By way of me

It has been about 4 years.

Whether I can say that efforts have resulted in greater happiness I am not sure. For my self, I am not sure.

Because in the shadow of these true and real things I feel, it has been quite apparent that my self has been the whipping girl for so many, the magical negro for all else.

The world is a mean and disgusting place for a person like me. If I were ignorant, I think maybe the sting would be less sharp. And, then I think, no, even ignorant people have feelings.

Someone asked, "What's wrong?" And I have learned to say, nothing. Nothing is never wrong because it does not matter if it is. It does not matter if it is not.

I'm tired and I am oppressed. I am tired of being tired and oppressed.

I suppose I must change. The fiber of my being must change.







That is what I will do.  Now, watch me.


Via me.

This Linguist Life

My dream was to be a newspaper editor. Actually, I had a few dreams, the rawest, those that came and never left. Not the prancing ones, but the sticky Langston Hughes ones.

I wanted to be a a newspaper editor and a war reporter, a jockey and paleontalogist. An army linguist. I imagined ducking behind sand-dunes with a typewriter (whatever, it made the dream better) ticking away with combat boots and an AK, tan camouflage and band of brothers that were amazed by my feminine strength and resiliency. Oh, the dream is amazing, the dark night stars drizzling red and blue, and white bullets. And I would send these amazing pieces to America and the people would cringe at the horribly distinct visions. And, then, I realized that I am a pacifist and would probably weep uncontrollably at boot camp.

I was 5'8" in seventh grade and my great uncle, looked at me with those baby blue eyes, and he said to me, he said, "jockeys are little, tiny, itty, bitty men, the horses have to run- fast." So, there was that. He was right, and my retired race horse, the one I had for practice, was so stubborn, that just as the undulation was exact and speedy, racing down the cleared out field down the road from the house, well, when she would stop suddenly, and send me flying, I realized, it was on the next one. Dream.


And, we would dig up arrow heads, ran and showed our parents and made up amazing stories of eascaping from some plantation down the way and to make friends with little Indian boys and girls and live forever down by the river dancing around a fire with cracklers blowing up in a twirl toward the sky. Smacking our hands over our mouths as we made Indian hollers waving the arrow heads or stringing them in our hair.

But then my little sister was born and I taught her how to read. The book, effectively served by phonics and memorization, "Don't Touch!" it is called. So well done, that child skipped Kindergarten.

Oh yes, the Fates anger me. Teaching really? Of all the glamorous things they could have spun and of all things at all in general, teaching.

But my Italian mom, and my Spanish mom, and my beautiful mother all said the same, that it was the thing I did so well.

So here I go, to embrace this thing that I do so well. And, nope. I ain't worried 'bout nothing. My truest dreams come true. I never know how, never as planned, but they do. So, I teach them how to conjugate verbs as I too, sit in Kiswahili and Portuguese classes.



I pack my bags for Dubai. To celebrate in a luxury hotel, with my closet of friends.  Remember how on a beach in the Mediterranean, I dreamed on seeing the Al Burj, oh but how I knew.

I dream of a beautiful man, and beautiful love. A beautiful child and a beautiful expression of my creativity, my talent, and my perspective. All the beauty comes, so I fervently try to relax.

And nope, I ain't worried 'bout nothin.

via Waka Flocka Flame, yeaaaaah. oh, let's do it.

World Domination

We seek to set forth the best examples for future generations of stripped socks, khaki, boat shoe wearing African-Americans.

Oh, yes, I do my best that they go with speed and grace and more importantly, with razor sharp vision - that that I did'nt have. You beautiful black scholars, be unlike me, be better, that is my desire.

And yet in order to do just that, in order to be better,



boo, you must beat the baddest.

via imperial swag.

Memory

I miss feet on grass, starry nights with windows open, wide eyed listening to tree frogs and 'yidget' birds. And lantern lights strung up on dark branches in old tobacco fields. The way the red mud cakes up and sticks in chunks to hunting dogs and dog's fur in bird nests. Cherry trees and laughing so loud. Front porches, side porches, back porches. I miss porches. Good food and the sound of house slippers and screen doors closing, we wore house clothes at home.

Wild red hair and sun dark black skin. So black he nudged me toward the moonlight to see my face. 'Beautiful.'  Laughing at my jokes, bad jokes oh no he didn't care. Racing down the long driveway, peach ice cream in massive scoops. White skin turned red from the thrill, oh no he didn't let me win. But, I did.

Who taught us to love and where did he go?

To the city to find money and pats on the backs and good times. I found a tired cart of struggles that wouldn't push itself. Was it the wrong city?

I miss, the country.

Barry Farms: Washington, DC

La Vida Southeaster.

Via kindergarten.

Anacostia

I finished a skirt. Tied off the end and clipped it from the serger. Oh yes, it was fly. I wondered why the Lord gave me such seemingly useless gifts. Why is there a perpetual feeling of discontent that hangs over my head as does contentment, like a carrot in the face of a donkey? I already know that change and invention and -ish comes from the periphery. But the periphery is dusky and lonely and I see that, "I'm different."

The P90X from the DVDhypeman is on the counter and I stared at my thighs. Nope.

In moments of utter solitude, I think about praying and asking, "Lord, why?" But I already knew the answer and time is better spent asking actual questions. So the prayer is now, "When, Lord, when?"

And a child started talking back, the amount of wisdom she lacked was so expected and so tragic. Ignorance surfaced as she went poppin' off  at the mouth. There was a picture of the President taped to the wall. The view of Washington is ridiculous.

 The teacher looked at the misguided scholar: "Tell it to Obama. . . I don't got time."

I busted out - laughing.

Everything comes with time. Dreams come slow but I know they come. I suppose that's the nature of conception and the depth of procreation. Though I know it's the soft kisses make love beautiful, let me paint the picture as I flail my arms and pout like the thick girl from W.W. and the Chocolate Factory.

I want that job, that man, those clothes, and the billion dollar Beyonce hair. Mostly, I want wisdom. I know God is big and God is infinite. I won't sweat the process. I won't defecate on the struggle. I will seek wisdom.

God gave me style and God made me fly. Why? The same reason God gave me hips for days. . .


Because I can handle them.

When? First,  I'll let it sizzle, then, I'll make it hot.

Via a subtle nod of understanding:  the foreplay of dreams we call a struggle life.
 

L'Enfant Plaza: Washington, DC

A lady found my check on the metro.


She tracked me down and is returning it to me at the shops at Promenade.

Restored faith in mankind.


via good people