Let’s Talk Womanhood…3.31.15

What is Womanhood? The question hangs over the head of our daughters with anxious anticipation. The youthful mind dividing itself into sections of experience: first date, first love, marriage, and children. We split ourselves into portions and gamble off pieces that do not fit. We grow old and still we find this question lingering against the frontal lobe of our minds, and occupying the mental space of our thoughts. “What is Womanhood?” It is a question we believe can be answered inside the quite deception tugging away at the purchase of cigarettes, the buying of liquor, the entering of the club scene or the mixing of our flesh with another’s. What does it mean to truly become a woman?

It has never been so exciting to ponder these questions in a time such as now. In just two weeks, together we’ll get to experience the questions themselves, and like short poems that tease our taste buds with instant melody, how delicious is the involvement.

This is not just a collection of poetry, but of inspirational quotes, and raw experience. It is the story of her.

Her Love. Her Man. Her Children. Her Womanhood.

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Copyright ©2015.Yecheilyah

Available 3.31.15.
theliterarykorner.com

Stella: Book #1

Born: 1845
Owner: Paul Saddler
ID: 637
Name: Stella
Height: 44.0
Sex / Age: Girl, 6

Mama says my feet ain’t little girls feet. Say I shouldn’t be akin like no boy. But I likes running and the way my toes feel wiggling through the mud. I likes the gooey wetness, even the way the red dirt taste too. And I watch the little dusty balls go up in the air and cover up the cotton I was too short to reach anyways. So’s I likes running through the fields to see how high I’s get. One time I’s made it wheres I touched the sun. It wasn’t even hot either. It didn’t feel like nothing but air. I told mama the sun was tricking us.

 
“And how it do that?”

 
“Cuz mama, I touched it and it ain’t burn my finger none. It feels hot but it ain’ts really.”

 
Mama laughed but that’s only cuz she ain’t touched it. And the next day all of us had sticky skin, peeling and sweaty like creepy crawlers running down our backs and foreheads. The grown people say something bout a heat wave, but yesterday mama laughs so’s I know’d it was jest the sun.

1864
Stella Mae, Age: 19

Words can’t explain my excitement. For the first time since befoe Mama died I was actually happy to finish the last of the chores. I think even Ole Marse Saddler noticed it. He commanded me to wipe that ugly smile offa my face. Said nobody’s ugly as me deserved to smile, but I didn’t care none. I’s jest couldn’t stop feelin good. I was ‘bout to leave this place.

– Stella

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Available 2/24/15 @ $7.00

Stella never did leave the Saddler Plantation as she intended. Find out why in Book #1 of this short story and discover what’s really between slavery and freedom.

Book #1 Available in print February 24, 2015.

Reading – The Write Way

tumblr_lhiimg18wx1qcf1klMy first love was Mildred D. Taylor. It was the sixth grade, and I was Smitten for Stacey, Cassie, and the whole Logan gang in the classic “Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry”. I realized then my love for African American literature, history and culture. The sharecropping family had snagged at the core of my heartstrings and had me feigning for every Taylor book ever written. I went on to court “The Road to Memphis, “Let the Circle Be Unbroken”, “Mississippi Bridge” and all the others. It wasn’t a conscious thought of mine that I was coming to love reading. That literature caught my eye and curved my wanting into a lovesick smile. Didn’t occur to me that I’d found an inner itch only scratch-able through the deciphering of words on a page. Clearly I was hooked, spending more and more time at school libraries, showing favoritism toward my English school teachers, and carrying home a grocery store bag of books at a time.

 

reading-infoReading, what is its connection to writing? I’m not a literacy expert so I don’t have any fancy advice to give you. But I do know my love for reading fed my love for writing. I got lost in the world of the authors and their writing became an automatic mimicking on my part. Almost just as instant as I’d fallen for reading I fell for writing. It is almost inherent that a love for reading will eventually lead to a love for writing. Eventually I wanted to be the architect behind the words. I wanted to be the illustrator behind the way the sky looked, how tall the buildings were and what dress Doris decided she’d wear today, or if she would wear a dress at all. I was introverted and reading and writing provided an avenue of self-discovery and speech. And so I sat down at the table, and I painted words on a page.

 

social-readingI can’t imagine giving students advice on writing, without a lecture on how important it is that they read. It is possible to develop a longing for the writing process without having a love for reading at first, but it is my opinion that in order to grow and to nurture this longing, the student must attempt to develop a love for reading. It is not research that teaches one how to write novels and screenplays. It is not fancy degrees and hours of lecture time. Higher education surely helps, but it is not the focal point of learning how to mentally process what it means to write. Reading is in my opinion, the write way. When you sit down to read a book, you’re not just lost in the story, but you are taking in the way that writer is building his world. You learn how to structure dialogue, setting, and character development to name a few, all just by reading. School teaches us the techniques, the mechanics of writing; school teaches us to be conscious of things like mood and tone, but this is not the first time we are introduced to it. Higher Education teaches us to be consciously aware of these things, but we begin using them far before organized instruction. I’ll give you a real life example:

When I was a junior in High School, my AP Lit professor gave us an assignment where we had to write a series of poems using varying poetic techniques, such as imagery for example. When I got my paper back, what caught my attention is a little note from the teacher that read: “Great use of Alliteration!”  It caught my attention because I didn’t even know what that was. Alliteration is basically the repetition of words with the same consonant sound occurring closely together such as: “But a better butter makes a better batter.”

Reading-2But I didn’t know this back then, nor was it ever taught to me. I had to look inside of a dictionary for the meaning of Alliteration because I had never heard of it before, yet I used it here. I used it because it is possible that I read it and picked up on it. As a matter of fact, with all the books I read prior High School I am sure I read it somewhere, and thus stored it in my mental capacity, which I became consciously aware of by way of organized schooling. I still have that paper today and every now and again I look back on my teachers remark for inspiration.

One can surely write their thoughts on a page, but the basics of how to format these thoughts come from reading and learning from others who have already done it. Anyone can take ideas from the head and transcribe them, but to create an entire reading (of whatever form) based solely on desire without having read the works of others, I cannot imagine it. Reading is indeed, the write way.

The Best and Worst of Times

Tale-of-Two-Cities

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season for Light, it was the season for Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…”

I am sure Charles Dickens’s “A Tale of Two Cities” didn’t have my thoughts in mind when it opened with this paragraph. Yet, as I read it, I cannot help but to stop and to ponder how it closely describes today. Not today as it is personal to the individual. Not today as in going to work, going to school or other miscellaneous routines to which we have sculpted our clocks to mimic. Not even today in the sense of any hint of parallel or extreme depth. I’m not even talking about the constructs of the book at all really. I’m not a fan of Dickens, but I love imagery in writing. I love being able to read a description that is so tasteful that it can be compared to something completely outside of its own identity and still make sense. This excerpt is that description, while the synopsis of the book has nothing to do with it. I’m sure any writer can take something insignificant and make use of it in other situations. And as such this small piece stood out to me, making me stop to ponder and to meditate on its relation to today. Not even the entire paragraph captured me but this part did, separating itself as a reminiscence of the world surrounding us. A mixture of light and darkness. Of hope and despair. Of truth and deception. Of redemption and condemnation. It is a wonderful time but a terrible time at the same time. Indeed, we are somewhere between movement and stillness.

The Invisible Woman

413abs_by_ileanahunter-d6ax21i

November, 2001

The dust particles flying from the duster floated slowly off the boxes, strangely reminiscent of the worst terrorist attack to occur in the United States. Each set seemed to align themselves parallel to the others, and tilting dangerously off the Brooklyn Brownstone as if to mock her. The coming of dawn splashed its hint of shadow off the dull cardboard, distorting its true image. They were taller it seemed, and almost menacing. The woman looked on sadly, fastening its flaps, tucking them one inside the other. It was safer this way, but still she took a step, and rested her bottom against the course concrete as if finding a foundation strong enough to hold all of her baggage. That’s when she saw it, its pages flapping quickly in the wind almost blowing the book off the steps; she caught it, along with a strange feeling with how her arm had extended itself in rescue. It had only been two months and she was intrigued to find that Ellison had read her mind. No, she did not believe he was an invisible man; she instead was prepared to insist he was a mind reader. The only other explanation available to explain his knowledge of her departed state was if he was talented enough to take her heart and contextualize it in ways that even she could not. Of course now she understood that Ralph Ellison was neither mind reader nor genius. Like a mirror that penetrates the souls of the invisible, she could easily see herself in a similar situation. The neighborhood had gone on as it always had; the people continued in their routine way and it made her angry, how could they? “To the mall!” she says. “To the workplace!” he shouts. They move about, “To the city!” they shout. But there is no city, and there is no mall. There is no workplace, there is only darkness. What’s everybody so happy about? Nothing was the same and she was utterly alone. Why was that so hard for them to understand? She has tried to make them aware that their journeys were in vain, but she has been pushed over. She has been blocked. She has been ignored. They have walked right through her, and for a split second they’ve become one with her, but only to come out on the other end and still they cannot see. None ever noticing that she has just pushed against them, and burned the top of their flesh with her light. Cymbalta wasn’t helping much either. But that’s because she is invisible. It is she they cannot see.

Candy wrappers and Anthrax warned Newspaper clippings loiters the sidewalk in front of her, and the screaming engines of cars sped by in a desperate attempt to escape the moment for the one at the corner, shattering the woman’s thoughts and calling her attention away from the book. And as the brisk November wind rattled angrily against her blouse, she disregarded the unopened mail laying idly on top the brown boxes. Inside, the small sirens going off seemed to rattle the cordless resting comfortably on the sofa like tiny explosions.

“Yea?”
She was sick with exhaustion with the interviews and radio shows, and journalist thirsty phone calls that promised never to bring her husband back, just a hot story. It’s not like they were really talking to someone anyway. She had never been around a group of people who enjoyed talking to themselves so much.
“I don’t think so”, she annoyingly spoke into the receiver before hanging up at the sound of a trucks engine; the movers were here. “Great”, she said exasperated, managing to make it out the door. She was going to be late…again.

She Rebels

Lucas-Namuramba-Ebony-Queen

Soft kisses and warm hugs is what she gets from men.
Hot dates and perfume smells, but from truth she rebels.
An emotional roller coaster ride he takes her…
every so often they visit this amusement park.
And she wants to cringe when he grabs hold of her but instead of listening to herself
she listens to her heart.
Unwanted lips kissing her face and she takes it all in stride
afraid to admit her mistakes because of her pride.
Soft kisses turn into sloppy kisses
and warm hugs turn into feelings so hard and cold you’d think they were milk mugs.
Hot dates she no longer wants to take
but her financial status is at stake.
No more Christian Dior, Stephanie Taylor or Dolce Gabbana because she’s known on the streets as being his hottest baby mama
so she rebels.
Refusing to follow directions like a sterile sperm cell alone she cannot fertilize
this she soon realize
so she turns back to what she often refers to as hell.
She can’t understand what has happened to the warm hugs and innocent smells, yet she rebels.
He has painted her face with his fist,
multicolor on its sides
Sharpening his nails to cut her thighs’ and insides
but she laughs it off in stride
afraid to admit her mistakes because of her pride.
Excuses upon excuses she is determined to sell, so she rebels.
Convinced this is the last time she
runs to the nearest store praying her favorite make-up is on sale.
But she looks good though!
Driving his Lamborghini
shades on windows down, saying to herself “I know you see me!”
Blasting Jay-Z she agrees, “I can’t leave this alone the game needs me!”
So she endures the nightly screams of “Please don’t beat me!”
Attempting to open her eyes, Truth tries but she refuses to see.
Months and months have passed, and she’s lying in a place filled with screams and death mail.
Truth’s flowers she now wants to smell but her obituary has come too early,
so to the dirt,
she Rebels.