corners where the draft nor The Undertakers would catch them. Hiding in the darkness, they wept; some out of fear but others out of habit. Their tears could not be heard in the witching hours of the night.
"We must catch them all and make them pay!" he bellowed in the dusk to his men. "They're, they're...writers!" He spat the brown chewed up tobacco on to the gravel. The men took their horses searching with their lamps and when they found one, they would stamp out the imagination from each and every one of them with their steel-toed boots.
His mother held him close as her voice trembled. "You be safe now, ya hear?" He grasped his notebook in between them close to his chest. The ink smear apparent on his left hand. "You are the best of us, " she finished as she let him go down underground with the rest of the outcasts. He would run and hide in the shadows of the city, pretending by day to be a banker or lawyer and feverishly writing at night. She held her chest, feeling the ripping apart from her youngest child.
They burst into the door not moments after he'd taken the back way. They knocked her down. "Where is he?" they demanded. "G-gone," she replied, the tears streaming down her face as the slight smirk dared not reveal itself. They threw open closets and tore through drawers searching for some clue. Dissatisfied, they left her in chaotic peace. In her hand was a note he'd written. He said it was the most important words he would ever write. She opened itand smiled. "Mama, I love you forever. Mama, I'm free."
Friday, June 18, 2010
my first love
written by wynsters the tigresstoday, i want to talk about one my all time favorite authors: edgar allan poe. i discovered his work in the 7th grade, when my (very good looking) english teacher, whose vocabulary i wished to have and writing skills i yearned were mine, gave me a collection of his short stories. the first one that i read was 'the masque of the red death'. imagine how swiftly i fell in love with that story. a lover of language from the day i was born, his use of words to create imagery that was horrific, gory and painful completely enthralled my 7th grade mind. i read and re-read the story, looked up words that i had never previously seen and drank in his phrases -- hungry for complete understanding of what he was trying to convey to the reader. i felt grand in poe's description of the prince's masked ball, as if i too were one of his magnificent dames. i could nearly hear the sounds being played by his musicians and i shared in the nervousness of his guests every time the ebony clock announced that yet another hour had passed. i remember my heart skipping a beat when the strange guest first enters the hall -- dressed as the red death itself and i could already feel what was coming. it took me several readings (mind you, i was only 11!), but when i finally understood poe's message, it was an eye opener for me. there is no escaping our destinies, especially that which connects us all: death. at the end of each reading, i often found myself at odds. always an over thinker and an innate problem solver -- i couldn't fathom not being able to escape something like a disease...if the right precautions were taken. how could the red death just simply be allowed in by those who were so desperately trying to dodge it? eventually, i was introduced to the idea of symbolism and i had to learn to reshape some of my thoughts on destiny, and the way in which the universe works. every action leads to a reaction. the prince and his friends, in their arrogance, shut themselves off from the rest of the land when it was suffering the most. their lack of compassion would not go unpunished. it's a lesson that i learned well. that no matter our 'status' or 'class' in life, there are some things that affect us all equally -- more notably, death and disease. the way in which we deal with these matters is often just as important as the issues themselves. in thinking that we can control everything, as the prince and his revelers do in 'securing' themselves away in the castle, we instead create illusions that do not reflect the reality of a situation. [recently] i picked up an edgar allan poe reader that i remember i had bought at a garage sale, not too long ago, for about a dollar. it includes a genre of short stories by poe that i often forget that he dabbled in: humor. now, when we all think of edgar allan poe, i'm sure these words come to mind: dark, grim, horrific. but few know that he also wrote a series of humorous short stories -- that poke fun and are relatively lighter than his more famous work. this morning i read 'never bet the devil your head'. an interesting piece that is amusing right off the bat because of poe's obvious efforts at jamming a bit of moral advice down the reader's throat. our narrator is telling the story of his "poor" friend toby and his ultimate demise. the entire story is wrought with a single moral motif, explicitly stated by the narrator, contrary to what is typically poe's style. i will not bore you with the details of the plot, but i would definitely recommend reading this particular short story, as it shows the wide range of poe's writing skills. it made me laugh out loud in its absurdity. poe's ability to mock the idea of having an explicit moral agenda while still driving home a message is comparable to no contemporary author of my generation, which is the one sad thing about classics. they are truly beautiful in their scope and demonstrate an originality that can never truly be re-created or copied. sure, i'm read dozens of books from my time that are exceptional and truly unique, but what literary movement can i say that i witnessed firsthand? in short, edgar allan poe's work is something that i will always enjoy because it takes me back to a time when i first truly started to explore my intellectuality. his work reminds me of a time when i first started consciously thinking, and synthesizing the plethora of information that was the world around me. through his work, i can always revisit a time that hasn't been lost, but rather continues to serve as a guide for the direction that my thoughts and ideas take today.
"...i'm a brooklyn [girl], i may take some gettin' used to..."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Caterpillar Love
written by Felicia York
I watch you there
in your silent reverie
waiting for you to notice
these are the moments that
we make
here in the evening
when the world is sleeping
my heart beats for these
your hand in mine
your eyes
the salt of your skin
the taste of your lips
my legs intertwined with yours
our breaths breathed at the same time
in the cocoon of our love
wrapped in comfort
in the silence
our own language
we speak.
I watch you there
in your silent reverie
waiting for you to notice
these are the moments that
we make
here in the evening
when the world is sleeping
my heart beats for these
your hand in mine
your eyes
the salt of your skin
the taste of your lips
my legs intertwined with yours
our breaths breathed at the same time
in the cocoon of our love
wrapped in comfort
in the silence
our own language
we speak.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Sisterhood: The Redemption
Written by Nefertiti N.
This is the final installment of a trilogy of short poems that began with Sisterhood: The Love, then Sisterhood: The Pain, and now Sisterhood: The Redemption.
The cathartic release of pain
Our sisterhood stands to gain
Invisible tears run down our faces
Our vulnerability a sign of strength
A desire for true sisterhood
A mutual recognition
Of a need to connect
Our words…a cocoon
Of honesty and love
Of struggle and pain
And our sisterhood remains.
This is the final installment of a trilogy of short poems that began with Sisterhood: The Love, then Sisterhood: The Pain, and now Sisterhood: The Redemption.
The cathartic release of pain
Our sisterhood stands to gain
Invisible tears run down our faces
Our vulnerability a sign of strength
A desire for true sisterhood
A mutual recognition
Of a need to connect
Our words…a cocoon
Of honesty and love
Of struggle and pain
And our sisterhood remains.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sighted
Written By Kwesi D.
No amount of uproar could stop the inevitable; not even the most gargantuan of sacrifices could halt the sweeping change. And the priestess, the most revered of her set, could neither intercede with the ancestors, nor contemplate what she had seen after emerging from the pathway between the two worlds. It was already written. She sat flat on the ground trembling and muttering, while her apprentices chanted low incantations and dabbed sweat from her brow. There was no explanation she could satisfy the elders with now. It was laid plainly before her like roasted meat on a banana leaf: The daughters of their nation, all changed somehow; with demeanors not like any of the women she had known. They seemed to be in another dimension, at some future time, wearing peculiar garments and speaking in tongues. Still, her powers only afforded her the ability to watch them through her diminishing portal, moving about them in the shadows.
Their aspirations bring them floating to me in slow-motion, defenseless metals as they are to my massive magnet. And every year it is the same. Alas, this is my second function, my unintended purpose; to be a canvas, to be laid out and sacrificed to their ambitiousness, their furious need to be counted deep from inside the aluminum. Blood drains down my walls in every color. Declarations they spew on me of what they are and could possibly be. Proclamations they paint on me in this perilous outside studio, where blinking lights could bring an even quicker end to our quick nighttime association; our brief exchange. We build some sort of hope together and I complete our contract with my wide, wide morning display. The rising beams will finally reach me and their names will shine with a magnificence that cannot be matched.
Photography by Ian N'Kosi Joseph. Words by Kwesi D. © 2009.
http://takealookseefineartgallery.blogspot.com/
(s)ex files
written by Felicia York
001
kiss me til my lips are raw
and i won't care
you hold me close
lust mingled with sweat
overflowing
desire
binds us in rhythmic flow
i am your mermai
swimming in the ocean of your love
you steer the ship
i rock the boat
we dive deep until all that is left
is wetness
002
he puts me to sleep to dream
with lullabies of the ong
i sing when my body is wrapped in his
he rocks me
soothes me
takes me high
brings me low
and i land softly on pillows
of satisfaction
001
kiss me til my lips are raw
and i won't care
you hold me close
lust mingled with sweat
overflowing
desire
binds us in rhythmic flow
i am your mermai
swimming in the ocean of your love
you steer the ship
i rock the boat
we dive deep until all that is left
is wetness
002
he puts me to sleep to dream
with lullabies of the ong
i sing when my body is wrapped in his
he rocks me
soothes me
takes me high
brings me low
and i land softly on pillows
of satisfaction
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
a poem for a boy
written by Felicia York
i wish i could show you
the parts of me unscarred
i wish i had flesh
unseen by any man before
before before
hurt and pain were introduced
to heart and psyche
i wish i were a gentler woman
that my skin were soft and firm
and succulent like mango
my words actions thoughts
were sweet like splenda
would that make you like me?
i wish
wish i
were your girl
your woman
your soil.
your sun
and moon with stars in our eyes
wish you heard drums beat to the rhythm of my
thighs ass
walking
wish you saw breasts round and hips wide
wish you saw me flawed
yet beautiful
wish you'd see me
as i am and smile
wish you saw me with hands open
arms outstretched
waiting
always waiting
i wish i could show you
the parts of me unscarred
i wish i had flesh
unseen by any man before
before before
hurt and pain were introduced
to heart and psyche
i wish i were a gentler woman
that my skin were soft and firm
and succulent like mango
my words actions thoughts
were sweet like splenda
would that make you like me?
i wish
wish i
were your girl
your woman
your soil.
your sun
and moon with stars in our eyes
wish you heard drums beat to the rhythm of my
thighs ass
walking
wish you saw breasts round and hips wide
wish you saw me flawed
yet beautiful
wish you'd see me
as i am and smile
wish you saw me with hands open
arms outstretched
waiting
always waiting
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sisterhood: The Pain
Written by Nefertiti N.
She waved her hand and laughed
The dismissive gesture speaking volumes
Her hurtful words permeated the room
They drifted and whipped swiftly to consume
Morphing into a dagger and heading for its mark
As it appears to all that it was just a lark
Blood is drawn, for she knew where to aim
Invisible wounds – nothing remains the same
Like an old record stuck on repeat
Our sisterhood has more than just skipped a beat
How did I become something to defeat?
She waved her hand and laughed
The dismissive gesture speaking volumes
Her hurtful words permeated the room
They drifted and whipped swiftly to consume
Morphing into a dagger and heading for its mark
As it appears to all that it was just a lark
Blood is drawn, for she knew where to aim
Invisible wounds – nothing remains the same
Like an old record stuck on repeat
Our sisterhood has more than just skipped a beat
How did I become something to defeat?
A Gathering
Written By Kwesi D.
They came in a caravan, tumbling one on top the other like a line of dominoes; a convoy of characters mimicking something in a biblical parable. But they rode in cars instead of on camels, and replaced sandals and robes with designer boots, sweatshirts that read Brooklyn, jackets branded with pricy insignias, hats with wool sewn at the sides, and jewelry. There were no rods or staffs, no shawls or blankets, no water receptacles or metal pots. It was quite the reverse. They sipped caramel drinks out of cardboard cups, plugged neon-lit phones into the dashboard and rotated CDs every hour…tapping their fingers, nodding their heads, and throwing grim glances out of the passenger windows. A jingle erupted in the back, signaling yet another text message from someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend perhaps. How far had the vehicle advanced from the city? The dearly loved would have wanted to know. When would the exact return date be? And so on. There was a phone call soon afterwards and a hushed backseat conversation. There was an irritated sigh up front, and then, a hand found the plus sign on the radio and pumped the vintage Whitney Houston up a notch. One or two of those present, secretly wished to feel a cell phone suddenly vibrate; they wanted to hear some familiar voice on the other end tracking their own movements, sending peals of sentiment over the distance; waiting eagerly for a grand reunion. However, they hastily shook themselves from the feeling. This was not the time to think of such things.
The house appeared festive on the surface. The new arrivals walked through the door and there was a noisy greeting; hugs for the cousins, kisses for the aunts, and a clasp of hands between sisters. The baby walked a little unsteadily, still being unused to the art of the activity, but drawing the crowd in his direction nonetheless. The driver made the final entrance, climbing up the last leg of the long trip. He held a traveling bag in one hand, and in the other, a plastic bag containing goods from the homeowner’s favorite Caribbean restaurant. The entire company seemed to have been awaiting his arrival. He felt it. He greeted the elders with some affection, but not too much. He greeted his siblings. They had all gathered like flies around honey coated glue, and he greeted them. A longtime family friend sat in the corner with worry hanging on his face. It was a disturbing sight. The driver smiled and presented the man with a cheerful salute. Always the strong one, that one, the eldest boy, you know…was what the driver heard him say. He acted as if the words did not reach him, and kept moving.
The group was energetic, pretending not to notice that the phone was ringing incessantly. They passed the baby from hand to hand and made a gigantic fuss. They chattered on about the inane, anything but the event that was to take place in the coming days. No, they would wait to speak of hospital waiting rooms and the specific instructions that were given directly by the surgeon. They would wait even to think of it. Someone put the music on. Yes, that was what was needed. There was brandy and ginger ale on the table, and ice making its way into the glasses. Something heavy had been seeping into the air, but the assemblage quickly turned their backs to it. The driver felt it. That dear family friend downed his drink in one go. He started to talk loosely about courage with a crack in his voice. The driver focused on his game with the baby, thinking…he better not dare cry! The older women were in the kitchen cooking something big. “So, you’re only on liquids now?” Someone was heard asking, making light out of the heavyhearted. Laughter jumped up and out of the kitchen, high and loud as if to cover up the thing or drive it away.
They came in a caravan, tumbling one on top the other like a line of dominoes; a convoy of characters mimicking something in a biblical parable. But they rode in cars instead of on camels, and replaced sandals and robes with designer boots, sweatshirts that read Brooklyn, jackets branded with pricy insignias, hats with wool sewn at the sides, and jewelry. There were no rods or staffs, no shawls or blankets, no water receptacles or metal pots. It was quite the reverse. They sipped caramel drinks out of cardboard cups, plugged neon-lit phones into the dashboard and rotated CDs every hour…tapping their fingers, nodding their heads, and throwing grim glances out of the passenger windows. A jingle erupted in the back, signaling yet another text message from someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend perhaps. How far had the vehicle advanced from the city? The dearly loved would have wanted to know. When would the exact return date be? And so on. There was a phone call soon afterwards and a hushed backseat conversation. There was an irritated sigh up front, and then, a hand found the plus sign on the radio and pumped the vintage Whitney Houston up a notch. One or two of those present, secretly wished to feel a cell phone suddenly vibrate; they wanted to hear some familiar voice on the other end tracking their own movements, sending peals of sentiment over the distance; waiting eagerly for a grand reunion. However, they hastily shook themselves from the feeling. This was not the time to think of such things.
The house appeared festive on the surface. The new arrivals walked through the door and there was a noisy greeting; hugs for the cousins, kisses for the aunts, and a clasp of hands between sisters. The baby walked a little unsteadily, still being unused to the art of the activity, but drawing the crowd in his direction nonetheless. The driver made the final entrance, climbing up the last leg of the long trip. He held a traveling bag in one hand, and in the other, a plastic bag containing goods from the homeowner’s favorite Caribbean restaurant. The entire company seemed to have been awaiting his arrival. He felt it. He greeted the elders with some affection, but not too much. He greeted his siblings. They had all gathered like flies around honey coated glue, and he greeted them. A longtime family friend sat in the corner with worry hanging on his face. It was a disturbing sight. The driver smiled and presented the man with a cheerful salute. Always the strong one, that one, the eldest boy, you know…was what the driver heard him say. He acted as if the words did not reach him, and kept moving.
The group was energetic, pretending not to notice that the phone was ringing incessantly. They passed the baby from hand to hand and made a gigantic fuss. They chattered on about the inane, anything but the event that was to take place in the coming days. No, they would wait to speak of hospital waiting rooms and the specific instructions that were given directly by the surgeon. They would wait even to think of it. Someone put the music on. Yes, that was what was needed. There was brandy and ginger ale on the table, and ice making its way into the glasses. Something heavy had been seeping into the air, but the assemblage quickly turned their backs to it. The driver felt it. That dear family friend downed his drink in one go. He started to talk loosely about courage with a crack in his voice. The driver focused on his game with the baby, thinking…he better not dare cry! The older women were in the kitchen cooking something big. “So, you’re only on liquids now?” Someone was heard asking, making light out of the heavyhearted. Laughter jumped up and out of the kitchen, high and loud as if to cover up the thing or drive it away.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Sisterhood: The Love
Written by Nefertiti N.
I’m not alone
Cheerful, loving faces gather around
My girls and I are out on the town
Yet the numb, dull pain comforts and soothes
Its presence a remnant of the past I’ve yet to lose
Their words carry me to a safe place
Our armor down, the truth we are ready to embrace
We laugh and drink, and I feel the love
The power of sisterhood
In its finest moments
I’m not alone.
I’m not alone
Cheerful, loving faces gather around
My girls and I are out on the town
Yet the numb, dull pain comforts and soothes
Its presence a remnant of the past I’ve yet to lose
Their words carry me to a safe place
Our armor down, the truth we are ready to embrace
We laugh and drink, and I feel the love
The power of sisterhood
In its finest moments
I’m not alone.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Response to Sweet Release
Written by Angelo
First I want to say, great piece great post! No I will begin. The “Dr.” who authored this book is doing the Black community and injustice and needs to be addressed thoroughly.
1. Black People should consider themselves part of the larger global community.
This “gentleman” obviously has never taken the time to understand the unique history of the “Black” race. If he had he would realize a few things. First, the “Black” race has genealogically proven to be the original man/woman/and child on the face of this planet. “Lucy’ who in the context of the African continent is referred to in a African name represent the preeminent archeological find of the primordial Eve. The women from which all humanity is directly connected. This fact illustrates that not only are we a part of the human community but the individuals who birthed the human community. The cradle of humanity can be found in the center of the African Continent.
The next point which is of optimal significance is that not only have we provided the literal bodies for humanity but we have provided the intellectual bodies if you will, ideologies and civilization, that all of humanity follows today either in true express or in distorted perversion. Ivan Van Sertima has explained how we (Black people) were in America before Columbus and had in fact to large degree became the Native Americas history speaks of today. Countless giant Olmec heads have been found in South America depicting our connection to South and Central America, as well hieroglyphics that have been found in present day Arizona which some said had Greek origins. However, scholars soon realized it was not until 1492 that any European touched the Continent of North or South America, and the Greek culture is directly mirroring Egyptian culture (Kemetic culture). Just flip through the page of Black Athena and you will quickly understand how much of European culture is a replication of the Egyptian dynasties various stamps on humanity. Or stroll through the various countries in Europe and see the praise of the Black Madonna. Read Shakespeare’s Othello and experience a glimpse of the Moorish influence of the European world. Study the Buddhist faith and recognize that many of the original Buddha’s have been identified as Black men, not to mention various yogis throughout India. I could go on. The reality is that we have and always will be part of the human race. Not to mention that prior to European domination of the world we lived in harmony as members of the human race bringing enlightenment to the various world cultures. We are the true neighbor/ brother/sister of humanity for hundreds of thousands of years. 400 years is but a second in the course of humanity and we should not use that to determine who we are, from where we have come, where we are going, and how we will again lead the world to high ground.
The question or discussion should be why has white supremacy deliberately tried to right the Black race out of the human race by designating us as genetically inferior. Additionally, why has the white race through white supremacy deliberately re-written “Black” people out of the history of the world? This is the question. We have and will always be members of the human community despite the various attempts to literally destroy us and obliterate any connection we may have to the various cultures found throughout the world. As a great teacher once told me, “I went to Isreal and I found the “Black” man speaking Hebrew; I went to the Vatican and I saw the “Black” man practicing Catholicism, I went to Asia and saw the “Black” man practicing Buddhism; I went to England and saw the “Black” man speaking the King’s English better then the King; I went to South American and saw the “Black” man speaking Spanish; I went to Ethiopia and I saw the “Black” man worshiping in some of the oldest churches on the planet. The “Black” race has and will forever be members of the universal community. Mass media, along white supremacist education has written us out and continues to try to do so, and we have and will continue to fight them tooth and nail to expose their lies.
2. Black People should move out of the hood.
As was stated in the response we have developed communities in America as in Africa. What has happened in Africa, America, and the Caribbean is that our communities have been systematically destroyed. Take a walk in any “hood” and you will see many of the same things hood to hood. Take a walk in any upper crust white neighborhood and you will find many of the same things. These things while drastically different are results of systematic mechanisms working or not working in a community. I could go on to this point but I will not. I will say however that no “Black” person would opt to live in the “hood” over in an economically/systematically privileged neighborhood. That is what integration was all about. White people raised hell in the 1980’s when communities like Boston tried to bus a few Black Students into schools let alone as permanent residents in their communities. Their attempt was to get students out of the “hood” education system and afford them access that elevated their white counterpart’s opportunity ratio through the ceiling.
My grandparents as well left the rural south to come to New York for opportunity which they found in some capacity. My grandparents initially lived in what today is called “40 Projects” in South Jamaica Queens. However that “hood” was once a community where Black folks could pool resources and build a home which they did. Today those are communities that are over policed and underserved with poor education systems and eroding family values, which are not connected to black values but whites systems and the adoption of white values. Let’s be clear. The housing projects were are great success in America as long as it supported low income white folks, when Blacks began to utilize them the government took issues with these social support programs and systematically placed drugs in these communities to destabilize them. My grandparents live in Queens today which is the only county in America where Black folks earn more then their white counterparts. We have created successful Black Community however there is still over policing and the perception that these neighborhoods are “hoods” not communities which they in fact are. PG County Maryland (The only Black County in America with a Black Majority and income power only rivaled by the Black community in Queens County) is another shinning example, not without its problems, but clearly and example of what we can accomplish. I will wrap up by saying as we have moved into white communities “white flight” was used to get far away from us. Mortgage practices have prevented us from accessing loans to buy homes to build communities. Home owners have strategically created community codes to keep Black families out of their homes along with unspoken practices of discrimination. Yet we fight on and as we have built our own communities in Tulsa Oklahoma or Harlem New York, we saw communities literally burned to the ground (Google “Black Wall street Tulsa Oklahoma”). Or as in the case of Harlem we saw projects erected and brownstones torn down to restructure this flourishing Black community, and as we see today gentrification in Harlem today pushing Black families and businesses out of the community.
I say these things to say we must accurately access where we are and what we have accomplished and how white systems of white supremacy have systematically opposed us at every turn. If you dismantle the white racist system you will watch their house of cards fall, pushing Black people as individuals and not as a community system (communalism) to access their problem will create further fragmentation and undirected efforts.
First I want to say, great piece great post! No I will begin. The “Dr.” who authored this book is doing the Black community and injustice and needs to be addressed thoroughly.
1. Black People should consider themselves part of the larger global community.
This “gentleman” obviously has never taken the time to understand the unique history of the “Black” race. If he had he would realize a few things. First, the “Black” race has genealogically proven to be the original man/woman/and child on the face of this planet. “Lucy’ who in the context of the African continent is referred to in a African name represent the preeminent archeological find of the primordial Eve. The women from which all humanity is directly connected. This fact illustrates that not only are we a part of the human community but the individuals who birthed the human community. The cradle of humanity can be found in the center of the African Continent.
The next point which is of optimal significance is that not only have we provided the literal bodies for humanity but we have provided the intellectual bodies if you will, ideologies and civilization, that all of humanity follows today either in true express or in distorted perversion. Ivan Van Sertima has explained how we (Black people) were in America before Columbus and had in fact to large degree became the Native Americas history speaks of today. Countless giant Olmec heads have been found in South America depicting our connection to South and Central America, as well hieroglyphics that have been found in present day Arizona which some said had Greek origins. However, scholars soon realized it was not until 1492 that any European touched the Continent of North or South America, and the Greek culture is directly mirroring Egyptian culture (Kemetic culture). Just flip through the page of Black Athena and you will quickly understand how much of European culture is a replication of the Egyptian dynasties various stamps on humanity. Or stroll through the various countries in Europe and see the praise of the Black Madonna. Read Shakespeare’s Othello and experience a glimpse of the Moorish influence of the European world. Study the Buddhist faith and recognize that many of the original Buddha’s have been identified as Black men, not to mention various yogis throughout India. I could go on. The reality is that we have and always will be part of the human race. Not to mention that prior to European domination of the world we lived in harmony as members of the human race bringing enlightenment to the various world cultures. We are the true neighbor/ brother/sister of humanity for hundreds of thousands of years. 400 years is but a second in the course of humanity and we should not use that to determine who we are, from where we have come, where we are going, and how we will again lead the world to high ground.
The question or discussion should be why has white supremacy deliberately tried to right the Black race out of the human race by designating us as genetically inferior. Additionally, why has the white race through white supremacy deliberately re-written “Black” people out of the history of the world? This is the question. We have and will always be members of the human community despite the various attempts to literally destroy us and obliterate any connection we may have to the various cultures found throughout the world. As a great teacher once told me, “I went to Isreal and I found the “Black” man speaking Hebrew; I went to the Vatican and I saw the “Black” man practicing Catholicism, I went to Asia and saw the “Black” man practicing Buddhism; I went to England and saw the “Black” man speaking the King’s English better then the King; I went to South American and saw the “Black” man speaking Spanish; I went to Ethiopia and I saw the “Black” man worshiping in some of the oldest churches on the planet. The “Black” race has and will forever be members of the universal community. Mass media, along white supremacist education has written us out and continues to try to do so, and we have and will continue to fight them tooth and nail to expose their lies.
2. Black People should move out of the hood.
As was stated in the response we have developed communities in America as in Africa. What has happened in Africa, America, and the Caribbean is that our communities have been systematically destroyed. Take a walk in any “hood” and you will see many of the same things hood to hood. Take a walk in any upper crust white neighborhood and you will find many of the same things. These things while drastically different are results of systematic mechanisms working or not working in a community. I could go on to this point but I will not. I will say however that no “Black” person would opt to live in the “hood” over in an economically/systematically privileged neighborhood. That is what integration was all about. White people raised hell in the 1980’s when communities like Boston tried to bus a few Black Students into schools let alone as permanent residents in their communities. Their attempt was to get students out of the “hood” education system and afford them access that elevated their white counterpart’s opportunity ratio through the ceiling.
My grandparents as well left the rural south to come to New York for opportunity which they found in some capacity. My grandparents initially lived in what today is called “40 Projects” in South Jamaica Queens. However that “hood” was once a community where Black folks could pool resources and build a home which they did. Today those are communities that are over policed and underserved with poor education systems and eroding family values, which are not connected to black values but whites systems and the adoption of white values. Let’s be clear. The housing projects were are great success in America as long as it supported low income white folks, when Blacks began to utilize them the government took issues with these social support programs and systematically placed drugs in these communities to destabilize them. My grandparents live in Queens today which is the only county in America where Black folks earn more then their white counterparts. We have created successful Black Community however there is still over policing and the perception that these neighborhoods are “hoods” not communities which they in fact are. PG County Maryland (The only Black County in America with a Black Majority and income power only rivaled by the Black community in Queens County) is another shinning example, not without its problems, but clearly and example of what we can accomplish. I will wrap up by saying as we have moved into white communities “white flight” was used to get far away from us. Mortgage practices have prevented us from accessing loans to buy homes to build communities. Home owners have strategically created community codes to keep Black families out of their homes along with unspoken practices of discrimination. Yet we fight on and as we have built our own communities in Tulsa Oklahoma or Harlem New York, we saw communities literally burned to the ground (Google “Black Wall street Tulsa Oklahoma”). Or as in the case of Harlem we saw projects erected and brownstones torn down to restructure this flourishing Black community, and as we see today gentrification in Harlem today pushing Black families and businesses out of the community.
I say these things to say we must accurately access where we are and what we have accomplished and how white systems of white supremacy have systematically opposed us at every turn. If you dismantle the white racist system you will watch their house of cards fall, pushing Black people as individuals and not as a community system (communalism) to access their problem will create further fragmentation and undirected efforts.
Monday, May 10, 2010
3
by wynsters the tigress
as i nestle myself on top of you, i can feel your increasing arousal. you wrap your arms around me, pulling me closer, so there is no doubt to where you want me to be. your scent is intoxicating and i take several deep breaths to calm my racing heart. the light from the tv screen glows, causing an interesting play of shadows against your skin. i run my fingers over your face, your eyebrows, your nose, your lips...i stop there and i kiss you again. slowly this time, because i want to remember the way you taste. i deepen the kiss. your hands have somehow found their way under my shirt and you rub my back softly, gently enjoying the feel of my skin. i run my lips along your jawline, down your neck and to your collarbone. i frown when i realize that your shirt is keeping me from going any lower. i sit up, straddled across your lap, start to unbutton. your smile says you already know where this is going. you run you fingers lightly up my thighs, making my giggle. around you, my body is just one big sensitive spot that you enjoy taking advantage of. as i get to the last button, a sudden sense of urgency overpowers me and i quickly pull my own top off. i reach down and pull you up to me. the feel of your skin against mine makes me catch my breath sharply. i close my eyes, taking in the moment. as you nibble at my ear and my neck, my head involuntarily falls back as i lose myself in your touch.
as i nestle myself on top of you, i can feel your increasing arousal. you wrap your arms around me, pulling me closer, so there is no doubt to where you want me to be. your scent is intoxicating and i take several deep breaths to calm my racing heart. the light from the tv screen glows, causing an interesting play of shadows against your skin. i run my fingers over your face, your eyebrows, your nose, your lips...i stop there and i kiss you again. slowly this time, because i want to remember the way you taste. i deepen the kiss. your hands have somehow found their way under my shirt and you rub my back softly, gently enjoying the feel of my skin. i run my lips along your jawline, down your neck and to your collarbone. i frown when i realize that your shirt is keeping me from going any lower. i sit up, straddled across your lap, start to unbutton. your smile says you already know where this is going. you run you fingers lightly up my thighs, making my giggle. around you, my body is just one big sensitive spot that you enjoy taking advantage of. as i get to the last button, a sudden sense of urgency overpowers me and i quickly pull my own top off. i reach down and pull you up to me. the feel of your skin against mine makes me catch my breath sharply. i close my eyes, taking in the moment. as you nibble at my ear and my neck, my head involuntarily falls back as i lose myself in your touch.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Glitter For Carlos
Written By Jeff
Feeling the weight of the woman's intense stare all over my body, it takes all of the strength that I can muster not to let my rage overtake me. I'm sure that my boys feel the same way as we each pick up bottle after bottle of glitter from the shelf. The woman nervously glances at the man in the blue button down as we amble towards the counter. The man's paleness defeats his attempts to feign calmness. One by one we approach the counter and pull out our dollar bills, coins, plastic cards whatever it takes from our wallets, to pay for each bottle and proceeds out the door of the Office Supply Store without a word.
The convoy of cars now snake into the parking lot one after the other and appearing from each were young black men on a simple mission this day. Each patiently awaits his turn to step into the day room. The involuntary smile on my face is no match for the excitement showing on the face of my longtime childhood friend. Carlos stands and grunts as we embrace each other as brothers would. The Nurse does her best to pull Carlos' powerful body back down into his seat in front of the giant easel that his latest painting rests upon. I hand over my bottles of glitter as he mumbles thank you over and over.
The nurse motions me now with a stern hand yet gentle smile to move on so that the next person could matriculate into the room. In the hallway I let out a sigh as I observe other patients being ushered from here to there. The Mental Ward a place now for which I have no reference, I drop my head to save the tears for later. Arriving back to the box Chevy & hopping in we collectively let out howls and barks celebrating the fact that we have accomplished a good deed for our friend Carlos who otherwise seems to have been forgotten. Yes this was my first visit but would not be my last.
Carlos, who just months earlier was All-State High School Quarterback on the State Championship Football Team. Not only that but the brother was being recruited by nearly every major College in the country. Life was promising for the young man until one night out partying and some evil wretch slipped their venom into his drink. And what was strange about this dastardly deed is that Carlos was the son of a Preacher. This dreadful night would be his first time out with the young people having celebratory fun and drinking liquor.
Today, the man spends his time in the day room at the Mental Rehab Center painting pictures all of which he topped with glitter. It is good to see the progression made towards his recovery as life goes on and on.
Later on I discuss what we had done with my grandmother and she confirms that we have indeed done good. She mumbles something barely audible and I pause... she knows that my inquisitiveness will lead to extended worry if she doesn't tell me her thoughts. "Child I was just thinking back to that boy's daddy and how he treated his own family before he became a Preacher. I tell you life has a funny way of turning it all around; but that's enough about that for now, go on in the house before your supper gets cold." My grandmother trails me into the house I hear her mumble out something that would puzzle me for many years to come. I think back to her words that day, "yes son, life demands that every boy will one day grow into men that will answer for their father's sins or face the wraths of their father's demons."
Feeling the weight of the woman's intense stare all over my body, it takes all of the strength that I can muster not to let my rage overtake me. I'm sure that my boys feel the same way as we each pick up bottle after bottle of glitter from the shelf. The woman nervously glances at the man in the blue button down as we amble towards the counter. The man's paleness defeats his attempts to feign calmness. One by one we approach the counter and pull out our dollar bills, coins, plastic cards whatever it takes from our wallets, to pay for each bottle and proceeds out the door of the Office Supply Store without a word.
The convoy of cars now snake into the parking lot one after the other and appearing from each were young black men on a simple mission this day. Each patiently awaits his turn to step into the day room. The involuntary smile on my face is no match for the excitement showing on the face of my longtime childhood friend. Carlos stands and grunts as we embrace each other as brothers would. The Nurse does her best to pull Carlos' powerful body back down into his seat in front of the giant easel that his latest painting rests upon. I hand over my bottles of glitter as he mumbles thank you over and over.
The nurse motions me now with a stern hand yet gentle smile to move on so that the next person could matriculate into the room. In the hallway I let out a sigh as I observe other patients being ushered from here to there. The Mental Ward a place now for which I have no reference, I drop my head to save the tears for later. Arriving back to the box Chevy & hopping in we collectively let out howls and barks celebrating the fact that we have accomplished a good deed for our friend Carlos who otherwise seems to have been forgotten. Yes this was my first visit but would not be my last.
Carlos, who just months earlier was All-State High School Quarterback on the State Championship Football Team. Not only that but the brother was being recruited by nearly every major College in the country. Life was promising for the young man until one night out partying and some evil wretch slipped their venom into his drink. And what was strange about this dastardly deed is that Carlos was the son of a Preacher. This dreadful night would be his first time out with the young people having celebratory fun and drinking liquor.
Today, the man spends his time in the day room at the Mental Rehab Center painting pictures all of which he topped with glitter. It is good to see the progression made towards his recovery as life goes on and on.
Later on I discuss what we had done with my grandmother and she confirms that we have indeed done good. She mumbles something barely audible and I pause... she knows that my inquisitiveness will lead to extended worry if she doesn't tell me her thoughts. "Child I was just thinking back to that boy's daddy and how he treated his own family before he became a Preacher. I tell you life has a funny way of turning it all around; but that's enough about that for now, go on in the house before your supper gets cold." My grandmother trails me into the house I hear her mumble out something that would puzzle me for many years to come. I think back to her words that day, "yes son, life demands that every boy will one day grow into men that will answer for their father's sins or face the wraths of their father's demons."
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Silver
Written By Kwame
I'm being heavy on the bed
beneath this Sunday morning breeze,
it's curvy hips weigh me down
under my ambitions--Marooned,
they can frolic with the curtains. Me?
I let the remote slip to the carpet.
I haven't dozed off again,
there's simply no new woes on the TV.
I'm suppose to fold bath towels.
I could spread the bed with fresh sheets,
but it's quite made actually,
with my crooked legs and elbows.
I'll lay here till noon, after the sun
untangles from our lemon tree.
Maybe no one will knock,
and I can stay here in limbo.
I'm being heavy on the bed
beneath this Sunday morning breeze,
it's curvy hips weigh me down
under my ambitions--Marooned,
they can frolic with the curtains. Me?
I let the remote slip to the carpet.
I haven't dozed off again,
there's simply no new woes on the TV.
I'm suppose to fold bath towels.
I could spread the bed with fresh sheets,
but it's quite made actually,
with my crooked legs and elbows.
I'll lay here till noon, after the sun
untangles from our lemon tree.
Maybe no one will knock,
and I can stay here in limbo.
Peace of Mind
written by Felicia York
inspired by Nefertiti N.
Writer's Note: I was going to post something else but then I read Nef's poem and this is what I came up with. Written on the spot...
In the depths of her mind, she searched. Turning over thoughts, cleaning out memories, storing facts, throwing away novelty items she learned on the back of Snapple caps. What she sought still escaped her like the pot of gold at the end of rainbows or the question when someone asks you if you have one. The demons chased her constantly in her search. The things she could not find a place for in the storage bins of her cerebellum. They followed her everywhere she went. Ruthless in their pursuit, they taunted and teased. They were unruly children who never cleaned their room. They were messy roommates who ate all the groceries she bought. Nutritious things like patience, optimism, hope and perserverance. She called them stress. Their nickname was worry and in the evening when all was quiet, they acted as bad neighbors blasting their music at 3am. Waking her. Nudging her from her sleep, they were not satiated until she gave up. She was frazzled. Her nerves on edge and still, she searched until she was exhausted. Her body, her health depended it on it. She would not be able to relax until she found it.
She would have to face them head on, look them in the eye and take a stand. She would have to confront the beast, a young David ready to slay Goliath. A warrior in her own right, she would have to see the forest for the trees, put in elbow grease and a whole host of other metaphors. She was ready. She would fight to the death. There were no magic beans, no potion she could drink, no prince or knight. There was just one woman with her sword drawn, ready to take no prisoners, trying to find her peace of mind.
inspired by Nefertiti N.
Writer's Note: I was going to post something else but then I read Nef's poem and this is what I came up with. Written on the spot...
In the depths of her mind, she searched. Turning over thoughts, cleaning out memories, storing facts, throwing away novelty items she learned on the back of Snapple caps. What she sought still escaped her like the pot of gold at the end of rainbows or the question when someone asks you if you have one. The demons chased her constantly in her search. The things she could not find a place for in the storage bins of her cerebellum. They followed her everywhere she went. Ruthless in their pursuit, they taunted and teased. They were unruly children who never cleaned their room. They were messy roommates who ate all the groceries she bought. Nutritious things like patience, optimism, hope and perserverance. She called them stress. Their nickname was worry and in the evening when all was quiet, they acted as bad neighbors blasting their music at 3am. Waking her. Nudging her from her sleep, they were not satiated until she gave up. She was frazzled. Her nerves on edge and still, she searched until she was exhausted. Her body, her health depended it on it. She would not be able to relax until she found it.
She would have to face them head on, look them in the eye and take a stand. She would have to confront the beast, a young David ready to slay Goliath. A warrior in her own right, she would have to see the forest for the trees, put in elbow grease and a whole host of other metaphors. She was ready. She would fight to the death. There were no magic beans, no potion she could drink, no prince or knight. There was just one woman with her sword drawn, ready to take no prisoners, trying to find her peace of mind.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Be Still...
Written by Nefertiti N.
Worry and frustration need no fertilizer
They spring from barren and rich soil alike
Clouding reality with pessimism
Closing the gates of idealism
Making the mundane unbearable
And the hopelessness…just terrible.
But take a moment…
Just…
Be still…
The ancestors dance in the wind
To the rhythm of nature they sway and bend
The light from the sun sparkles on the leaves
As hope and calm is thankfully received.
So when doubt and fear hang clouds over your head
And it’s the daily grind that you dread
Just take a moment to absorb the beauty that surrounds
And I’m sure you'll find…there are blessings abound.
Reclaim the power in yourself
Reaffirm the positive
Renounce the negative
And if need be…
Just…
Be still…
Worry and frustration need no fertilizer
They spring from barren and rich soil alike
Clouding reality with pessimism
Closing the gates of idealism
Making the mundane unbearable
And the hopelessness…just terrible.
But take a moment…
Just…
Be still…
The ancestors dance in the wind
To the rhythm of nature they sway and bend
The light from the sun sparkles on the leaves
As hope and calm is thankfully received.
So when doubt and fear hang clouds over your head
And it’s the daily grind that you dread
Just take a moment to absorb the beauty that surrounds
And I’m sure you'll find…there are blessings abound.
Reclaim the power in yourself
Reaffirm the positive
Renounce the negative
And if need be…
Just…
Be still…
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Abducted
Written by Kwesi D.
He should have counted himself lucky (had he been able to count) that he had arrived during a different age in this dimension. His mother and father might have done some tallying of their own, had they not been otherwise disposed. The truth was that they themselves were too young and ill-equipped to fully take hold of the texture of the period they occupied. After all, were there not countless settings they could stroll through without being accosted? The possibility of seeing the eyes of God on a limp swing at the edge of a branch was an abstract one. And they had never grinded their teeth by lamplight, crouching, with windows barred and ears straining to hear footsteps approaching in the wind. Instead, they wore iPods, with sixteen bars pounding on their eardrums; and reclined in front of forty-two-inch screens that made their skin glow from pink to blue to green.
The elders, now well past their prime, were quietly certain of the child’s good fortune. It almost astounded them that he was just three and could access cell phones and laptops with startling familiarity even if mastery would not come for another four, five years. Whenever they all gathered, they took turns throwing tales about their grandchildren gleefully onto the table, and sat back to watch them bounce together like marbles among competitors. The young child’s parents convened with their own contingent, staggering in from jobs they disliked, making plans to pay for extra studio time, and sending the boy and his toys to the back bedroom so that one of the guests could commence with the splitting of the Dutches at the kitchen counter. Their pungent phrases drifted on fog to where he was contentedly navigating his toy Hummer; they swirled around him; they swooped him up; and when the child swore in front of the elders the following day, everyone was aghast.
These were signs of the times, the elders said; they shook their heads and walked away, and left the young to tend to the young. The boy was boosted in his booster seat as his parents chuckled on the ride home. He marveled at how quickly the houses and trees raced across his window, and the cars. Cars! There were cars in multiplicity roving right beside him; cars for him to pick up and roll clear across the ground or to fling from high on the bed to see them crash. He giggled. Ooh…there was a white and black, no blue car pulling up alongside them, a car with flashing lights! The child called to his mother to share his excitement, but she just placed a pacifying hand behind her seat and tugged his leg. He was not convinced she could see it. The boy called again…Daddy saw it! Yes! But somehow the man was not pleased. He said something to his passenger. They turned the music down.
The vehicle slowed and then stopped. A man with a helmet and something reddening his cheeks was at the window, taking papers from Daddy. He left. He came back. He disappeared once more and returned. The blinking lights mesmerized the child, but he tried hard to focus on what his father was saying to the man; the two seemed to be disagreeing on a grave subject. Daddy started yelling. Mommy was yelling too. The voices formed an echo that made the child’s ears hurt, it frightened him when it reached into the back, undid his seatbelt, and yanked him out of his chair. The boy was cloaked in his mother’s arms; she squeezed his back to her chest and moved out into the grass. Her hair was blowing wildly around her face.
The boy stared at the rotating red glow, allowing its magic to penetrate his eyes. A sudden instinct made him seek out his father. The man had put a lock on Daddy’s hands and was taking him away. What was he doing? The boy’s distress mounted, and then, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The child hollered, feeling his mother twist him to the side. The boy attempted to spring from her arms as the lights began to taunt him – their earlier radiance now changing unexpectedly to a darker tint. The red flicked fire at him, scorching its image into his memory. The wheels started a slow roll. They were taking his father away. The child was overcome with dread. He let out a frantic shriek as the car pulled off, with his father’s head bowed in the back, and those lights dancing jubilantly in the midst of his tears.
He should have counted himself lucky (had he been able to count) that he had arrived during a different age in this dimension. His mother and father might have done some tallying of their own, had they not been otherwise disposed. The truth was that they themselves were too young and ill-equipped to fully take hold of the texture of the period they occupied. After all, were there not countless settings they could stroll through without being accosted? The possibility of seeing the eyes of God on a limp swing at the edge of a branch was an abstract one. And they had never grinded their teeth by lamplight, crouching, with windows barred and ears straining to hear footsteps approaching in the wind. Instead, they wore iPods, with sixteen bars pounding on their eardrums; and reclined in front of forty-two-inch screens that made their skin glow from pink to blue to green.
The elders, now well past their prime, were quietly certain of the child’s good fortune. It almost astounded them that he was just three and could access cell phones and laptops with startling familiarity even if mastery would not come for another four, five years. Whenever they all gathered, they took turns throwing tales about their grandchildren gleefully onto the table, and sat back to watch them bounce together like marbles among competitors. The young child’s parents convened with their own contingent, staggering in from jobs they disliked, making plans to pay for extra studio time, and sending the boy and his toys to the back bedroom so that one of the guests could commence with the splitting of the Dutches at the kitchen counter. Their pungent phrases drifted on fog to where he was contentedly navigating his toy Hummer; they swirled around him; they swooped him up; and when the child swore in front of the elders the following day, everyone was aghast.
These were signs of the times, the elders said; they shook their heads and walked away, and left the young to tend to the young. The boy was boosted in his booster seat as his parents chuckled on the ride home. He marveled at how quickly the houses and trees raced across his window, and the cars. Cars! There were cars in multiplicity roving right beside him; cars for him to pick up and roll clear across the ground or to fling from high on the bed to see them crash. He giggled. Ooh…there was a white and black, no blue car pulling up alongside them, a car with flashing lights! The child called to his mother to share his excitement, but she just placed a pacifying hand behind her seat and tugged his leg. He was not convinced she could see it. The boy called again…Daddy saw it! Yes! But somehow the man was not pleased. He said something to his passenger. They turned the music down.
The vehicle slowed and then stopped. A man with a helmet and something reddening his cheeks was at the window, taking papers from Daddy. He left. He came back. He disappeared once more and returned. The blinking lights mesmerized the child, but he tried hard to focus on what his father was saying to the man; the two seemed to be disagreeing on a grave subject. Daddy started yelling. Mommy was yelling too. The voices formed an echo that made the child’s ears hurt, it frightened him when it reached into the back, undid his seatbelt, and yanked him out of his chair. The boy was cloaked in his mother’s arms; she squeezed his back to her chest and moved out into the grass. Her hair was blowing wildly around her face.
The boy stared at the rotating red glow, allowing its magic to penetrate his eyes. A sudden instinct made him seek out his father. The man had put a lock on Daddy’s hands and was taking him away. What was he doing? The boy’s distress mounted, and then, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The child hollered, feeling his mother twist him to the side. The boy attempted to spring from her arms as the lights began to taunt him – their earlier radiance now changing unexpectedly to a darker tint. The red flicked fire at him, scorching its image into his memory. The wheels started a slow roll. They were taking his father away. The child was overcome with dread. He let out a frantic shriek as the car pulled off, with his father’s head bowed in the back, and those lights dancing jubilantly in the midst of his tears.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Visit
Written by Nefertiti N.
She tied the scarf tightly around her head, covering the grey tendrils on her forehead, and continued washing the pots, humming an old, upbeat tune that masked her uneasiness. It was a tune she knew from her youth many years ago, one that accompanied one of the many folk stories her grandmother would tell. Her husband paced the courtyard with his brow furrowed, and looked sharply at his wife.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No…” she replied, wondering how she would eventually break the news to him.
“Humph…” he grunted, as he walked away, his tall, lean frame disappearing under the curtains that adorn the bedroom door.
She sighed heavily.
Just two days ago, their daughter had come home. She was an adult now, a career woman who called London her home. They had gone to meet her at the airport, their beloved daughter whom they hadn’t seen in five years. She ran toward them, arms outstretched, a look of excitement and apprehension on her face. Her father stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity before embracing and welcoming his daughter home. Her mother immediately hugged her and shed tears…tears of joy for this moment of having her daughter back, and tears of sorrow for what she imagined her daughter had to endure in that foreign land. Her daughter’s now nearly porcelain complexion was hard to miss even under a hat, scarf and shades.
She thought of her daughter in her youth…absolutely beautiful. Her striking features, her rich, deep chocolate skin, and her presence…
A mother always knows…when she spoke to her daughter over the course of the past five years she could hear the insecurity, the emotional aching for…something she couldn’t quite place.
Did she not think she was beautiful? No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter was gorgeous…and had been told so by many. She couldn’t imagine what it was like…to live in a foreign culture for so long…and to lose something…a sense of self? Of self-worth?
An argument between father and daughter later erupted. Although her daughter’s change in complexion was the invisible source of the argument, it was never mentioned nor alluded to…but the damage was done. Her daughter packed her bags and left without a word to her father.
These were the things running through her mind as she washed the pots, and she wondered when she would see her daughter again.
She put away the last of the pots and rose, joining her husband on the cement daybed in the courtyard.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked emptily, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” she whispered back, as the night air hung heavily between them.
She tied the scarf tightly around her head, covering the grey tendrils on her forehead, and continued washing the pots, humming an old, upbeat tune that masked her uneasiness. It was a tune she knew from her youth many years ago, one that accompanied one of the many folk stories her grandmother would tell. Her husband paced the courtyard with his brow furrowed, and looked sharply at his wife.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No…” she replied, wondering how she would eventually break the news to him.
“Humph…” he grunted, as he walked away, his tall, lean frame disappearing under the curtains that adorn the bedroom door.
She sighed heavily.
Just two days ago, their daughter had come home. She was an adult now, a career woman who called London her home. They had gone to meet her at the airport, their beloved daughter whom they hadn’t seen in five years. She ran toward them, arms outstretched, a look of excitement and apprehension on her face. Her father stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity before embracing and welcoming his daughter home. Her mother immediately hugged her and shed tears…tears of joy for this moment of having her daughter back, and tears of sorrow for what she imagined her daughter had to endure in that foreign land. Her daughter’s now nearly porcelain complexion was hard to miss even under a hat, scarf and shades.
She thought of her daughter in her youth…absolutely beautiful. Her striking features, her rich, deep chocolate skin, and her presence…
A mother always knows…when she spoke to her daughter over the course of the past five years she could hear the insecurity, the emotional aching for…something she couldn’t quite place.
Did she not think she was beautiful? No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter was gorgeous…and had been told so by many. She couldn’t imagine what it was like…to live in a foreign culture for so long…and to lose something…a sense of self? Of self-worth?
An argument between father and daughter later erupted. Although her daughter’s change in complexion was the invisible source of the argument, it was never mentioned nor alluded to…but the damage was done. Her daughter packed her bags and left without a word to her father.
These were the things running through her mind as she washed the pots, and she wondered when she would see her daughter again.
She put away the last of the pots and rose, joining her husband on the cement daybed in the courtyard.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked emptily, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” she whispered back, as the night air hung heavily between them.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Jaguar
written by Felicia York
She painted herself in the colors she thought they wanted to see. Eyes gold, cheeks pink, lips red and in the night, she prowled. Heels high, clothes tight, her perfumed permeated the air around her - a mixture of sweet flowers pungent with an intense desire she could not cover. The hunger rumbled inside of her as the loneliness settled in her bones for the night. She grazed the streets, her eyes peering into the darkness, searching. She sought solace in the murky nightclub as she placed the drink to her lips. Its cool liquid warmed her throat as it traveled to her belly. She sighed. The ladies were out that night. Prized mustangs who bucked against each other, their muscular thighs and butts grooving to the bass-heavy hip-hop beats. They whipped their hair, they win’ed their waists, they licked their lips and she felt like she couldn't compete. She sipped some more sizing up the gentlemen around her. She caught his eye, wanting to feel like he only saw her in the crowd. He smiled and winked at her. She sashayed to his side, her heart thumping in her chest. He picked her. She could rest until the next sun rose and set and dusk was once again at her heels again.
She painted herself in the colors she thought they wanted to see. Eyes gold, cheeks pink, lips red and in the night, she prowled. Heels high, clothes tight, her perfumed permeated the air around her - a mixture of sweet flowers pungent with an intense desire she could not cover. The hunger rumbled inside of her as the loneliness settled in her bones for the night. She grazed the streets, her eyes peering into the darkness, searching. She sought solace in the murky nightclub as she placed the drink to her lips. Its cool liquid warmed her throat as it traveled to her belly. She sighed. The ladies were out that night. Prized mustangs who bucked against each other, their muscular thighs and butts grooving to the bass-heavy hip-hop beats. They whipped their hair, they win’ed their waists, they licked their lips and she felt like she couldn't compete. She sipped some more sizing up the gentlemen around her. She caught his eye, wanting to feel like he only saw her in the crowd. He smiled and winked at her. She sashayed to his side, her heart thumping in her chest. He picked her. She could rest until the next sun rose and set and dusk was once again at her heels again.
2
as i walk over to the bed, i know that it's your smile that always gets to me, your smile that reels me in every time. you've turned off the overhead, and the only light is that of the lamp, which casts a gentle play of shadows on everything in the room. this creates a warmth that makes me take off my sweater before laying down on the bed beside you. you ask me about my day, and we chat for a few minutes. we talk with an ease that is rare; no frills, no second thoughts. something catches your eye on the tv, and you grab the remote to turn up the volume. i move over and lay my head on your shoulder. i close my eyes for a moment because i'm tired and it feels so good to just...be. i listen to your breathing as you take your arm and put it around me. you pull me closer and i take several deep breaths. i open my eyes and begin to trace the pattern on your shirt with my fingers. you smell so good, that i can't help but want something more. i unbutton your shirt just a little...enough to get my hand inside. your chest is firm and i can feel your heart beating. i move my head to look up at you, and i'm not sure we know where this is going. you lean down to kiss me and it's gentle. soft. no sense of urgency as we adjust to each other. my hand is still on your chest, but your hand moves down to my lower back. you caress me as we kiss, applying just enough pressure. you taste sweet, but that doesn't surprise me. you are a big fan of chocolate, always with some readily at hand. i like that you take your time to explore my mouth. i deepen the kiss, wondering how far we will take this. you answer my question as you pull me on top of you.
wynsters the tigress
wynsters the tigress
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Love: The Beginning
Written by Nefertiti N.
She blossomed with each touch…each caress…
Her lover captured her mind, body and soul…with finesse
Her pores were overflowing with love, and love…
Love loved her back.
Each day was magical…more sacred than the next…
She was on a natural high with each tender text…
Optimism fueled by infatuation
Eager anticipation
Got her through her 9 to 5 with no worries as to that sorry situation
So when her friends blew doubt in her ears
She chalked it up to the jealousy of her peers.
She might be right, and she might be wrong
I guess we’ll just have to follow along
To see the end of this song.
She blossomed with each touch…each caress…
Her lover captured her mind, body and soul…with finesse
Her pores were overflowing with love, and love…
Love loved her back.
Each day was magical…more sacred than the next…
She was on a natural high with each tender text…
Optimism fueled by infatuation
Eager anticipation
Got her through her 9 to 5 with no worries as to that sorry situation
So when her friends blew doubt in her ears
She chalked it up to the jealousy of her peers.
She might be right, and she might be wrong
I guess we’ll just have to follow along
To see the end of this song.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Eleven by Night
Written by Kwesi D.
Flocks of feathered floats had helped to facilitate the fantasy, flaring in and fanning out; ruffling as if the breeze had snuck up from the adjoining seaside and tickled them. They were tugged on and put on parade by tanned figures that were glistening with sweat, gyrating and giving in to a general sense of euphoria. They danced on vapors. It was an emancipation exclamation, a festival of melody, a gala that deceived even the native residents into thinking that they had been transported to some tropical dreamland for Carnival. Carnival! Except that this was North America; this was the land of migrants and Mounties, in the summer months, when the clouds were flickering and fleeting, and something frigid was a-rolling-in.
Fed by all the frenzy of the earlier hours, the revelers took the nightfall as it came. They took to the streets persevering with the recreation and the revelry. The more flamboyant of the set, parked expensive automobiles on the avenues with lights beaming, sounds blasting and the cleaning solutions drying unseen into the paint. The sidewalks were abuzz with the intoxicated and the inquisitive, and impudent youngsters on the prowl for their own amusements. Another line of vehicles made a syrupy slow drain down the main boulevard. And inside, the passengers' faces drew closer to the glass, meaning to miss nothing.
From five or so feet away, there seemed to be another costumed mass gathering – similar to those that were marching in the sun just hours before...but here? No. All of that pageantry had died out with the daylight; these were symbols of a different variety. Was it the red stripes surrounding those caps, which gave them such an unnatural look? Out-of-towners would find the attire too bright and celebratory for enforcers of the law to wear. And then, a woman screamed! The throngs suddenly became sluggish; frowns were formed out of just buoyant features; a kind of internal movement changed the formation of the police unit and a woman screamed.
Fists pounded on metal. The air had changed. The surge of blue parted to reveal the woman; her braids had unraveled and her head swayed low over her protruding stomach. The squad of blue, eleven they were, advanced upon the bawling captive. She wailed an announcement of her pregnancy, but she may as well have been shouting at thunder. The woman screamed. She wrestled her wrists against the silver handcuffs. Eleven officers struggled to take hold of the woman’s body, unaffected by the emotional exhibition. Eleven men were taking hold of one woman’s body. This, at Carnival!
Flocks of feathered floats had helped to facilitate the fantasy, flaring in and fanning out; ruffling as if the breeze had snuck up from the adjoining seaside and tickled them. They were tugged on and put on parade by tanned figures that were glistening with sweat, gyrating and giving in to a general sense of euphoria. They danced on vapors. It was an emancipation exclamation, a festival of melody, a gala that deceived even the native residents into thinking that they had been transported to some tropical dreamland for Carnival. Carnival! Except that this was North America; this was the land of migrants and Mounties, in the summer months, when the clouds were flickering and fleeting, and something frigid was a-rolling-in.
Fed by all the frenzy of the earlier hours, the revelers took the nightfall as it came. They took to the streets persevering with the recreation and the revelry. The more flamboyant of the set, parked expensive automobiles on the avenues with lights beaming, sounds blasting and the cleaning solutions drying unseen into the paint. The sidewalks were abuzz with the intoxicated and the inquisitive, and impudent youngsters on the prowl for their own amusements. Another line of vehicles made a syrupy slow drain down the main boulevard. And inside, the passengers' faces drew closer to the glass, meaning to miss nothing.
From five or so feet away, there seemed to be another costumed mass gathering – similar to those that were marching in the sun just hours before...but here? No. All of that pageantry had died out with the daylight; these were symbols of a different variety. Was it the red stripes surrounding those caps, which gave them such an unnatural look? Out-of-towners would find the attire too bright and celebratory for enforcers of the law to wear. And then, a woman screamed! The throngs suddenly became sluggish; frowns were formed out of just buoyant features; a kind of internal movement changed the formation of the police unit and a woman screamed.
Fists pounded on metal. The air had changed. The surge of blue parted to reveal the woman; her braids had unraveled and her head swayed low over her protruding stomach. The squad of blue, eleven they were, advanced upon the bawling captive. She wailed an announcement of her pregnancy, but she may as well have been shouting at thunder. The woman screamed. She wrestled her wrists against the silver handcuffs. Eleven officers struggled to take hold of the woman’s body, unaffected by the emotional exhibition. Eleven men were taking hold of one woman’s body. This, at Carnival!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Untitled
Written by Nefertiti N.
I love Black people. We are such a beautiful people…compassionate, forgiving, spiritual…simply beautiful. And partly because of that the most gruesome evils have been inflicted upon us as a people, spanning centuries and continents. Malcolm X puts it quite succinctly, “Any intelligent, honest, objective person cannot fail to realize that this white man’s slave trade, and his subsequent devilish actions are directly responsible for not only the presence of this Black man in America, but also for the condition in which we find this Black man here.”
Even in the face of the most arduous and intolerable conditions, we find a way not just to survive, but to live. Which is why I’m completely baffled at the behavior of some of my beautiful Black brothers and sisters. As I stood there in the department store trying to figure out why this white woman was getting better service than I from a Black sister, I quickly realized that this happens all the time. Time and time again I’ve seen it – my Black sisters and brothers interacting with white strangers like long lost friends and eyeing their fellow Black people with guarded suspicion…Why? Why is there this open friendliness, this need to make white people comfortable while a fellow Black brother or sister is thought to have some ulterior motive???
I have a theory – the psychological terror inflicted upon us a people still persists to this day.
In 1772 a slave master wrote a letter to his colleagues instructing them on how to destroy the Black man’s mind, his dignity, love for family, love for one another… Dubbed the Willie Lynch letter, it explicitly demonstrates how seeds of innate distrust can be sown…and over hundreds of years, the trees that sprouted from those seeds are still bearing fruit. And understandably so, since this physical and psychological horror lasted hundreds of years, extending beyond the era of slavery, and really – let’s be real – not that long ago racism was law. It is still law, by the way, just unwritten law. Racism has become such a part of American culture and has been so deeply entrenched that we continue to perpetuate it, which was the aim….Willie Lynch states, “The Black slave, after receiving this indoctrination, shall carry on and will become self-refueling and self-generating for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.”
And yes, I have read the works of the scholars who state that the Willie Lynch letter is a hoax. Whether it is or not, as far as I'm concerned, is irrelevant. Structural racism is the ongoing legacy of racism and is evident, for example, in the disproportionate numbers of black and brown people stopped by police and arrested for simply being black and brown as opposed to the comparatively low numbers of white persons stopped--the statistics are staggering. Lack of access to health, poverty, and a hopelessness that morphs into internalized oppression (indoctrination that has become self-refueling) are all lasting aftershocks of our history. And "our history" includes the lynchings of the Reconstruction Era, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era, to today, where racism (external and internalized) persists. Slavery was designed to destroy the Black man's mind, body and soul and our relationships with each other---and while it didn't destroy us, it sure did damage us---and that's what the Willie Lynch letter conveys.
And to people who say “get over it” – who do we say “get over it” to? As a good brother of mine said once; do you tell a person who has been raped to get over it because it was too many years ago?
An earth shaking experience such as we have had as a people is bound to have long lasting aftershocks. The question should be – How do we handle it? What do we do?
I have no answers...yet.
I love Black people. We are such a beautiful people…compassionate, forgiving, spiritual…simply beautiful. And partly because of that the most gruesome evils have been inflicted upon us as a people, spanning centuries and continents. Malcolm X puts it quite succinctly, “Any intelligent, honest, objective person cannot fail to realize that this white man’s slave trade, and his subsequent devilish actions are directly responsible for not only the presence of this Black man in America, but also for the condition in which we find this Black man here.”
Even in the face of the most arduous and intolerable conditions, we find a way not just to survive, but to live. Which is why I’m completely baffled at the behavior of some of my beautiful Black brothers and sisters. As I stood there in the department store trying to figure out why this white woman was getting better service than I from a Black sister, I quickly realized that this happens all the time. Time and time again I’ve seen it – my Black sisters and brothers interacting with white strangers like long lost friends and eyeing their fellow Black people with guarded suspicion…Why? Why is there this open friendliness, this need to make white people comfortable while a fellow Black brother or sister is thought to have some ulterior motive???
I have a theory – the psychological terror inflicted upon us a people still persists to this day.
In 1772 a slave master wrote a letter to his colleagues instructing them on how to destroy the Black man’s mind, his dignity, love for family, love for one another… Dubbed the Willie Lynch letter, it explicitly demonstrates how seeds of innate distrust can be sown…and over hundreds of years, the trees that sprouted from those seeds are still bearing fruit. And understandably so, since this physical and psychological horror lasted hundreds of years, extending beyond the era of slavery, and really – let’s be real – not that long ago racism was law. It is still law, by the way, just unwritten law. Racism has become such a part of American culture and has been so deeply entrenched that we continue to perpetuate it, which was the aim….Willie Lynch states, “The Black slave, after receiving this indoctrination, shall carry on and will become self-refueling and self-generating for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.”
And yes, I have read the works of the scholars who state that the Willie Lynch letter is a hoax. Whether it is or not, as far as I'm concerned, is irrelevant. Structural racism is the ongoing legacy of racism and is evident, for example, in the disproportionate numbers of black and brown people stopped by police and arrested for simply being black and brown as opposed to the comparatively low numbers of white persons stopped--the statistics are staggering. Lack of access to health, poverty, and a hopelessness that morphs into internalized oppression (indoctrination that has become self-refueling) are all lasting aftershocks of our history. And "our history" includes the lynchings of the Reconstruction Era, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era, to today, where racism (external and internalized) persists. Slavery was designed to destroy the Black man's mind, body and soul and our relationships with each other---and while it didn't destroy us, it sure did damage us---and that's what the Willie Lynch letter conveys.
And to people who say “get over it” – who do we say “get over it” to? As a good brother of mine said once; do you tell a person who has been raped to get over it because it was too many years ago?
An earth shaking experience such as we have had as a people is bound to have long lasting aftershocks. The question should be – How do we handle it? What do we do?
I have no answers...yet.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Racio-Misogyny in the Black Community - Part 2
Continued By Angelo Pinto
Addressing the root of why Black men and women look upon each other is a step in the direction of recreating Black Relationships and Black Intimacy. Our issues are not as a result of Black men desiring to hate Black women or the converse. It is a result of conditioning that cause us to devalue ourselves and one another coupled with western standards of relationships, intimacy, beauty, consumerism, individualism and success driving our behaviors and mind. Creating another disease to diagnosis the Black Community may be as important as creating another diagnosis in the DSM manual, which to my recollection has yet to place white supremacy or sexism among the various mental aliments that plague the population. However, in the spirit of transformation I welcome a new approach to addressing the particular dilemma which faces my mother, sister and wife “The Black Women”. However as we create and recognize this new area of thought we must also develop one which recognizes and supports the unique struggles of the Black man. I will not spend time naming, or addressing the importance or necessity of such a thing because I know it may be deemed as the refocusing on Black men that “we” do. However I will say as a collective we must reclaim the holistic approach which neither negates nor separates the Black man from the Black women when presenting solutions. We must be equally invested in our collective healing. As Bell Hooks has stated their must be a space in feminism where Black men and productive masculinity can be honored and used as and ally which illustrates our collective investment in restructuring Black male female relationships.
With that said Black women face a unique struggle and weight within the context of our community. Single family households are often headed by Black women who must provide financially, socially, emotionally, and mentally for their children and extended family members. Black women have increasingly faced difficulty in finding a suitable mate. Additionally, white feminism neglects and ignores the unique struggles of Black women. It should be noted that many Black men and women throughout the course of the feminist movement and today have said feminism is not Black women struggle. It is interesting because had found myself grappling with this ideological quagmire. Overstanding the necessity of Black women to identify and recognize the importance of their unique struggle that feminism offers a venue for. While at the same time recognizing that feminism has not provided Black women with an adequate seat at the table. I believe this is the same vein of many Black men and women who disregard feminism as a space for Black women because it did not truly honor the complexity of their position as Black women. Racio-misogyny appears to be the beginning of a brilliant conceptualization of a way in which Black women can more accurately identify and understand their struggles. I will become an ally in this paradigm shift, both in analysis and redemption. However, it is of extreme importance to strategically address the ways in which Racio-misogyny will we a place where Black men have a space different and distinct from all other men. It must also be critically analyzed the appropriate course in which Black men who are participating in the defiling of Black women (holding the gun) are treated in contrast to white men. Although the gun may be the same and the lethal consequences may be the same the collective outcome is quite different. Imagine for a moment if your father killed your mother or vice versa. Although a death will have occurred the collateral damage will be monumental. The family will likely be at odds even though the collective understands the depth of the death. Surrounding circumstances, a historical understanding, and personal familial relationships will all have to be taken into account. This is not simply this or that answer that western society has come to use to answer its problem through linear analysis. We must be more critical, innovative, and divorce ourselves from the practices and ideologies of separatism and individual problems and solutions.
The Black community currently has developed a hybrid culture of Western and African origins. Although this mixing of culture is not in-it-of itself destructive, there must be a centrality of ideology which guides this mixing to become a cultural gumbo and not a cultural slop of ingredients that simply are incompatible and not complementing. I do not believe Pan-Africanism, Culture Nationalism, Liberation Theology, Feminism and the likes are the ideological point of centrality that we must adopt however I believe they are all reference points in developing a new ideology, along with Racio-misogyny, that will ultimately bring forth the continued liberation of Black people and humanity.
Addressing the root of why Black men and women look upon each other is a step in the direction of recreating Black Relationships and Black Intimacy. Our issues are not as a result of Black men desiring to hate Black women or the converse. It is a result of conditioning that cause us to devalue ourselves and one another coupled with western standards of relationships, intimacy, beauty, consumerism, individualism and success driving our behaviors and mind. Creating another disease to diagnosis the Black Community may be as important as creating another diagnosis in the DSM manual, which to my recollection has yet to place white supremacy or sexism among the various mental aliments that plague the population. However, in the spirit of transformation I welcome a new approach to addressing the particular dilemma which faces my mother, sister and wife “The Black Women”. However as we create and recognize this new area of thought we must also develop one which recognizes and supports the unique struggles of the Black man. I will not spend time naming, or addressing the importance or necessity of such a thing because I know it may be deemed as the refocusing on Black men that “we” do. However I will say as a collective we must reclaim the holistic approach which neither negates nor separates the Black man from the Black women when presenting solutions. We must be equally invested in our collective healing. As Bell Hooks has stated their must be a space in feminism where Black men and productive masculinity can be honored and used as and ally which illustrates our collective investment in restructuring Black male female relationships.
With that said Black women face a unique struggle and weight within the context of our community. Single family households are often headed by Black women who must provide financially, socially, emotionally, and mentally for their children and extended family members. Black women have increasingly faced difficulty in finding a suitable mate. Additionally, white feminism neglects and ignores the unique struggles of Black women. It should be noted that many Black men and women throughout the course of the feminist movement and today have said feminism is not Black women struggle. It is interesting because had found myself grappling with this ideological quagmire. Overstanding the necessity of Black women to identify and recognize the importance of their unique struggle that feminism offers a venue for. While at the same time recognizing that feminism has not provided Black women with an adequate seat at the table. I believe this is the same vein of many Black men and women who disregard feminism as a space for Black women because it did not truly honor the complexity of their position as Black women. Racio-misogyny appears to be the beginning of a brilliant conceptualization of a way in which Black women can more accurately identify and understand their struggles. I will become an ally in this paradigm shift, both in analysis and redemption. However, it is of extreme importance to strategically address the ways in which Racio-misogyny will we a place where Black men have a space different and distinct from all other men. It must also be critically analyzed the appropriate course in which Black men who are participating in the defiling of Black women (holding the gun) are treated in contrast to white men. Although the gun may be the same and the lethal consequences may be the same the collective outcome is quite different. Imagine for a moment if your father killed your mother or vice versa. Although a death will have occurred the collateral damage will be monumental. The family will likely be at odds even though the collective understands the depth of the death. Surrounding circumstances, a historical understanding, and personal familial relationships will all have to be taken into account. This is not simply this or that answer that western society has come to use to answer its problem through linear analysis. We must be more critical, innovative, and divorce ourselves from the practices and ideologies of separatism and individual problems and solutions.
The Black community currently has developed a hybrid culture of Western and African origins. Although this mixing of culture is not in-it-of itself destructive, there must be a centrality of ideology which guides this mixing to become a cultural gumbo and not a cultural slop of ingredients that simply are incompatible and not complementing. I do not believe Pan-Africanism, Culture Nationalism, Liberation Theology, Feminism and the likes are the ideological point of centrality that we must adopt however I believe they are all reference points in developing a new ideology, along with Racio-misogyny, that will ultimately bring forth the continued liberation of Black people and humanity.
Racio-Misogyny in the Black Community - Part 1
Written by Angelo Pinto
It is a response piece I wrote a week ago to this blog that was sent to me. The blog is from a woman writing about racio-mysogyn. A new way of looking at Black womens particular issues that are and preventing ourselves from understanding from traditional feminism. I often engage in the conversations about Black people. It is my sincere desire that within the context of these conversations Black people as a collective are empowered to address our unique dilemmas. Our dedication to the larger collective must be encapsulated in an innovative approach to our present condition. Dedication alone is not sufficient, as knowledge alone will also not suffice.
Before diving into the deep and fierce current of Black relationships I will first say that there are countless Black relationships that have survived the various systems of oppression we historically have endured. In our efforts to correct our present circumstance we must always identify our strength. It is from that point where we can locate a foundation by which to move forward. Additionally, we must be very aware that when looking for our success it is often that it will not be found or displayed in main stream culture but within the context of our intimate family that traditionally never receive recognition. Beginning a critique from the point of weakness often will create a sprit of confusion, disillusion, and contempt of each other. It is with the knowledge of our successful ancestors and elders in creating successful Black Family and Community that we have a baseline to improve upon. I am forever indebted.
Black Men/Women and a Collective Confusion
My mothers struggle is my struggle, my sister’s struggle is my struggle, my wife’s struggle is my struggle. This is in fact the reality for Black men today acknowledged or not. There is a segment of our community that has been engaged in behavior that is often counter productive with respect to one another. It would be uncritical of the dominate culture to ignore the reality that some Black men and women have adopted behavior that is imposing the practice of racism and sexism on one another. Many practices have been identified as the source of this confusion, however the truth remains that these are merely byproducts of the root of this behavior which is firmly entrenched in slavery, the history of white supremacy, and western practices about gender and imperialism.
The destructive views that Black men and women have in regard to one another can be found in the mass media and popular cultures portrayals of who we are. One only has to take a brief look at the history of Black men and women and Hollywood and many of the ways we treat each other can be found their. From Mammy to Jezebel or from the Big Black Buck to Rastus the derogatory images about who we are have a clear point of origin that we must identify and dismantle. Additionally, we must be swift and thorough in this dismantling. Which mean Tyler Perry must be held accountable as Lil Wayne should. Tyra Banks should be held accountable as Beyonce should. However, this accountability must be accurate. These four individuals progress in their respective arenas should be recognized. The critique of which should not be rooted in “western values” of “morality” and so called “decency”. (i.e. wearing a suit while you buy sell and capture slaves who are deemed “inhumane” and “uncivilized” because they are not clothed and do not move within the parameters of western etiquette and religious modesty.) Simply put before we discuss Lil Wayne’s use of improper English prose we should recognize that “slang” is a perfectly viable language. Before we say Tyler Perry is cooning, we should recognize that he has the ability to provide a venue where you might see Mammy but you see countless other positive Black images. Critically we can say to Lil Wayne we will not accept your lyrics that may be derogatory or say to Tyler Perry lets phase most if not all of these derogatory images. Truthfully, as we do this it is of optimal importance that we target the systems that perpetuate these images. It may be useful to address individuals in some context however when addressing what has caused Black male and female imagery to be derogatory and hence erode black relationships we must take a systematic approach.
It is a response piece I wrote a week ago to this blog that was sent to me. The blog is from a woman writing about racio-mysogyn. A new way of looking at Black womens particular issues that are and preventing ourselves from understanding from traditional feminism. I often engage in the conversations about Black people. It is my sincere desire that within the context of these conversations Black people as a collective are empowered to address our unique dilemmas. Our dedication to the larger collective must be encapsulated in an innovative approach to our present condition. Dedication alone is not sufficient, as knowledge alone will also not suffice.
Before diving into the deep and fierce current of Black relationships I will first say that there are countless Black relationships that have survived the various systems of oppression we historically have endured. In our efforts to correct our present circumstance we must always identify our strength. It is from that point where we can locate a foundation by which to move forward. Additionally, we must be very aware that when looking for our success it is often that it will not be found or displayed in main stream culture but within the context of our intimate family that traditionally never receive recognition. Beginning a critique from the point of weakness often will create a sprit of confusion, disillusion, and contempt of each other. It is with the knowledge of our successful ancestors and elders in creating successful Black Family and Community that we have a baseline to improve upon. I am forever indebted.
Black Men/Women and a Collective Confusion
My mothers struggle is my struggle, my sister’s struggle is my struggle, my wife’s struggle is my struggle. This is in fact the reality for Black men today acknowledged or not. There is a segment of our community that has been engaged in behavior that is often counter productive with respect to one another. It would be uncritical of the dominate culture to ignore the reality that some Black men and women have adopted behavior that is imposing the practice of racism and sexism on one another. Many practices have been identified as the source of this confusion, however the truth remains that these are merely byproducts of the root of this behavior which is firmly entrenched in slavery, the history of white supremacy, and western practices about gender and imperialism.
The destructive views that Black men and women have in regard to one another can be found in the mass media and popular cultures portrayals of who we are. One only has to take a brief look at the history of Black men and women and Hollywood and many of the ways we treat each other can be found their. From Mammy to Jezebel or from the Big Black Buck to Rastus the derogatory images about who we are have a clear point of origin that we must identify and dismantle. Additionally, we must be swift and thorough in this dismantling. Which mean Tyler Perry must be held accountable as Lil Wayne should. Tyra Banks should be held accountable as Beyonce should. However, this accountability must be accurate. These four individuals progress in their respective arenas should be recognized. The critique of which should not be rooted in “western values” of “morality” and so called “decency”. (i.e. wearing a suit while you buy sell and capture slaves who are deemed “inhumane” and “uncivilized” because they are not clothed and do not move within the parameters of western etiquette and religious modesty.) Simply put before we discuss Lil Wayne’s use of improper English prose we should recognize that “slang” is a perfectly viable language. Before we say Tyler Perry is cooning, we should recognize that he has the ability to provide a venue where you might see Mammy but you see countless other positive Black images. Critically we can say to Lil Wayne we will not accept your lyrics that may be derogatory or say to Tyler Perry lets phase most if not all of these derogatory images. Truthfully, as we do this it is of optimal importance that we target the systems that perpetuate these images. It may be useful to address individuals in some context however when addressing what has caused Black male and female imagery to be derogatory and hence erode black relationships we must take a systematic approach.
1
Written By Wynsters The Tigress
the carpet in the hallway was so thick that i can barely hear my own footsteps as i approach your door. the hotel itself is quite nice, nicer than most that i've been to. you take a few moments to answer my knock, though fair to say, i'm not the loudest of knockers. you look as you usually do -- neat, settled. you greet me with the smile that i've come to cherish. i walk in and you give me the "grand" tour. your hand is gently placed at the small of my back as you show me the view, the nice towels, the great big bathtub. you make me laugh as you demonstrate how soft the bed is. i have a thing for bouncy beds, although i'm pretty sure i've yet to share that fact with you. i take my coat off and make myself at home. you've always made me feel comfortable. my day has been pretty stressful and i'm looking forward to spending some time with you. i step into the bathroom. i wash my hands and splash some water on my face. as i dry off, i realize a splash of nervousness has settled itself in the pit of my stomach. it surprises me and i'm not sure what to think about that. i walk back out and you're laying on the bed, completely unaware that i've taken a moment to just...watch. i find you attractive, which you already know. you engage me in a way that holds my interest, a rarity for a mind like mine. a mind that's constantly on the go, unable to settle on just one thought. but you are all that i can think of now and i watch as you fiddle with the remote. i adjust my lean against the door and this catches your eye...you motion for me to join you on the bed.
the carpet in the hallway was so thick that i can barely hear my own footsteps as i approach your door. the hotel itself is quite nice, nicer than most that i've been to. you take a few moments to answer my knock, though fair to say, i'm not the loudest of knockers. you look as you usually do -- neat, settled. you greet me with the smile that i've come to cherish. i walk in and you give me the "grand" tour. your hand is gently placed at the small of my back as you show me the view, the nice towels, the great big bathtub. you make me laugh as you demonstrate how soft the bed is. i have a thing for bouncy beds, although i'm pretty sure i've yet to share that fact with you. i take my coat off and make myself at home. you've always made me feel comfortable. my day has been pretty stressful and i'm looking forward to spending some time with you. i step into the bathroom. i wash my hands and splash some water on my face. as i dry off, i realize a splash of nervousness has settled itself in the pit of my stomach. it surprises me and i'm not sure what to think about that. i walk back out and you're laying on the bed, completely unaware that i've taken a moment to just...watch. i find you attractive, which you already know. you engage me in a way that holds my interest, a rarity for a mind like mine. a mind that's constantly on the go, unable to settle on just one thought. but you are all that i can think of now and i watch as you fiddle with the remote. i adjust my lean against the door and this catches your eye...you motion for me to join you on the bed.
Sophisticated Gentleman: Nonchalant
Written By Kwesi D.
He could swing razors with a comparable degree of competence and he knew how to punch a torso sideways so as to take the wind out of it. This was knowledge that he shared with quite a few of his peers, but that was neither here nor there: For he had extracted himself from the process even before he understood how self-destructive it actually was and how murderous it was of his culture and the bloodlines that were sinking inside of it. He remembered being eighteen and in college, of all places, with salt in his eyes and vinegar in his mouth, always carrying around the feeling of wanting to batter something, walking on marble for the first time. He too had been battered in various ways, some of which he would not disclose, and wished to show as well as describe the sensation of being kicked in the mouth and stomped in the back by eleven or so designer sneakers. He remembered being eighteen and running around with a bunch of other loose youngsters who delighted in smoking bush and drinking vodka, and reciting lyrics to rap masterpieces late into the night. He remembered being eighteen and visiting the young women in the dorm rooms, recounting with much exaggeration the things that had transpired there and cursing, always cursing, loudly or in a murmur, defiantly or in amusement. He remembered being eighteen and roving across the terrain with the other young bulls in college, of all places, picking fights with others and sharing frustration on a plate.
And still he had managed to extract himself before he was fully aware that his was an old feeling, formed out of ingredients that had merged somewhere in the belly of a ship to make an explosion with a big bang. Cultivated over time, it was transplanted from dingy building walls to ivied stone gates, where the unwelcome were greeted with a handshake and a smile and an expectation of a stay that would not outlast the year. There, outside the city limits, the misguided young bulls entangled themselves and stepped hoof-first into every ensnarement that had been carefully laid out for them. It was the nature of the time within which he lived, a period that demanded stealth and quick-wittedness and perseverance and on top of that, called for luck, lots and lots of luck: For he had only missed by pinches the fate that would be doled out to the others – attendees at institutions of a different sort. And now even that unfortunate lot would claim him a success because there was parchment with his name on it, and letters for which he would owe a fee for many years to come. How could he disagree with them? He did not delude himself with any misplaced feelings of self-importance or blindly blame them for their circumstances. He was just in a daze really; sitting at a bar with some comely woman, smelling expensive perfume and the cigar smoke rise, staring blankly at the athletes darting across the plasma screen, hearing the latest hip hop music play, lifting a glass of vodka to take that perfunctory sip, noticing the diamonds shine, and never thinking, refusing to think.
He could swing razors with a comparable degree of competence and he knew how to punch a torso sideways so as to take the wind out of it. This was knowledge that he shared with quite a few of his peers, but that was neither here nor there: For he had extracted himself from the process even before he understood how self-destructive it actually was and how murderous it was of his culture and the bloodlines that were sinking inside of it. He remembered being eighteen and in college, of all places, with salt in his eyes and vinegar in his mouth, always carrying around the feeling of wanting to batter something, walking on marble for the first time. He too had been battered in various ways, some of which he would not disclose, and wished to show as well as describe the sensation of being kicked in the mouth and stomped in the back by eleven or so designer sneakers. He remembered being eighteen and running around with a bunch of other loose youngsters who delighted in smoking bush and drinking vodka, and reciting lyrics to rap masterpieces late into the night. He remembered being eighteen and visiting the young women in the dorm rooms, recounting with much exaggeration the things that had transpired there and cursing, always cursing, loudly or in a murmur, defiantly or in amusement. He remembered being eighteen and roving across the terrain with the other young bulls in college, of all places, picking fights with others and sharing frustration on a plate.
And still he had managed to extract himself before he was fully aware that his was an old feeling, formed out of ingredients that had merged somewhere in the belly of a ship to make an explosion with a big bang. Cultivated over time, it was transplanted from dingy building walls to ivied stone gates, where the unwelcome were greeted with a handshake and a smile and an expectation of a stay that would not outlast the year. There, outside the city limits, the misguided young bulls entangled themselves and stepped hoof-first into every ensnarement that had been carefully laid out for them. It was the nature of the time within which he lived, a period that demanded stealth and quick-wittedness and perseverance and on top of that, called for luck, lots and lots of luck: For he had only missed by pinches the fate that would be doled out to the others – attendees at institutions of a different sort. And now even that unfortunate lot would claim him a success because there was parchment with his name on it, and letters for which he would owe a fee for many years to come. How could he disagree with them? He did not delude himself with any misplaced feelings of self-importance or blindly blame them for their circumstances. He was just in a daze really; sitting at a bar with some comely woman, smelling expensive perfume and the cigar smoke rise, staring blankly at the athletes darting across the plasma screen, hearing the latest hip hop music play, lifting a glass of vodka to take that perfunctory sip, noticing the diamonds shine, and never thinking, refusing to think.
The Beggars + 2:12 am
Written By Kwame Carter
The Beggars
Outside the tent
on cracks of clay,
A year of life is lost
in a wooden bowl,
allowing them
to zip in,
then zip
back upon her face
grazing as if full.
Amazed,
she gives the bowl
a thorough lick,
as if to convince.
Still they come,
tiny beggars
of this spare.
2:12am
when you knock I will hold the screen
and hand only, a breath within my night
cause you lean on my voice
why still? Cannot be sure.
Cousin, this sphere's weighted issues;
it will pull from your tombs.
Why still? Below might drum
"Decades!" but voiced, is self's milieu
and by your face, we will sum.
-But here, accept this tempted glare
lifting our distance to father's eyes
(that face rising throbbing on my throat
it is shivering squeezing in my skin)
but voice buckles under immediacy
never realizing.
I will stroke on your death-face
one summed
but like before turn with
my futile hands away.
The Beggars
Outside the tent
on cracks of clay,
A year of life is lost
in a wooden bowl,
allowing them
to zip in,
then zip
back upon her face
grazing as if full.
Amazed,
she gives the bowl
a thorough lick,
as if to convince.
Still they come,
tiny beggars
of this spare.
2:12am
when you knock I will hold the screen
and hand only, a breath within my night
cause you lean on my voice
why still? Cannot be sure.
Cousin, this sphere's weighted issues;
it will pull from your tombs.
Why still? Below might drum
"Decades!" but voiced, is self's milieu
and by your face, we will sum.
-But here, accept this tempted glare
lifting our distance to father's eyes
(that face rising throbbing on my throat
it is shivering squeezing in my skin)
but voice buckles under immediacy
never realizing.
I will stroke on your death-face
one summed
but like before turn with
my futile hands away.
The Empath
Written By Felicia York
She loved him in the days where love had been replaced with receptors and transmitters; neurological synapses that conveyed meaning without feeling. The humans elected not to feel long ago as emotion caused many of the crimes they experienced in the past. Separating themselves into groups, they were the entities and empaths. Entities ate in order to fuel their bodies, they slept when fatigue plagued them, they had sex to procreate and they flourished. The pursuit of pleasure, the attempt to appease their ego was kept at a minimum. There was antiseptic peace among them.
Shyra felt differently, electing to become an empath. Empath communities were spread throughout the colony of New York City. Hiding in the depths of the municipality, they struggled to keep the relic institutions of their old lives in tact. Schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, hospitals and other empath-only businesses were kept in the darkness as they were targeted and systematically disenfranchised. Entities hated what they stood for and wanted them dead. The death of an empath was taken lightly for empaths were seen as weak; the last of the species anyway and any attempt to shorten their existence was secretly applauded.
And in the midst of the calculated chaos, Shyra loved him, an entity. She knew it was foolish to believe that he could even begin to love a man like him. Still, she offered herself to him in the bowels of the night hoping that he could love her back, wanting something that he could not give her. In the light of the Sun, she passed for one of them – an entity. In the evening, she wept at his feet cursing at what she’d allowed herself to become – need and clingy, wanted something of this man he was not able to give.She would need to choose to become an entity or live her life feeling the aftermath of living without her love.
She had resolved to let it all go. She was sick of being a slave to a system that was stacked against humanity and so, she would do something inhumane. She needed to break free. The air was crisp and fresh up there where they stood. The moon loomed over them imposing on her last moments with him. The clouds were dark and gray watching her shame. Her wild curly hair flew in her face sticking to the tears that fell from her eyes. “This hurts,” she said as he looked at her motionless. “Bottling your emotions is a double-edged sword,” she said as she washed his blood from her hands. In that moment, it all made sense. She would get through the initial shock of having no emotions but she would get used to it. She would become what she hated the most: an entity. It was fitting, she thought, “Victimizer becoming victim. Besides, in the end, we all become what we hate the most.” She flung the hair from her face ready to walk into her new day strong.
She loved him in the days where love had been replaced with receptors and transmitters; neurological synapses that conveyed meaning without feeling. The humans elected not to feel long ago as emotion caused many of the crimes they experienced in the past. Separating themselves into groups, they were the entities and empaths. Entities ate in order to fuel their bodies, they slept when fatigue plagued them, they had sex to procreate and they flourished. The pursuit of pleasure, the attempt to appease their ego was kept at a minimum. There was antiseptic peace among them.
Shyra felt differently, electing to become an empath. Empath communities were spread throughout the colony of New York City. Hiding in the depths of the municipality, they struggled to keep the relic institutions of their old lives in tact. Schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, hospitals and other empath-only businesses were kept in the darkness as they were targeted and systematically disenfranchised. Entities hated what they stood for and wanted them dead. The death of an empath was taken lightly for empaths were seen as weak; the last of the species anyway and any attempt to shorten their existence was secretly applauded.
And in the midst of the calculated chaos, Shyra loved him, an entity. She knew it was foolish to believe that he could even begin to love a man like him. Still, she offered herself to him in the bowels of the night hoping that he could love her back, wanting something that he could not give her. In the light of the Sun, she passed for one of them – an entity. In the evening, she wept at his feet cursing at what she’d allowed herself to become – need and clingy, wanted something of this man he was not able to give.She would need to choose to become an entity or live her life feeling the aftermath of living without her love.
She had resolved to let it all go. She was sick of being a slave to a system that was stacked against humanity and so, she would do something inhumane. She needed to break free. The air was crisp and fresh up there where they stood. The moon loomed over them imposing on her last moments with him. The clouds were dark and gray watching her shame. Her wild curly hair flew in her face sticking to the tears that fell from her eyes. “This hurts,” she said as he looked at her motionless. “Bottling your emotions is a double-edged sword,” she said as she washed his blood from her hands. In that moment, it all made sense. She would get through the initial shock of having no emotions but she would get used to it. She would become what she hated the most: an entity. It was fitting, she thought, “Victimizer becoming victim. Besides, in the end, we all become what we hate the most.” She flung the hair from her face ready to walk into her new day strong.
An Old Friend
Written by Nefertiti N.
Not too long ago I ran into an old acquaintance. Back in the day she was radiant, beautiful, her dark mocha skin a finishing touch to a work of fine art. There was confidence in the sparkle in her eyes...and why not? Men and women could not help but stare...her womanly hips and perfectly proportioned body swayed provocatively as she walked...she was beauty, and beauty was her.
We smiled at each other as I approached, and as I hugged my old friend I felt my heart grow heavy. She talked of the struggles that black people face, the injustice, the various grassroot movements against police brutality, against racism, and for freedom...true freedom. I nodded in agreement and listened intently to this intelligent, beautiful young woman who had been ravaged by life. Her clothes hung off her thin frame, haggard and worn, and her unkempt hair peeked out from underneath a multi-colored scarf. She was embarrassed, as she fidgeted with her hair and mentioned that she needed to get it done. I smiled and made small talk to put her at ease as she stared at me intently as if to ascertain my sincerity...
As we parted I hugged her tightly, as if doing so would change something...I desperately needed to believe that something would change...
I have thought about her often since then, and about my brothers and sisters weaving through oppression, the after-effects of oppression, the socio-economic, psychological, ongoing oppression that has seemingly morphed into an untouchable monster of a machine that no one dare point at let alone face...
Not too long ago I ran into an old acquaintance. Back in the day she was radiant, beautiful, her dark mocha skin a finishing touch to a work of fine art. There was confidence in the sparkle in her eyes...and why not? Men and women could not help but stare...her womanly hips and perfectly proportioned body swayed provocatively as she walked...she was beauty, and beauty was her.
We smiled at each other as I approached, and as I hugged my old friend I felt my heart grow heavy. She talked of the struggles that black people face, the injustice, the various grassroot movements against police brutality, against racism, and for freedom...true freedom. I nodded in agreement and listened intently to this intelligent, beautiful young woman who had been ravaged by life. Her clothes hung off her thin frame, haggard and worn, and her unkempt hair peeked out from underneath a multi-colored scarf. She was embarrassed, as she fidgeted with her hair and mentioned that she needed to get it done. I smiled and made small talk to put her at ease as she stared at me intently as if to ascertain my sincerity...
As we parted I hugged her tightly, as if doing so would change something...I desperately needed to believe that something would change...
I have thought about her often since then, and about my brothers and sisters weaving through oppression, the after-effects of oppression, the socio-economic, psychological, ongoing oppression that has seemingly morphed into an untouchable monster of a machine that no one dare point at let alone face...
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