Frustration Killed the Revolutionaries

Today's Dictionary.com word of the day is "copacetic," an adjective meaning very satisfactory or fine. Dictionary.com is the the first widget I put on my phone because I wanted to have more words within arm's reach of my thoughts, which are quickly outgrowing my vocabulary. Truth is, we develop vocabulary through conversation and the discussion of our thoughts, which isn't a popular practice anymore. Intellectual dialogue has been sacrificed to keep everyone in a false, copacetic state of existence. Notice I didn't say life. I'm honestly not sure that most of us have ever experienced the fullness of life. We simply aren't willing to fight for it. But we don't want to talk about that. And if we don't talk about it, we don't hurt anyone, right? Well...

I found myself openly crying last night in front of a close friend. I didn't feel embarrassed about it, but the tears weren't necessarily for me; they were for everybody who didn't know they should be crying for themselves...because we don't talk about it. I have come to accept that I'm supposed to be doing something in life much bigger than my current job. I simply care too much about educating and helping the youth in this country to take it back from the hands that only want to run it into the ground. I want us to have a voice again. I want us to TALK ABOUT IT! Our silence is retarding our children, so we should put talking at the top of our agendas.

Aren't we moved by anything anymore? Are our homes really that great? Is the liquor really that potent? Is the kool-aid really that syrupy that we volunteer to drink it down now? Should we trust anyone to leave change in any hands other than our own?

I'm at a point where I'm so frustrated with my people that I shed tears. I'm sad for the youth being brainwashed with "no hands," and the thrill of a drug life that is force fed to us by an uncaring media. I'm sad that we still kill each other over sneakers. I'm sad that we embrace Tyler Perry films and plays more than we do documentaries about the state of the country in which we exist. I'm sad we don't know what it means to live. I'm sad that we don't thrive. I'm sad about the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial, built by an Asian and sculpted more in the likeness of a dictator than a revolutionary. I'm sad that we always leave Malcolm X out of the conversation, when we have a conversation. I'm sad Barack Obama is called a "nigger" everyday without the word "nigger" (publicly) spoken; I'm mad that we haven't marched about it. I'm sad no one talks about education. WHY AREN'T WE TALKING ABOUT EDUCATION? I want to do something about it...I want all of us to do something about it.

And as I cried, my friend talked to me about the frustration she sees in me...all the time. I couldn't argue. Once you open yourself up to the idea that things could be different, you break hinges. Nothing shuts. You can't just settle for "good enough." It's almost like you connect with times in the past where people understood that life could be full of opportunities...an were willing to work for them. In 2011, we seem to believe the VH1 shows...we believe that's reality...and that because a few of us have cars, houses, and easy sex, and don't mind throwing around the word "bitch" as if it doesn't send a huge message of self-disdain, that we've "arrived"! If we have arrived, where the hell are we? Where are all the revolutionaries?

Dead. Killed by the frustration of being the only ones who give a damn. Buried by generations who think their visions to be nothing more than idealism. Mourned by no one but the bodies their spirits haunt...or waiting to be inspired. Oh well...no time to cry...I have a lot of work to do...

Baldwin, Bruce, and Borders

When I found out that Borders was closing its doors for good, I thought about the abstract to my master's thesis. You think it could have been partially my fault? If so, I owe them one hell of an apology...one day.  ENJOY!

      

          One Sunday after church, I stopped by a local Border’s bookstore to purchase graduation gifts for a few of my students who accepted leadership positions in a college preparatory program I teach.  I thought of the many great pieces of literature I had read throughout my secondary and post secondary school years and decided they would be the perfect gifts for such promising young people.  Among these was my favorite book, If Beale Street Could Talk, by James Baldwin.  Forgetting that I was not in Barnes and Nobles, I headed for the section of the store marked “Literature.”  In Barnes and Nobles, literature of all kinds is alphabetized by author.  I was not in Barnes and Nobles, however, so when I went to the “Literature” section and didn’t find Baldwin among the “B’s,” I stood confused.  After spending quite some time making sure I wasn’t losing my mind or my grasp of the alphabet, I headed for the “Information” desk. 

            I waited my turn and asked a timid White teenager where Baldwin might be.  He pointed to the right and said, “In African-American literature, ma’am.”  After recovering from the initial shock of appearing old enough to be called ma’am, I followed the direction of “junior’s” bony finger until I found the small secluded section marked “African-American Literature.”  I stood appalled.  Literary geniuses like Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Morrison were intermingled with titles and cover art depicting sex, drug use, “street life,” and tired clichés.  Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Invisible Man sat next to The Rolexxx Club, The Bitch is Back Part 3, Forever a Hustler’s Wife, and Gold Diggers.  In addition, a nice black sign that read, “Titles may contain mature content. Parental supervision advised,” graced the shelves. 

Did the sign African-American Literature mean literature written by Black writers or for Black readers?  Was the store organized in such a way that only those seeking insight into Black America would congregate around this section?  If that is so, is this how mainstream American culture views Black America – mature content and explicit topics?  My dismay quickly became offense.  African-Americans, a heterogeneous racial group in America, are marginalized by greater society, which is no new news to me.  The reach of the marginalization, however, is offensive.  Our literary classics have not been wholly adapted into American culture; in many markets, we still reside on the fringe of literature because of the hyphenated tag “African-American.” 

            Why, in 2008 and among the mounds of academia that many Blacks have contributed to American culture, is this still so?  Will Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Wright ever be officially canonized into American literary culture and placed into the “Literature” section of every bookstore beside other classics?  There is a difference between Baldwin and Zane, an African-American New York Times Bestselling author.  Their Black skin should not bind them together on the shelves.  Could it be that the mainstream culture’s view of African-American culture is so strong that it influences members of the Black community to ignore the sector of African-American literature that does not reinforce the widely-accepted, pre-conceived notions held therein?  Or is it that African-Americans create the perfect context for marginalization by embracing the stereotypical attributes of their culture instead of the meditative, speculative legacy of their rich literary and academic culture? Unfortunately, I believe the latter. I left Borders with a heavy mind and burning desire to figure out how such a travesty could be allowed to occur in a community known for fighting for equal regard, treatment, and consideration in this country?   How could popular African-American literature moved from the infinite realms of thought in intellectual arenas to the finite circles of book clubs? How could we allow it?

Narcoleptic Nightmares

One week he crossed the line, talking about how much he thinks about the random reckless act of idiocy we committed three years ago. The next week he was back to reality, acting like what he said was normal and telling me he was narcoleptic; I was mad I cared. I even sent him an email expressing my concern. That's the dumb side of me. I can't turn off my concern for people, even when they show me it isn't necessary because they don't care either way.

Men often let themselves "off the emotional hook," and act like there is no such thing as taking responsibility for what happens when they open their mouths. His defense when I confronted him about what he said was, "I didn't know you would take that so seriously..." Seriously dude?

Do you really think changing the subject to your health problems wasn't going to allow me to question your intentions when you verbally vomited your "in-the-moment" feelings all over the front seat of my car? Or was I just supposed to think that because you have elsewhere obligations that you're allowed to play with the single girl who writes the interesting stories because...she writes, so she understands fiction? Yeah...I know...I'm, you know, "too serious..." Whatever... I'm always crystal clear with my desires, and I'm not one to have those played with by anyone. Why would you light the fuse of a fire cracker and then act surprised because she had the nerve to explode? Seems kind of stupid to me.

My frustration gives birth to nothing but more frustration, however. Men always win. There's always a woman waiting in the wings. Their minds allow so much distraction during a typical day full of their own issues and problems that there's no room to think about how their actions affect the insignificant people in their lives. I understand this now, so I'm placing all this at the feet of the culprit and walking away. I accept that he will not follow me... AND NOW THE TOAST...

...I lift this mug of moroccan mint tea to "amazing, radioactive" you. I'm glad one of us can retreat to the sweet bed of memory without wishing for the chance to do things differently - to show some self-respect and not send the message that it's okay to be treated like a fleeting fantasy with no substance. Knowing what I know now, I would definitely have done things differently. I would have signed out my email and pretended I didn't know you for a while. I wouldn't have shared my thoughts or writing with you. But there's nothing we can do about that now...so I'm letting myself off the hook for caring for you a little too much. Not that it was love, or anything close, but even the little bit of the damn I gave was too taxing...

Sweet Dreams...

The "YUA-YAU" Conundrum



I HAVE BEEN SPELL-CHECKED!!

I can only imagine the anxiety people feel when they have to spell my name...all by themselves. Oh, how the beads of sweat must swell immediately upon realizing that there are far too many "wrong" letters in my name for its proper pronunciation. "Is it 'T-y-u-a-n-a' or 'T-y-a-u-n-a'?" Let's see if we can talk the problem through.

Okay...we all understand the "T," but why the "y"? "T-i" would have produced the sound necessary to comprise the first syllable of my name. Other words and names employ this method. "Tiara," for example, has such a nice ring to it (and I'm talking about a crown not a little girl's name). And everyone knows how to pronounce it. Then theres the "u"? Why is it even there? The "a" can (seemingly) stand alone to get the job done. The rest of the name is understandable ("n-a," as in "banana"), but to outsiders my mother used six letters (two of which seem unnescessary) to accomplish a goal that five could have done better.

WELL, PEOPLE...ONCE AND FOR ALL...MY NAME HAS VALUE AND A UNIQUELY AMERICAN FLAVOR ABOUT IT. No one ever said the English language is for the weak. America is full of situational changes and, as a result, so is English. Why find fault because of obvious literacy gaps? : -) Let's learn something new! Let's start!

Argument 1: "Tyauna" could have just as easily been "Tiana." That's true. I would have had no complaints about pronunciation because "t-i" makes people think of "tiara," and "t-y" makes people think of "Tyrone." Well...here's an English lesson for all the skeptics. "T-y" is more often pronounced like "tiara" than "t-i" ever is in the dictionary. Most of the time "t-i" is pronounced like "Tyrone."

Consider "tire," "tie," "tiny," "titanium," "tiger," and "tight," just to name a few. Now...it's not like you don't see words like "tyrant," "type," and "tycoon," but you also see words like "party, " "liberty," and "city." If you can accept and pronounce those words, why not "TYAUNA" ?

Argument 2: When letters fall in different positions of a word, different rules apply. Because the letters "t-y" are placed at the end of the word, there are different rules at play than when they are placed at the beginning. LET'S EXAMINE ENGLISH RULES. Well...as a word part, "t-i" undergoes pronunciation and positional changes that are automatically accepted, but still don't necessarily make sense. At the end of a word, "t-i" is pronouced "sh," as in "shun." Think about it. "Lotion." "Nation." "Action." Hell...even "pronunciation." My name creates a new rule for the letter combination "t-y." I know what you're thinking...I'm bending the rules to fit my own purposes. Well...you didn't say that to "TYRONE"! If "t-i" at the end can make a different sound when at the beginning, then all "rules" are negotioable. (Read it twice and figure that one out later! : - )

To settle this matter, I offer this solution. Learn my name and embrace it. I'll even help you. Here goes:

LiberTY + AUNt + A = TYAUNA.

The "YUA-YAU" conundrum is solved. It could be worse. In order to achieve precise pronuciation, my mother could have spelled my name TEEAWNUH to avoid all confusion. If she had done that, however, she would have been supporting me for the rest of her life because there is no way I would have been able to get a job. (Laughing out loudly...but not really...)

Real Talk Chronicles: Epistle 1 - Ghost Mothers of Ex Lovers

Dear Cold & Cruel King of Your Castle:

I was logical when I met you. I let you mess all that up for me because I fell for the same "it-could-happen-to-you" bs as other women who believe in smooth-talking men with panty-dropping ambitions. I loved you, but you were never worth that much of my attention. If only I could have seen it back then, when my heart was only semi-hardened, and I still believed in soul mates. Perhaps I wouldn't be spilling this letter on virtual pages for no one to read or take seriously. Maybe I would have been married by now instead of in disbelief of the entire institution and the possibility that I will ever find someone to love me deeply...without reservation. You sold me a dream, I brought it with hope, and now there's a no-refund policy on all the worthless emotion I've invested in your selfish, self-centered ways. I guess we both played our parts...well.

Your mother was a part of my insistence despite your obvious resistance as well. I got the sense that she really liked me. I respected her and would have loved the opportunity to have more conversations with her, but you and I broke up, so I was never allowed direct access again. And one night, shortly after I finally got the nerve to tell you to go to hell (after a year of you not letting me go, even though you were in love with and very close to marrying someone else), I had a dream about her. I never told you that. In the dream, she called and invited me to a party so you and I could talk. And when I got there, I found you with your new woman - she on your lap and you with your hand between her legs. I hated all three of you at that moment, but I went looking for her. I never found her before I woke up.

About a week later...the phone rang and it was you...telling your your mother had died and asking me to come to the funeral...where I came face-to-face with your new woman and your mother...in a very real, very different way. I believed (up until about a week ago) that the dream was her way of telling me something. Stupidly I thought she was trying to open up communication between the two of us...maybe even get us back together. It has taken me five years to realize that she wasn't telling me anything. IT WAS JUST A DREAM...but me in my "everything-happens-for-the-reason-I-want" frame of mind kept on believing.

Through clear eyes I see she took the best of you with her, and the only thing I was meant to see was that. You don't even remember me; I'm working on returning the favor.

Because you will never read this (as you are too busy tweeting and drinking), I realize I have wasted my time, but better I do it to myself than to let you continue to do so. I hold no well wishes for you; I do not forgive you, but I will try a little everyday to forgive myself for ever believing in your humanity and attempting to love you once you showed me you didn't desire it. No soul mates here; no soul mates ever.

Regards...but not high ones,

The Ice Cold Experience

You (My Drug of Choice)

Another Andraya Arrington creation. Thank you!

Enter detox...

to make the addiction go away, it must be confronted.

Sometimes
it has a face you used to kiss and enjoy
hands that used to smack you
or make you too uncomfortable to sleeparms
that used to embrace...sometimes

a lying mouth that led you astray
told you things you wanted to hear; none you really needed
a furrowed brow you caused to do so...sometimes

Sometimes
it bites
pinches
kicks your insides
makes you nauseated.

When you don't choose an acceptable poison
your only choice is the reality of it all -
you wasted the only life you'll ever have chasing a dream
that wasn't yours to see...

To make it go away...it...must...be...confronted...

The Consequence of Mind Games



Me...before I learned
 the mind games. : - )

 Regardless of how proud my family is of what I've done with my life, my education hinders having a significant relationship with them. I'm not ashamed to be smart. Sometimes I feel like I was born to pay attention; people who don't pay attention to behaviors they don't like are bound to repeat them. I saw a lot of things in my life that I hope never to relive in any way...so I paid attention, read, wrote, talked to others, listened to them and tried to help the pain I felt growing up in a home that was silent ...except for all the yelling that solved nothing. I'm not proud to say I still yell too much, and I'm angry about a lot of things. I'm trying to move forward, and it's hard to do that on my own. Regardless of how much I pray about something, it helps me to talk about things with the people at the root of the problem. This is a problem in itself, however, especially when they don't believe they have done anything "wrong" and that my intentions are to "control their minds with my superior intelligence." LOL! But I'm serious...

A perfect example is what happened with my father. See if you can follow this interesting branch on my family tree. The man I call my father is actually my stepfather. When he and my mother married, he probably thought I had more to gain than he. I am, after all, the product of (to quote my mother) a "junkie." Yesterday was the first time I ever heard her say this. I knew my sperm donor was a hustler, womanizer, coward, liar, selfish momma's boy and all-around deadbeat, among many other things. To hear him called a "junkie," however, gave me a feeling of finality that I never felt before. There is no helping a junkie. Their addiction and the selfishness and self-centeredness that comes along with it leave no room for help because a junkie believes everyone else is the problem. My junkie sperm donor believes me and my mother are the problem...so that's the end. I guess I'll see him at the next Bruce family funeral...and eventually...at his own. But I digress...

My father (stepfather) is nothing like him. He is a fairly intelligent man, which I considered a gift. Finally someone to talk to about things that mattered to me. Perhaps he could understand me...help me. What I found, however, is that he thinks I'm "runnin' game" when I try to tell him about the things that bother me. Even though he is a great man, he is overbearing and not very open to experiences that do not fit into his personal philosophy of how life should be. He is quietly judgemental, usually voicing his diapproval in his tone and/or word choice. It's aggressive and whenever possible, I avoid talking to him about issues that would cause us to disagree. It angers me that someone who has "seen so much of the world" can be so close-minded and defensive.

I couldn't avoid him yesterday, though. My mother told him I wanted to talk to them about a very important decision I had to make for my future. She lied. I didn't want to talk to them about the decision because I really didn't want their opinions. My parents don't understand letting their feet dangle. They're security nuts, like most parents. They don't understand that every child has his/her own motivations, dreams and ambitions. They don't understand me in general, which I accept. I have no other choice because they are done growing...and as long as God is pleased with what they do, they couldn't care less for anyone else's opinion (I say that with a tone of uneasiness). Anyway, I feel like I got suckered into talking to them about what I plan to do and my father, with his usual tone of "the smartest man in the world," says something along the lines of  Okay. If that's your decision, you have to deal with the consequences of it. This was a powerplay, and it pissed me off. He knew just what he was doing. As the "child' in the situation, I was just supposed to let it slide, but it pissed me off. Parents know that most obedient children hate to disappoint them. His tone was disappointment. He used the word "consequences." The word "consequences" carries such negative undertone. It connotes punishment; "rewards" is the word people use when they want to express positive outcomes. In church, you rarely hear a preacher say, "Embrace the consequences of following God." The undertone is all wrong. My mistake was telling my father this. I told him that the word "consequence" carried a negative undertone (and that meant he wasn't being supportive, but I didn't say that part). His response was to tell me I was playing mind games with him, and that I can't play him mentally. What? I'm talking language here, not psychology. That was the moment we lost each other. He didn't like me calling him on what he was doing and tried to place that blame on me. I hated that I ever came over. The conversation did not end well.

It was the education that hindered the communication. I guess I shouldn't have stood up to his bullying, but I wasn't going to be railroaded anymore, so I pushed back. And though he threw the first blow (mentally) he accused me of trying to play him (the second blow). Truth is, I have never had and never will have the power to play mind games with my parents. My mother worked hard to give me the education she knew I needed (though now I'm criticized for it); my father did some other man's job and helped to raise his kid. I owe them too much to ever have power enough to play them.

I guess I should just keep my education to my damn self. And from now on, I'll only discuss the "consequences" of living my life from the winner's circle.