Like a fist full of light
and the sun is going down
Write
Like your life is on the line
And you got something
to die for.
Tag: write
Something Genuine
The door to the patio is open, and the screen door shields me from the insects that I may enjoy the brisk caress of the wind on my skin. And as I inhale the fresh taste of the evening air, enjoying the end of a peaceful day, I think about the genuine that often come from writing. You’d have to excuse the poetic tone of this post. It’s my thinking voice I suppose. The one I use when I’m writing this down in my journal before typing it, twirling the pen between my fingers and tapping it against my lips while staring out in space. Anyway, back to something genuine. To think back on my own writing or to read someone else’s, I feel often that there’s a realness here. Somewhere between the heart and spilled ink is an authenticity few will express verbally. Something about speaking without moving our lips causes us to speak the truth of our hearts. Something about writing it down instead brings about a depth. Something about the movement of mental messaging brings out the emotional intensity many will not express otherwise. I wonder if this is why writing is often associated with therapy. For what is not spoken is often written. Not that everyone writes for such a purpose, but it is historical that writing is an exercise that has caused many to heal or to reveal or stumble upon truths otherwise unknown or not dealt with. Something about how the subconscious mind is uprooted when we write. It is an interesting thought I sought to share before the memory or moment escaped me. Speaking of escape, it’s time I publish this post and retire this laptop for the night. I’ve got laundry to finish and this breeze sure feels good.
Why I Write Black
Because flowers grow in strange places
like tattered pieces of wood and recycled paper
Because history is frost bitten
and winter refuses to be comforted by the sun
bluish-white and numbed pain
cold skin
and prickling feeling
Because the sky don’t stay dark forever
but light ain’t taught in history class
Because some skirts
are too heavy
to lift without permission
Because Dust Tracks on The Road
was subtracted 3 chapters
Because some truths
are too big to sacrifice
on American alters
Because Zora died broke
and Nina died sad
Because their voices still sing
Because strange fruit still swings
Because ignorance is worth more than rubies
and diamond gems
Because no one has picked up the pieces
of truth
underneath the ruble
of bombed out churches
on 16th streets
Because little girls ain’t little girls no more
but crushed bones
and melted skin
a strike of disobedience
against premeditated sin
Because hope is stronger than despair
Because freedom is worth more
than all the
raisins in the sun
When Inspiration Comes
I thought of you this morning and knew that you would come. I thought to write about you then, but I tend to learn all too late that there is a time and place even for thoughts; a succession of images and ideas, some brighter than the others. Some wait patiently for me to notice the size and shape of their existence, while others show up between the colors of rainbows after the rain. Shiny pieces of ambition threatening to either cut or spark curiosity amidst the heart, causing it to act. Action, it is what I demand of these visions both beautiful and stubborn alike. They must all remember that while I love them, dreams and realities are opposites and only action makes them whole. Offer me not death on a silver platter, champagne taste against beer breath. The motivation to be inspired, it always comes at a price. In what way will I choose to spend this currency of influence now upon me? These fragile ideas of ours, this soaring hope, it must be handled carefully. Dare I let the concept of failure steal away my beating heart? When the inspiration comes, I know that it will either bend or break at my command, which will I choose?
Memoir Sample – The Aid Office
Our family survived off welfare and from that end I know it to be helpful. It was however, a possessive lover. In Robert Taylor, no one’s father was present since their mother’s couldn’t receive welfare with them. But not that men weren’t present; their existence was obvious since the projects themselves overflowed with innocence. Thousands of children the byproduct of casual sex, and drive by love pieced together somehow between the cracks of the doors left open by the ladies from the welfare office, who searched everywhere but the crack of your buttocks to ensure it wasn’t present. So the men were around, fathers of children who knew them as nothing more than the Ray Ray’s and Big Mikes of the block. Men who sort of hung out on the corners or underneath the beds of open women, too filled with desire and dreams to deny a no-good-man a place between her legs. So the kids kept coming, the men kept leaving, and the welfare office remained packed. And if it, the Welfare, sensed anything positive had taken place, even if it was a new hairstyle, they needed to know from where the money had come, how much was it and how often was it around so they may deduct that amount from the meager rations they were already giving out. It didn’t matter if it was a jar of peanut butter or a new hat, if it was expected to come from an additional money source, it would be calculated and deducted from the monthly government assistance.
If she was found to have a man living with her, whether he worked or not, she could lose her money altogether. Not only was my father not around, but my Uncle had to make a covenant with the closet when the social worker came by. You see, a man’s presence was a threat to the relationship between a woman and her government. Thus the poor were required to remain so in the buildings if they desired to receive the little nothings they were receiving from Welfare. If they showed any sense of pride that required a level of discretion at what we commonly referred to as, “The Aid-Office”, it was as if the clerk had been instructed to repeat their business louder than the person obviously desired over the intercom so that the entire room could hear it; this made it extremely embarrassing to visit the office.
If by any chance the women wanted a divorce by acquiring some fancy job, the government made sure to snatch away all its benefits so that she is better off to remain part of the relationship than to do away with it. What use is a “good job” when she can’t afford to pay the rent if it increases because of her salary? Or what use is a “good job” when she can no longer receive Medicaid for children who are constantly bleeding from the violence of their environment? This is a place where children used garbage dumps as a playground. What use is it, of a “good job”, when she can no longer receive food stamps as a means to feed her children? It is thus better for her to stay married, financially, to the system than to get a “good job” that leaves her just over broke and in the same situation as she started out as. Marriage? Out the question, she can lose her benefits by daring to marry her children’s father—she wasn’t allowed to have one in the home, let alone marry him. Needless to say, the system divided more than it brought together, and was quite jealous and possessive of its lover, the Black Woman.
– Concrete Children: Life Inside the Robert Taylor Projects
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I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still in the infancy stages of understanding memoir writing, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice.
The worst enemy to creativity
…and quitting.
The “N Word”: A Wake-Up Call
Many of you have probably already noticed that I have no problem using the “N Word” on this blog. You have probably asked yourself why, “Surely she understands it’s history..?” Of course I do.
I figured since Obama just used it, which means it’s fresh in your minds, this is a good time to talk about it.
Here’s the thing:
Words have meaning. They are not idle and do not exist just because, but words always have and always will have meaning. In a recent post, I discussed the many titles placed upon black people in the attempt to define their nationality. I used words like Black, African (or Afro) American, Colored, Negro and I threw Nigger in there too. These are all bywords and proverbs and mockeries placed on us throughout our history here. They are proverbs and mockeries because they do not define who we are. (Duet. 28:37).
Logically speaking, all emotion aside, I’m going to put this as real as I only know how. Just as words are not idle, action is not either. Every thought, and every action means something. If you want people to stop using “The N Word”, then stop acting like niggas. Stop degrading yourself and your people by accepting ratchet behavior and slave like mentalities. When you know something is wrong and you continue to do it, that is disobedient behavior and only niggas and thugs and hood rats are disobedient. Stop accepting mediocrity and then calling it racism. Now I am no fool, I know there are tons of Europeans who use this word with every intent of harnessing the spirit of slavery. This is why it hits hard with blacks because people feel it in their spirit, and in their bones, that the tone in which some use it is a mere shadow, a reflection, of the generational racism in which many have been raised. Time doesn’t matter, there are still white people who are racist and they don’t want to admit it. I understand that. But not all of our white brothers and sisters are racist, we need to understand that too.
Everyone must be held accountable for their actions and the results they incur. If a slave is released from his chains and yet he stays in the same spot, then you cannot blame the slave master if the slave refuses to free himself. If you want other people to stop making mockery of you then show them a different you. I’m not saying bigotry is OK, for racism and discrimination has never left the fabric of America and that is hard for some people to believe. But as for us, to be given something different you have to show something different. I don’t call my friends niggas and my girlfriends are not my bitches. In addition, I refer to my people as brothers and sisters unless they have otherwise shown me something different. I give respect to those I love and to people who have shown me respect.
When I said, in a recent post, “We will not be niggas too much longer“, I meant that we will no longer exhibit wild and disobedient behavior; we will not rob and steal and oppress one another. The Pookies and Ray-Ray’s will rise to be the prophets and priests they were chosen to be and their names no longer associated with wildness but with the fear that is respect and the strength that comes along with it. That is what it means to no longer be niggas. Not that everyone will erase the N word from their vocabularies and racism will magically disappear.
I’ll end with this: a person cannot change his name if he wishes not to also change his actions. The whole purpose of name changes is to exhibit the characteristics of this new name, thereby becoming a new person. If you want to get rid of the “N Word”, you have to first get rid of the behavior associated with it and this cannot be done by always placing the blame on someone else. In the words of Carter G. Woodson:
“When you control a man’s thinking you do not have to worry about his actions. You do not have to tell him not to stand here or go yonder. He will find his proper place and will stay in it. You do not need to send him to the back door. He will go without being told. In fact, if there is no back door, he will cut one for his special benefit. His education makes it necessary.”
– Carter G. Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro
The PBS Blog 