5/17/08-Brooklyn, NY: I AM SEAN BELL FILM PROJET | 12:22 am
mood: hopeful despite it all music: Climb by Mos Def
Family,
It's been a long time. The silence isn't due to a lack of activity, if anything, it's because there's been such a whirlwind that there is nothing and everything to talk about these days. My various projects have lead me a little further away from writing and performing. I've been trying to carve a path in this world not only for myself but for my baby boy.
It's been a confusing journey. On one hand, we have Sen. Barack Obama poised to become the change this world needs, a symbol of hope and possibility and signs of things to come. I watch him with pride and hold my son close able to tell him every single second of his life that the only thing separating his dreams from reality is his will and belief. I can look him in his big brown eyes and tell him that it is all possible and mean it. When I look at Elaiwe and watch him smile and dance and drum and he loves every beautiful part of himself, I know my only job in this world is to protect that and protect him. But I can not do it alone. Because on that other hand, we have the travesty and tragedy of Sean Bell. This young man, on the eve of his wedding, had his life tragically cut short by an organization that has the blood of many of our young men on their hands. The verdict of not guilty only poured salt, only added bruise, only encouraged this idea that there is something so inherently dangerous and threatening and subhuman about our men that only a hail of bullets can stop them. And nothing can convict those who “perceive a threat”. It has happened too often in my lifetime. It has happened one time too many already in my son’s short lifetime. Enough is enough. We must take responsibility for ourselves and our future and our families. There is a thin line between Sean Bell and Barrack Obama. My son is that line. Your sons, your brothers, your fathers your uncles, your cousins all exist within that line. The time is now to declare that we will not be devalued our lives will not be taken and then dismissed as worthless.
I’ve already written this poem. We’ve already heard these songs. These declarations. This outrage. This anger. It’s time to do something. Any little bit of something that creates a ripple of change that can be felt from the way we perceive ourselves and treat each other to the way we resist and refuse any injustices that devalue our worth. It doesn’t matter what the officers look like if the victims continue to hold brown faces. Enough is enough.
Attached is a project developed by Wildseed Productions. A short film entitled “I Am Sean Bell” will be shot on May 17th, 2008 in Brooklyn, New York. If you can attend please do, bring the babies. If you can’t please donate. Contact Stacey Muhammad or myself with questions or comments or concerns.
I’m organizing an event in DC for later this month. Organize events in your community.
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. - Edmund Burke (attributed)
Do something.
Love someone and mean it,
Bassey and Elaiwe Ikpi.
Friends:
The ENOUGH! Campaign™, an initiative developed by Wildseed Productions, is a collective of independent artists, activist, and organizations dedicated to the eradication of social injustice through artistic expression.
We create radical media of consequence that challenges each of us to take a stand for the transformation and liberation of the human spirit.
WE NEED YOUR PARTICIPATION TO HELP MAKE OUR FIRST PROJECT A SUCCESS:
I AM SEAN BELL!
The ENOUGH! Campaign is proud to announce the production of a short form documentary / Public Service Announcement in honor of our slain brother, SEAN BELL. This project will feature 50 African American males (ages 1 – adult) armed with the message, "I AM SEAN BELL".
DATE: Saturday, May 17, 2008
TIME: 2:00 – 7:00 PM
WHERE: Brooklyn , NY / Ft. Greene Area / Playground, Adelphi St. We will be sending additional information with exact location.
Who: Black Males Ages 1 – adult. Yes, we want the little ones, toddlers, elementary school aged, teenagers as well as adults to participate in this very important project.
Compensation: Catered Food, Face Painting, Games and activities for children, gift bags, credit for participation in film and copy of the film will be provided upon completion.
Help is needed in the following area:
Participants:
For those of you who have children, please consider bringing them out to participate in this project.
Although the focus of the project is African American boys, all children are encouraged to participate. There will be playground shots taken that will include children of all ages and backgrounds. Families are encouraged to come out with their children and enjoy the festivities for the day.
*all participants will be required to sign a release form, these forms must also be signed by a parent or guardian for those participants under the age of 18)
(contact us at 917-701-1042 or contact@enoughmovement.com)
Chaperons:
We need African American men who can help chaperon the set of 50 or more African American boys and young men.
This will be a wonderful opportunity to connect and share time with our little brothers.
(contact us at 917-701-1042 or contact@enoughmovement.com)
Interviews:
We will be conducting on the spot interviews with participants and guests.
Please come out and share your thoughts on the Sean Bell tragedy, the acquittal of the officers and what steps need to be taken in our communities.
(contact us at 917-701-1042 or contact@enoughmovement.com)
Artists / Performers:
Have you written a poem or song in tribute to Sean Bell?
Your participation would be greatly appreciated.
(contact us at 917-701-1042 or contact@enoughmovement.com)
Donations:
We are accepting donations, via PAYPAL, to help offset the cost of this project.
(Food, entertainment, art supplies, gift bags for children, etc.)
(contact us at 917-701-1042 or contact@enoughmovement.com)
For more information or to participate in this project, please contact me directly at 917-701-1042, via email at contact@enoughmovement.com.
poem: a letter from britney spears to the paparazzi | 01:51 pm
mood: compassionate music: Piece of Me by Britney Spears
This is me broken
For months you've documented this spiral
Downward with flashbulbs and camera rolling
This is me broken
Same body you praised for hourglass
Now ridiculed as ticking time bomb
There will be no explosion
No million dollar video of rage and destruction
This is me broken
Soft disintegration of will and resolve
I am nothing but human
In this moment
Torn
In this moment
weak
In this moment
A girl who seeks ground soft enough
To sink into
This is me broken
If tears were found
Toxic enough to kill
I would gladly sell tickets
To my suicide
This is me broken
Crazy
insane
Scream it neon from headlines
Remove all empathy and compassion
From your tongue
Forget that I am maybe your daughter
Probably your sister
Often the you refused in the mirror
I am reflection of this need to build
And destroy
Maybe, when death comes
I will be remembered for
Something other than these moments
Origami folded into history
Beautiful and delicate
"Here lies Britney. She begged you to love her."
Maybe then there will be some remorse
Melted and honey sweet in your mouth
Sing me a praise song
The girl who needed love in life
Fashioned it out of outburst
And fishnets
Or maybe, remember me for the boys
The babies I'm in need of too much
Mothering to mother
Remember me more than dismissed trailer trash
Or spoiled child star
More than this cliché of poor little lost rich girl
I am a woman who bleeds so often
I've forgotten what healing feels like
this is me broken
So when the end comes
Barreling down on you like
Expectation and disappointment
Remember me beautiful
Change the epitaph let it read:
Ramble: It May Not Come When You Want It (2007) | 01:20 pm
mood: blessed
Anybody who keeps up with my status updates and blogs know that the last few days/weeks/months/year have been... challenging (to say the least).
I've been a mess of rising and falling and standing again, then rising and falling and laying myself down waiting for the vertigo to pass.
There have been glimmers and glitter strings of "This too shall pass". There's been a struggle of addict like behaviour to distract. And then something flashing saying, "How many times must the sunset before you accept that the day is over?" Yes, I quoted myself. Deal. I'm blind and brilliant sometimes.
And I remember that I have amazing friends. People whom I've never met that offer me stories of solidarity and comfort. Those who look at my inane ramblings as some sort of kindred writings. And at first, I'm ashamed to reveal these bruised and bumped parts of myself. Wish to pretend myself made less flighty and transparent; more rooted and brass breathed. But I am what I am. And if I didn't thank you for these bits of "me too" you pass on. Then I'm thanking you now. I have amazing people in my life. Folks who have seen me through years of change and staying the same. And still despite my obnoxious moodiness and because of this exposed, raw nerve of a heart, they hold me anyway. Lift me with every stumble and still have the nerve to turn to me to be strength for them. Moments when I can't even remember what my name is to help them define and access the beauty and the wonderful of theirs. And my circle is so lovely. So beautiful. So perfectly imperfect. So laughter and smiles and hugs and patience and gift and lovely and lovely and lovely and lovely. My mamas and their babies. My papas and their defining of men and masculinity in all these burgundy and rich ways. The ones that show my baby papa, E Boogie Baby Boy, that everywhere he looks there are shining examples of the man he will become. And my ability to attract you beautiful beautiful souls into my life has got to be a reflection on me (on my best days). At my worst, I am too busy picking the lint from my navel to notice but I'm noticing now. And I thank you for the time you spend kicking my ass to wake up and holding me to help me sleep.
The strangers and their gifts of freedom and faith. The family and their holding him through this first created year. I thought 2007 was difficult. I thought it was the year that everything changed. Then I sat to write about it and I realized that 2007 was difficult. It was the year that everything changed. And isn't that amazing. Isn't that wonderful? How blessed that I was able to love and lose and still love again and lose long enough to know that it didn't kill me the first time. And it won't kill me the next. And how wonderful is hope? How amazing is a life of possibility? How precious where those moments that I spent feeling loved and loving and laughing and living? How lucky was I?
And so what if life is different? So what if things have changed? Life is supposed to be different. I'm supposed to change. Bassey now can not be Bassey 2003. My needs have changed. My life has changed. And it is the most frightened and blessed I have ever been in my life. No amount of career moves and fleeting ill fashioned 'fame" can replace what I've learned and still learning these last 12 months. I am here. When worse has had me huddled mass on a hotel floor somewhere. And yes, I could do better and will. And yes, I could be better and will. But God damn, if I ain't something now. Seriously. have you seen me?
No. Really? Gorgeous;).
I thought leaving Brooklyn would signify that a part of me had died and taken my will with me. And it slowed me so far down that I forgot I was moving. But tonight, as I sit here trying to convince the universe that I'm still here, I was rewarded with the outpouring of, "You realize that this happened this year and so did this and remember this?" So the negative seems loud and unwavering and easy to locate because it seems to receive all the attention lately but the positive, the people, the faith that was instilled in me when I had nothing to show for it but my word. My GOD! I carried a 5 lb baby and 10lb mass in my womb at the same time. With both delivered safely and with nothing but a long scar running down my belly. What? You can't tell me nothing about survival and resilience and strength and life. My baby boy lived huddled in the corner of that and I have the nerve to not be thrilled every day of my life? No wonder this boy can't stop dancing. He's got the room now! Who am I to be anything but grateful and blessed? Who am I to look God in the face every day and not smile back and dance with him? I have the nerve to battle low self esteem and feelings of inadequacy Inadequate for whom? . I must be pretty damn arrogant to think my reflection isn't good enough. For what? Again...
Have you seen me?
And yes, there are tears. This constant struggle to keep these synapses firing. Depression is real and it is ugly and Last night was a river of insomnia and weeping and this morning was a bath of frustration and self-pity. But tonight, is a celebration of what will be and the means that it will take to get there. So if it means, I'll be making you a latte at Starbucks, instead of reading you a poem then that's what it means. But it's not about what I do for a living. It's about what I do to keep living. And I am about the business of living right now.
But seriously, this is an open letter to the universe. A thank you for the everything that was 2007. For the hearts that touched mine, regardless of how briefly. For the hearts that touched mine and became permanent ink. I want to name names so badly but we could be here all year. And this is already painfully long. So if you've made it to the end. Then thank you for being with me.
I have so much in store for you and myself this next year. It's just a matter of getting there. And we will get there. We have no choice.
I love you and wish you so much everything and more this new year.
I miss you. It's just a thing I know. I spent the month preparing for this weekend. I cried on Dec 1, anticipating the 14 days. And again on Dec. 8th, preparing for this weekend. And the Saturday came and there were no tears. Then the Sunday came and there were no tears but here at 12:17AM freshly free of the weekend and your lingering memory... I can do nothing but sit and cry for you. Peter, I miss you. The very everything of you. I miss your music. I miss you inexplicable, unsolicitated dancing. I miss you Orisha chant. I miss you bold and beautiful black man.
Wish you could see my orisha chant, bold and beauitful black boy. He holds your inexplicable, unsolicited dancing. Your unbridled joy for life. I monitor his sadness. The moments I can tell he catches glimpses of you in his eyeline. You sent him. Defied gravity and doctors predictions. Like you did. Like I wish you did. Peter, I miss you.
There is a life here that insists on going on. And the anger. The need to plead your case. To go back in time and help them catch it earlier so that you could be here. I can not stand this profound lack of you. Peter, I miss you. Sade and Lauryn singing. Poetry and poetry and poetry. You butterfly boy. You beautiful beautiful beautiful. Peter... I miss you.
Wish you with us still. Wish you somewhere on earth leading the enchanted. Like you lead us louder babies into claiming our youthful spirit. We see you in every flicker and flame. See you in every wide eyed and wondering. Peter... we needed you to remind us beautiful and joyful and unbridled and dancing and singing and loving and wonder and Peter....
The Angelic
Angel joined my 8th grade class
seven months to graduation
I hated him
pegged him the type to pick fights
with buck toothed patos
like me
-but he didn't
Instead, he dated my best friend Victoria
became my friend too
and in two months had mastered the racket of the lunchroom Spit circle
slapping cards and smashing fingers
of boys not quick enough to grab the empty pile
I'd smile knowing each win
shifted "cool"
to a new elite
He didn't speak much of his being a foster-child
his mother-
or brother who made it to the home of a social worker. Baring his light like a
cross, he kept a sunlit disposition long enough for Ms. Valdez, the ESL teacher,
to find him too late to save or sooth scars incurred by the system. Carving a few
more when she decided to send him back.
final days lapsed-
stitching sunsets to our chest
leaking candlelit eternity
through stretched liquid wax
waiting for the wick to burn
The night before he was scheduled to leave he came to my house. We didn't
plan on his staying. My parents had gone shopping and told us he should be
gone by the time they got back. Defying them, I convinced my siblings to do
the same, help me hide him-splaying bellies on the floor as we played spit.
He was quiet. I remember it was a Tuesday because "Who's the Boss" was on
and in my recent self-liberation from several years of television restriction,
I scheduled my life around ABC's evening line-up.
My parents got home and I made Angel hide behind the bureau. Bringing up a
box of Ring Dings for our evening meal. Leaving a pillow, blanket, and enough
room to turn in his sleep, I climbed in my bed resigned to retire with
pre-recorded laughter shadowing the room from a 12" black and white screen.
But beneath syncopated chuckles I heard whimpers. Rushing to the bureau I found
Angel crying, refusing to let me console him. Demanding I didn't touch him-that
I didn't love him-that no-one did.
"How do you put some-one you love behind a dresser," he said.
The metaphor would take ten years to decipher. Though prematurely making
sense of it at the time, not fearing my father's heavy hand and belt, being
bigger than Angel, I wrapped my arms around his flailing body, laying him to
rest on my bed. Chest touching chest, his anger subsided. We decided to plan
escape.
As sleep took him from me I felt blood surging between fingers and legs.
Jumping up I curled up in the big furry chair at the foot of my bed, ashamed
of the erection I concealed when he questioned my abrupt departure.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I replied. "Just planning."
I watched him sleep. Waking him when sun burning through the window wasn't
enough to stir consciousness. My parents already left for work.
So the plan was, we'd go back to school to tell Victoria and she could come
too if she wanted. Only, thing is, one of Ms. Valdez's students saw us from the
school bus and told her. She had ample time to prepare for our arrival.
They caught us in the schoolyard
The Principal,
Police,
Ms. Valdez waiting
taking him kicking
buck teeth ripping clenched hands that stopped us
from breaking loose
arms locked for one last pact
to stay together
if only in the mind.
11 years past and I have moved back to my childhood home. A hand-drawn portrait with
these words sit on an alter to Shango template poems I never wrote or finished.
Candles cast shadows on his image, some nights
When I think about the Angel I've become
the angels I've replaced him with
or what if we would have run in the other direction
Black wings fleshing out metaphors
wondering what happens when I finally figure it out.
Why I can't seem to love like that again
Why I believe I can
Innocent
And eternal
Life
is a flame on liquid wax
A CD scratched
on an angle of song
Waiting for the wick to burn
Maybe
We all want to be towering infernos
Pray flame catches something before we die
He is still flickering in my eyes
I
Am burning on air
This entry was inspired by seeing this video a few minutes ago.
I hesitated to write about the death of Donda West for a few reasons. I'll spare you the list but the crux of it is this self consciousness I felt mourning the death of a woman I never met; the mother of a man I've publicly shown disdain for in the past. It's no secret, as talented as I found Kanye, I found his arrogance off putting. I appreciate his ability to own himself and his talent but from the second I heard of this "Kanye West son of college professors raised to be intellectual and artistic" I expected more from him at the very least humility. So I was disappointed when his obvious insecurities led him, on the surface, to fall into the hip hop pitfalls of materialism and braggadocio. I was disappointed in Kanye where I simply ignored The Ja Rules or the Fitty's or the Yin Yang Twins of the world. In short, I just expected more than "Louis Vuitton Don" and ridiculously ostentatious Jesus pieces adorned with countless blood diamonds from Kanye West. Disappointed as I am with my own little brother and his casual tossing of the word "nigga" like he wasn't raised in the Suburbs. But as time went on, my opinion of Kanye changed a bit. I began to admire his ability to again, own himself, in this raggedly off putting hip hop world we now live in. His unabashed love of fashion and lack of gun talk, he was the anti-thug anecdote, the representation for the other side of things in mainstream music. In this world where "Soulja boi openly superman those hos" (whatever that means) I've grown to appreciate Kanye for what he is. A man who loves music, who loves his mama, and loves his "stuff". I couldn't argue with that. I love my "stuff" too. From his Diamonds are Forever Remix and his vow to study the origins of conflict diamonds to his ability to take the music video and raise it above the bling and booty that often permeates the culture and to his open challenging of homophobia within the community (we'll forgive him for not yet speaking openly about misogyny-- baby steps), my respect for Kanye grew. And let's face it, the boy can make a damn good record and he's having fun. He can keep it shallow or hold his own with backpackers (have you heard the Get By Remix? Kanye killed Mos, Jay and Kweli on his own record). So let him be arrogant. He's not hurting me or anyone else. It's annoying, yeah. But let the boy live.
I've joked in the past that Kanye was hugged too much as a child. It was a tongue in cheek observation given how he was prone to hissy fits and meltdowns when he didn't get his way or award. Again, annoying but so are a lot of things.
In the wake of the death of his mother, Donda, I've been watching a lot of interviews and clips of Kanye either speaking about his mother, or with his mother. And my heart broke wide open. This is a man who loved his mother more than his very life. It's a thing that we should all do. A place that most of our men, spend times despising the mothers that raised them and mythologizing the fathers that left. It is usually the mother that gets the brunt of the blame and the abuse. Sometimes it's deserved but often it's misunderstood, these women become mothers before they have properly been mothered themselves. Maybe not in the case of Donda and Kanye but still… So the cycle continues and continues. To watch Kanye and Donda love each other and support each other as documented in his song, "Hey Mama" (Mama, I'ma love you till you don't hurt no more.) I understood what every mother wants from her child. When I first heard the song, I was 4 months pregnant. Sitting in Lynne's living room, online, trying to figure out the life growing inside me. I'd just been told I was having a son and I was disappointed because I didn't' know the first thing about boys. This would explain why I was 4 months pregnant, sleeping in Lynne's living room... I'm embarrassed to admit recently that I listened to that song and cried, imagining my own son one day saying those words. It's stupid and lame and perhaps a little crazy but it helped. For the months remaining, I listened to the song from time to time just to help with the "worth it". So when I heard of Donda's passing, it hit me in a place that I recognized instantly. As the mother of an only child, a son, his first representation and reflection for the women he will spend his life learning to love, I thought of Kanye as I think of Elaiwe and I cried.
I've read other blogs and reports using her death as a platform to speak about black women and body issues, this cultures obsession with perfection, the thing that would make a successful and beautiful educated black woman choose the knife to achieve some misguided notion of perfection. We can talk about all of that at a later time, trust me, as a woman who subsists on ice cubes on a daily basis, I know of the dangers of viewing ourselves through the wrong lens. However right now, think of the son who has lost his mother, think of the mother who raised the boy to love her that much no longer here. Whether by violence or a choice she would probably take back. That's of no importance.
And people die every day, there are soldiers and Iraqi people and abused children and wives losing their lives every day and they will not get the media coverage that the mother of a rap star's death will... I know. The world is fucked up that way. But let's put all that aside for one moment and think about the child who has lost his mother. The man who loved her enough to eulogize her in life and in song and made good on the promises he made her as a child. Unashamed to refer to his "mommy", it's a beautiful thing and the ultimate gift.
I'm not sure what my point is in all of this. I think in this navel gazing blog way, I'm thinking of my 'We in relation to 'Ye and the difficulties of mothering him away from the ideal and the norm. And the strength I hope it provides him should anything happen. And on a purely selfish level, I hope he loves me that much. And I pray he understands the choices I've made to protect him… I hope his only complaint is that I hugged him too much as a child and then, writes me a song. LOL.
In all seriousness, love someone and mean it. Time isn't ours.
Babble&Ramble: Yo' Mama (or what I should've said) | 07:44 am
mood: daylight unsaved music: Pull Shapes by the Pippettes
I.
I miss Brooklyn. Not for any of the obvious reasons. The Syreetas and the Sabrinas and the Lynne-Darlings and the Rogers and Mo Brownes. The brownstones and brunches. Not for the familiarity of park benches and street signs. Not for the way the city rose to meet me every time I stumbled. Not for the way the streets pulsated with expectation and hope. I miss Brooklyn for the way it understood me. Defined me capable and beautiful and real and desired.
II.
This place leaves me vacant question mark. A mystery of whispered about and misunderstood. The truth about the acorn is the tree and I am barely sapling here. Too easily bent and swayed by strong wind and breeze. I do not understand this whispered about. This fear that when spoken words become weapons. I owe my life to this naked honest. The moments I reveal that underneath the hard muscled and power of poetry, I am a jelly donut of a girl. I never promised perfection (that would explain that previous mixing of metaphors). Always offered the cracks first as preparation. Ruminating and questioning every decision and act to make sure it means what I think it means. Since 2001, I've laid myself out on these screens long before the word "Blog" became a burden and an eye roll. I needed the audience to lessen this alone. Asking "do you feel that too?" and "what does it mean when that happens to you?" and tell me it's not just me. That's not a question.
III.
In Brooklyn, there were late nights when the upstairs neighbors tempted the devil with his music choices and I was 4 AM insomnia staring at the ceiling willing it to cave in and bury me. I was tired. Sat in the living room I shared and wrote until the sun convinced me to stop. Until I felt like I'd said enough. There were no mysteries about me that couldn't' be solved within the pulse of the cursor. And when that failed to grant the answers I needed, I laid myself open and asked. Everyone. Anyone. I just wanted to know. Talked to hear myself work it through and then asked others to weigh their experience against my naivety. Despite my age, I always felt about 5 years behind. Late to all the tables. First kiss at 18. First love met first drink at 21. Age 31, still not sure what the point and purpose of myself is. I'm working on it. But I was surrounded by people who did the same or understood the need in the first place.
IV.
I share too much. It's just something that I do. Not for the purpose of gossiping or spreading my business. It's simply to connect to ask those who may know more if what I'm feeling makes sense. If it were up to me, everyone would be trusted and held and protected.
V.
I need people around me who have the weight and prick of experience first seen around high school. I didn't have the opportunity then. Was parents who believed this country would corrupt so they held their eldest closely. Was too closely sheltered. Was afraid of her own purposeful blossoming so I held quiet and invented spaces to live. When I was thick, red coke bottle glasses and weird hair. Was a mass of elbows and scraped knee, nothing graceful or memorable or beautiful. So years later, despite a body that's slimmed and contacts and hair that now makes better sense and television credits and magazines that tout style and fashion forwardness and words that can be screamed from stages... when I am here... in this city... in this house... in this place, I am thick, red coke bottle glasses and weird hair... a mass of elbows and scraped knee and nothing graceful or memorable or beautiful. My life here is a bad 80s teen flick. The laughed at nerd whose football quarterback crush decides to humiliate her at prom in front of the homecoming queen and the head cheerleader. I'm sure it's nothing like that. I'm sure we are too mature and grown up to think in those terms but what I'm saying is that's what it feels like for this sapling and mass of elbows and scraped knee and nothing graceful or memorable or beautiful that follows me. In Brooklyn, I am beautiful. I am memories of the year I spent as a pom after years of trying out. In Brooklyn, I can pretend I was never that girl. I was always this confident and secure and careless with my heart. Bouncing unscathed from place to place. I have no bounce left in this. Only wish to reject this cotton candy and fantasy land for barbed wire and carefully stacked chips on thin shoulders.
Perhaps then....
VI.
And I've been irritable and obstinate and sullen and stubborn and depressed and barely here and prickly and sensitive and angry and tired and insecure and lazy and brittle and stuck and negative and selfish and and and and and...
I admit that all.
VII.
I'm learning to censor. So that my honesty isn't used against me.
I wonder what they would say if I hadn't given them the ammunition and shown the lacerations on my wrists. If I'd just always pretended to be perfectly 100% "normal" then what could you accuse me of?
VIII.
And I know that this is all over the place. I have insight and growth and mature projections somewhere in the future. Taking responsibilities for what I manifest and call into the world and all that. I should accept my part in everything and the mistakes I've made. I will be that. I will reclaim myself during the waking hours. I will grow from this and exist in a space that radiates and vibrates with the love and life that I should reflect. All these things in their time..
as for now.
mood: blessed
It is more than just the party. More than just anticipation of these hips twisted in dance. More than these legs and the towering ruby heeled slippers offering height and magic. More than this waist, finally back to the way we were but then also marked with the change of "Yes, we be older than chasing fireflies in an Oklahoma July." Marked with the change of, "Yes, he will be chasing fireflies his own version of Oklahoma July." We be older now. More than just a reason to imbibe and indulge. More than just an excuse to say "I love you" under a drunken moon. More than just a party. An ego fueled obsession with these variations on my name. This is about the need for one night to suspend the lies that bind. To celebrate this life that's mine. This is about returning to the version of myself that laughed freely and formed humor in the most mundane. This is about my sistagirls. These fast collections of Imanis and Melanis and Tosins that remember the days before these particular dramas. We held each other in all our pre-baby, Janet Jackson braids, dance shows, 124 Scott Street. Held each other in our Greenbelt Middle School. And Acklyn's Honors 360 class. We dance for know reasons. We danced for no reasons. Laugh for every reason imaginable. This is as much for them. My girls who recently shared tears and laughter and "Girl... this is wrong but I laughed." These Joiful collection of women. These Mo Brownes. Laras and Kats and Tamis. And Tammy's. And Dyannas. My Sabrina, painting Spain a new color of magnificent. She whoushered my child into this world. Syreeta all sage advice and perspective. Marie-Elizabeth who saved us so often. These "hold you down in a new way" mamas. Aigu, ishle. These wild women. And this is for my papas. My main man, E and this new version of womanhood he has helped me create. It's for the brothers who remind me on a constant basis that one does not spoil the bunch. Hell two don't spoil the bunch. Hell a bunch don't spoil the bunch as long as the genunine outshine the rotten. This is for my Al. Matthew. Eddies. Tyren. You "new one". These are for the ones I won't name and can't name due to the hour and the need not to forgot. This is for love. This is for possibility. For the one who reminds me daily about this beauty I find easy to forget in quiet moments. The one who shows my in that necessary ostentatious display of, "Damn, mama! You in that dress." My spirit needs that as much as the quiet poetry of respectful words. Ain't nothing disrespectful about it really. He means both equally. I am both equally.
So tonight... this party that reeks of my ego and cocky demeanor is really a celebration of all these lives. Really a coming back to myself affair. Really a "I missed me these last broken months" event. Really, just a reason to share drunken I love yous. If you're not there... expect the text. Expect the voice mail message at 2 AM soaked with martinis and honesty. Expect me to love you from every corner of myself.
Expect me to honor me in all my 30 going on 31 going on 14 1/2.
This is a toast to the possibility of laughing through it. Loving despite it. And kicking ass the entire time.
Atum adem,
B.
PS. I just re read this and it made no sense. the gist is, i am happy. i love my friends. come to my party.
mood: funky fresh dressed to impress ready to party music: Prince's greatest hits
This is about the inside parts that swing and flutter with the pepper of anticipation. This is about the stomach that giddy, tosses and floats you near motion sickness. This is about the sweet of breath on your cheek. The soft that grazes you forehead and nose and top lip and nape of neck; the soft that teases you collar bone and bare shoulder then returns to find the lips paired and proper. This is about the bottom lip that pulls moisture from the air and plumps—ready. It's about the arms that place you sudden and firm into the moment. The small of back that you fold and breathe into, warmed by the hand that found itself there. It's for your hands. How they find neck, caress wide back, stroke hair or bald head. How they hesitate and linger before roaming and finding. It's about the lift and sway. It's about the tingle and volley; the steady and swim.
This post is about the first kiss since it all changed. Since the bough broke. Since it fell. It's about the men that erase the salt and wounds of your history. The ones that are only balm and salve on bruised and battered. The ones that reminds you of possibility. Divinity. You beauty, flick and and poem of laughter.
He reminds you to dig for that laughter. Teaches you to own the dance. Allow the body forgiveness. Forget the way it betrayed you. Allow it it's own healing. Allow you mending wings and prayer. You desire and promise.
Allow these kisses that fall from the sky like a hallelujah.
because he asked and "next liftime" wasn't a good enough answer
i.
until the sun crawls
into our windows
bringing morning like
honeyed kisses
we beckon truth
in every denial
ii.
the universe
delivers us
moments to fold into
careful creases
covering the one thing
that convinces us we
are only a tomorrow
and four yesterdays apart
iii.
but nothing is promised
the speckled
robin's egg
of fate
twists us breathing to
beating
fools us pen
to poetry
and back
iv.
if only
the gods lived
for us
like we live for them
then "next lifetime"
would be a welcomed
destination
Last night, I wrote this long, typically rambling, post about the ins and outs of said happiness. How it came to me as I was brushing my teeth. How I nearly choked on toothpaste foam. I had metaphors and similes. I had concrete images and abstract descriptions. I typed it all and was prepared to hit "post" when the viruses and spyware that have been threatening my father's computer caused the screen to freeze. There was no clicking. There would be no cutting and pasting. There would be no "waiting until it unfroze". I had to reboot and lost it all. Then I thought about it and realized that this needed no hyperbole. There is nothing earth shattering here. There is only this sly realization. Only this necessary dawning.
I'm happy. I have been for at least 5 days now. I woke up with a smile on my face and despite anything tossed and thrown my way, the smile remained or returned. And it isn't one of those, happy today back to sad tomorrow things either. The thing that has plagued me for over a year and found me, head buried under insecurity and self doubt has officially lost all power; no longer has a hold on me. Nothing on that particular end has changed, the only difference here is me. And God how I've missed me.
I've missed me impractical shoes and $200 jeans. I've missed me trash TV (yes, I'm talking about Charm School), blog entries about Skittles and truly, honestly, singing the praises of Billy Ocean. And I love the new aspects of me, the one who finds as much joy watching Elaiwe in his Jumperoo (yes, Imani, I got it) as I used to find in shoe sales and crushes on new boys. And let's talk about new boys, they are out there and though the stakes are higher with this new responsibility of maintaining spit bubbles and the wonder found in toes, there is still an open possibility. There is a hope I forgot existed this last year, begging (quietly and shamefully and pathetically) for that one person to honor me. To appreciate me. To love me. To validate me in my most vulnerable state. A time when any man, worth his weight, would be tripping over themselves to protect and console and to cherish, I internalized it and decided that it was my fault. If it wasn't' for the "me-ness" in this situation he would be there. He would tell the world about his son and the mother that carried him safely despite threats from doctors and this body that would not cooperate. He would send support. He would support. He would. he would. He would... It had to be my fault…
Until I realized that it isn't.
And about the list, I win. I get to live with this precious joy. This sitting up, ready to crawl, nearly six months of laughing and tickling and soft face caressing and babbling and wonderful and beautiful and mine and mine and mine. What's there not to love and honor and cherish and shout from the hilltops?
And I knew it was real when the name didn't force my heart to swell or sway or break or leak. When the potential disrespectful phone call didn't cause my heart to skip or race. There was a time when just the thought of would have sent me shivering into corners but this time, my heart does what she's supposed to. She continued to allow blood to circulate through my body. She just beat. She just pumped. I lived. I didn't even notice until later in another conversation. I was telling the voice on the phone about the amazing thing that happened in writing class (I'll tell you when it's all settled) and how I couldn't believe the instructor felt that way about my work. How nervous I was to submit the writing and I only wanted a good comment, didn't imagine what would be born of it. My friend sighed a sigh I'd heard countless time this last year. His "are we going to do this again?" sigh. His "how many different ways can I say this to you" sigh. So I braced myself, muttered, "Here we go…" and laughed when he said, "How can you be shocked about any of this? Do you know who you are? You're Bassey fucking Ikpi."
Word.
And co-president of the Billy Ocean Preservation Society and cries during Grey's Anatomy though she swore she'd never watch again after Izzie and George got together. Will flip you a Jeff Buckley song and remix a cleaner version of the Yin Yang twins so she can work out in peace. Will hop into the wrong car in the mall parking lot because she was too busy thinking about the Chipotle run she just made. Will always be half immature even when she's fully someone's mama. Will always choose to be that someone's mama no matter what the stakes and relearn the lessons just to insure it's the same child. Will laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and love again.
Will learn to post shorter blog entries. Will try to be more grammatically correct. Will someday stop babbling.
OH! I'm missing my daily episode of Dawson's Creek
