Reality sets in...

Well...another literary magazine doesn't want my writing... How do I deal with this when all I want to do is write...? Guess I should just...keep writing.

Flying the Freak Flag

Funny how similar the entrances and exits look...

I got excited and dreamed aloud today. Don't worry...I was quickly brought back to earth with a well-meaning nudge . And even though I shouldn't have, I felt stupid afterward. These are the moments when I'm figuratively naked, looking in the mirror at the body my mother promised, and scrutinizing and pinching every inch. I hate this feeling.

All day long, I walk around like everyone else. Grounded. Hell, borderline defeated. Pretending to accept my fate like a lamb on the slab for slaughter. But that, honestly, isn't me. There's a world of possibility between my ears. Anything goes. I could get up from my desk, walk out the door, enter the parking lot, get in my car, and drive until I run out of gas...in my mind. In reality, I sit in a cubicle, drowning in the unrealistic expectations of others (because they don't want the responsibility of efficiency or effectiveness), feeling like a victim of bait and switch, listening to my radio stations on Pandora. That isn't the me I want to be.

I'd much rather indulge in all the possibilities inside. But we aren't exactly raised that way, are we? I guess having low to no expectations makes any small victory, any crumb of success appear as hearty as a club roll...and we thank God for giving us what we never expected to get ourselves. But what if we expected, even got excited, about our dreams? And I 'm not talking the well-composed adult dreams where our ducks are in a row, and we have resources to play with when the day is done. I'm talking about those out-there childhood dreams of owning a double-decker bus that also serves as a rolling pizzeria (this was my cousin's dream as a five-year-old. She also wanted to park the bus periodically to paint houses). What happens to those when the reality of human-implanted limitations sets in? Do we subconsciously begin to accept low-level losses? Begin to invest in the inevitable instead of the unexpected?

Consider this: the NOTORIOUS B.I.G.'s debut album was titled Ready to Die, and, evidently, there was nothing wrong with this in the eyes of BAD BOY ENTERTAINMENT or the label that backed it. It made a 24-year old who had limited experience with the world (and I mean as a planet) believe he had "seen it all," "done it all," and had nothing left to do with life put push it to the edge of reason. Party...and Bullshit! Party...and Bullshit! That was his dream (because it all was); now he was "ready to die"...on his debut album. Why didn't anyone stop calling him Big Poppa long enough to notice his predicament? Or did he one day have dreams of owning the block instead of hustling on it and someone close to him act as gravity to send him crashing down to earth with such force that he gave up on Catholic (or private) school altogether to become the "hip-hop legend" he's been marketed as since his death in 1997? Sometimes I wonder...if it wasn't so acceptable to turn each other into legends in death, would we focus on doing it in life?

It's all a matter of finding our entrances and exits, I suppose. My reality and greater reality aren't the same. It excites me to think I'm that woman that Eric Roberson is singing about in "SHE" and "Picture Perfect," even though I'd be hard pressed to find that in anyone's reality, especially mine. That doesn't stop me from believing there is some great guy who could actually fall in love with my mind or that I can write a new version of the great American novel and/or love story. I exit my march with the sheeple when I feel the inclination to sing the love songs to myself that others couldn't be bothered to sing. Or write a piece of flash fiction that a 20-year-old gushes over because she understands how moments shape a story while publishers reject me. I'm accepting it all.

This pensive, and sometimes brooding, overworked teacher is flying her freak flag, even if no one salutes.

Picture Perfect...

E. Ro. & I
before the concert

I went to a concert at the Birchmere Music Hall on October 5th. Eric Roberson LIVE. I have a flare for hyperbole, but I'm gonna say it anyway - it was the best concert I've ever been to. Better, even, than the Jill Scott concert I went to 10 years ago. It was intimate, entertaining, and enlightening.

He said if there's anything you want to do, you should. He was living proof that living one's dreams paid off. Man...did I need to hear that. I so very much want to get out of this rut I'm in. Break out is more like it. I still haven't written a book. I haven't traveled abroad. I HAVEN'T LIVED...

And I really, really want to...like...just drive and see where I end up. Travel Route 66 and eat and take pictures...and WRITE...about whatever. And listen to good music...music that makes me feel as beautiful, appreciated, and inspired by everyday life as E. Ro.'s music makes me feel. Or get on that plane to Italy, even if I have to do it alone. I'm smiling right now...at the mere thought of just being...and being left alone by all the other obligatory bullshit I find myself surrounded by.

I'm 30-years old. And I don't mind being 30 at all. When considering all the dumb things I've done in my 20's, I'm glad to leave that decade of learning the basics behind. But if I really want to leave it behind, I can't pick up any new issues that come along with this decade. Like believing I have to settle into domesticity because my eggs may evaporate. Or settle into a career path that makes me rage against a system resistant to change. Or lower my standards for companionship because of the sad statistics attached to my dark skin. My post-adolescent idealist phase isn't over yet, and though it helps me not buy into the crap with any decade or DNA coincidences, it needs more focus and fortification. It needs support. It needs me...to live.

Well...Eric Roberson and his willingness to be so human and honest is the reason I talked to him before and after the show. I'm happiest when I see that the mess that is my mind carries some validity. I'm happy when I see people happy to do what they love. I want to be in that number...and be able to keep a roof over my head. I don't want to choose between the two. So I guess the next step is to use my brain power to figure out how I don't have to choose...

In the meantime, I'll keep my inspiration up...starting by filling my ears and spirit with whatever it takes...like E. Ro.

"I couldn't draw you better, baby,

Neck was made for me to kiss on..."

Picture Perfect - Eric Roberson

E. Ro. & and I after the concert...
I was starstruck, but he's very human

Eric Roberson - Picture Perfect - October 5th at the Birchmere

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?

Adam's Apple

"Adam's Apple?"



Love how the plant on the inside
 is admiring the plant outside
and the plant outside
 is checking on the one inside.
Lady friends...



"What?"

"Adam's Apple. Women don't have Adam's Apples; only men have Adam's apples. The first night that you came to town, I noticed that you had yourself an Adam's Apple."

"Then...then you know?"

"I know that I'm very fortunate to have a lady friend who just happens to have an Adam's Apple."

-------------------------------------------

If you're a little lost, prepare to find yourself in the middle of one of the strangest, but curiously thought-provoking movies of the 90's - To Wong Foo (Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar). Patrick Swayze, Wesley Snipes, and John Leguizamo (all in drag) drive from NY to Hollywood to a national drag queen competition. Drama ensues (of course), none of which I'll get into here except the expected car failure. The car failure leads them into a small rural town reminscent of Tex Avery (in Ms. Vida's/Patrick Swayze's) opinion. There they meet a host of colorful characters, including Stockard Channing, brilliantly playing the role of the battered wife, Carol Ann. The quote from above came from Carol Ann, who Ms. Vida mistakenly assumed didn't know she was really a man in drag. It made me think about friendships among women.

When I was a high school teacher, I would cringe when I heard girls say they "didn't mess with females" because girls caused too much drama. They would rather hang around "dudes" because "dudes" weren't "with all the drama." It's a sad statement on so many levels, the most fundamental of them being that one would disregard an entire sex (and their own sex at that) because of popular (and ultimately self) perception.  

One of the best things about taking a new job is meeting new people. One, in particular, shed similar insight on this "female-on-female" criminal act of not trusting one's own sex. She said that women often judge others by what they do to others. Simply profound. And this made me want to pay homage to the women who play important roles in my life.

The first way I plan to pay them the utmost respect is by first acknowledging them as women. They are not "females," a title that offends me more than the word "bitch," but we'll save that for another post. The women who play important roles in my life deserve that much. The next point of tribute is to highlight how they contribute to my life as "lady friends," as dear Carol Ann calls Ms. Vida. It's a title that transcends being "girlfriends." Lady friends see each other beyond the many layers they put on. Lady friends ignore the "adam's apples" and hurt feelings. Lady friends appreciate and embrace one another's strengths and flaws. Lady friends rock!

I've already written about my lady friend with the bowling hand, and lifted a half-filled mug of orange juice to my friend since first grade. There will definitely be more to come...