on love.

love is patient.

you held my hand as we waited
staring at a busy intersection,
the seconds ticking down on the crosswalk,
soon time would stop,
the cars would stand motionless,
and it would be our time.
distracted by the world surrounding us,
the grip you had on my palm
came as a surprise,
the only proof i had you were even there,
was the impression you left
across my skin
staring at this extremity,
i saw a long life,
and the red rings you left,
the throbbing from blood rushing to my fingertips,
put you in it-
if only for the moment we waited to cross.

love is kind.

the moment my perception went from yellow to red,
i felt it was time to let go,
even if i didn't feel safe,
i was accustomed to going alone,
assured that all i'd have left after these 30 seconds
was another 30 to walk on without you.
my sunshine would set,
and i'd navigate the darkness,
with two free hands.
having both allowed me to feel more.
but you help tighter,
and the impression you left on me,
sunk far deeper than the flesh.
for so long i felt i was stronger
for walking with two free hands,
when i finally realized that if I held yours,
i had three....
and i could conquer anything
that threatened my journey.
and with my new found vision,
i could see that I didn't have to run alone,
if we could walk together.
the world would have to wait for us.

love, is not self seeking.

we reached the other side of the street,
stronger than when our journey started,
still giving bits of ourselves
to hold on to our grasp,
I found that the support I got from our union,
the fist we formed,
if kept together could fight off any threat,
I offered my wrist
so we'd be more flexible,
my forearm so we'd be able to hit harder,
my elbow so we could lift each other up,
and my shoulder so we could hold each other.
all i ever hoped was that neither of us would let go.

love does not envy.

my desires included your happiness
and the more power i saw in us,
the more of you i wanted.
i began to fear walking alone
in the shadow of the power of our footsteps.
there is no love in fear.
i wanted from you
what only time could give
i saw different parts of the world
take your eyes,
grab at your ears,
possess your mind,
and suddenly-
your hand just didn't seem enough,
so focused on
holding one of your hands on our journey,
i never noticed
you used your other to hand me your heart.

love does not delight in evil.

we are imperfect
and often fail to see,
how wanting so badly to keep walking
hand in hand,
can hurt us.
instead of walking around adversity together,
fear sent us running in opposite directions.
we pulled each other toward misery
when our vision was to walk all along.
if i was looking with my heart,
i'd give you my hand willingly,
feel with one,
allow a part of me to be missing,
before i'd ever cause you any pain

love is enduring.

as we continue our walk,
we face insurmountable odds,
but what i will always appreciate,
is that after every obstacle,
after every block,
at each intersection,
i look toward our journey,
past the mountains and mole hills,
glance down at our hands
see past the scratches and bruises,
and see LOVE in their determination
to hold on.
like the fingerprints you left on me,
without once breaking my skin,

love, always protects.

in the past,
when life was too much
and I felt I could no longer give enough,
i believed fear kept me going.
too scared to end it all,
too wracked with guilt to disappear,
cowardice kept me alive.
and as i saw our love gasp for air,
i credited the fear of being alone
with fighting to save it.
but fear was not my saviour...
it did not drive me.
love, kept me.
love, kept us.

it. never. fails.

------------------
author's note: this piece was written as a companion to/extension of "on pain." so much has happened since that weekend but, in short... we're still holding hands.

on michael...

It is now I see and feel that calling once again,
to be a part of music that will not just connect,
but make all feel one- one in joy, one in pain, one in love.
one in service and in consciousness. ---Michael Joseph Jackson

it is usually said that it's better late than never, but if ever there was a time to disprove everything we think we know... this is it. truthfully I woulda preferred to never have had to write this, late or otherwise. but alas we are here. took a while because i put myself in exile for 20 days and 20 nights and because for a woman who has never stopped talking- i had nothing appropriate enough to say.

in a conversation with mr. crawford last night, he said, 'hate is the new love.' a phrase i been using but never really heard it explained quite the way he did. he said, in the days of Michael, Whitney, etc... it was always about love. I need love. I want love. I will always love you. they were driven by it. and now, music, musicians are fueled by hate. You can hate me now. To all the hataz. I do it for the hataz. we are defined by how many people hate us, rather than by how many loved us. so that is why i build my itunes backwards.

5 days ago though, we loved like we did in the 80s. three generations remembered the time when we first met- LOVE. my six year old niece asked about smooth criminal- my favorite MJ video. we remembered my brother's MJ dancing party service-- they did a routine at my sister's sweet 16 and everyone else's parties, talent shows, etc. My father said he couldn't sleep after finding out. And me? In the middle of the dance floor at cafe iguanas... i took his advice. laid my 9-5 on the shelf... and LIVED. thought it started raining, but it was just my tears.

6/30/09 via righteousbabygirls.blogspot.com (my home blog)

word play

I don't have a way with words
but if I could have my way with words,
I'd make sure that you and I are never in between Q and T
always connected to you and me
forever on opposite ends of unity
so we can bring together what seems to be
the most opposite of similarities
when two eyes see you and I they look quizzically
it took the third eye in you to see, the individual in me
the you and I in revolutionary,
the you in us
the you and me in what they presume to be...
run of the mill, when we’re one in a mill
... the you, me, and us in my muse
the you in Euterpe, the I in Calliope
no you no me in tragedy…
takes two eyes from two minds to inspire
another shade of Blue,
another word for you,
another place for me
another stage for us
and I don’t have a way with words
but if I could have my way with words…
I’d make forever modify your happiness,
Restructure your sentence
So you don’t serve life
In this homophobic, germaphobic, lovaphobic cell,
And strike every passive voice that emits
From the fruit of your lips
Cause Miss, the English language, would be remiss
Without you….
Without 21, there can be no 22,
And an alphabet from A to T
Don’t make no damn sense to me….
And I don’t have a way with words
But if I could have my way with words
I’d use them as a sword to protect your smile,
Cause I see me in it…
I’d sow into our music,
Cause I see us in it…
I’d puff an L, to change the world, word?
Cause I see must in it
I’d get drowsy imagining the possibility in why…
Takes a third eye to see two G’s
Which is why there’s only one in judgment
And I don’t have a way with words,
But if I had my way with words I’d tell you…
Between you and I… no evol,
I love you…
Love.
No drums. No dreds. No incense.
No nappy ass beard. No talking like I’m weird.
This comes from my innocence…
Addressed to your inner sense
Wish this had a transcript
Cause I don’t have a way with words
But if I could have my way with words
I’d just say…
"Sista, you’ve been on- my- mind
Sista we’re two of a kind
So sister, I’m keeping my eyes on you...."

In Search of my Mother's Garden

I shared an excerpt from Alice Walker's "In Search of my Mother's Garden" with my students last week.

I read this to my tenth graders and we discussed the extended metaphor in the prose and what the "garden" represented. Walker's mother had the ability to take rocky soil and turn it into a beautiful garden because she possessed the "...muzzled and often mutilated, but vibrant, creative spirit the black woman has inherited." I posed the question to my students, "what is your mother's garden?" And anyone who knows me knows any writing of mine is inept without input from the illustrious L. Boogie who once stated, "I'm like the mad scientist who does the experiment on themselves." So of course I performed the experiment on myself and here is how it went....

At twenty, I have graduated from college, been accepted to law school and work full time as a high school English teacher. Every time I attempt to pat myself on the back, I remember that at this age my mother was new to the United States, newly married, expecting her first child and working while learning English at night.

Her name is signed to my story.

It wasn't until this past year that I began to seek my mother's garden. Years of adolescent angst barred me from doing so before; I was too busy resenting her. My mother, like a lot of Haitian women, is a pressure cooker. Much like that pot of rice she cooks every evening for dinner, my mother pressures her children to do more at all times. If I was graduating at 19, she wanted to know if there was a way I could do it at 18. For a young and developing woman, that pressure translated into inadequacy. Nothing I did was good enough.

As I look back on it, through teary eyes I understand her desire to see me succeed beyond even my wildest imagination. If she had the same opportunities I had... there is no telling the things she would have done. I wish I could have understood the spirit I had inherited back then. I wish I could have understood how monumental every ride I took on the Blue or Orange line was. I wish I would have said a prayer every time I walked through the front gates with the same consciousness I dodged that seal with. My journey from work, or Pentagon City, or my internship on the Hill went by quickly and quietly. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me 30 years before on her way to the same Georgetown neighborhood. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me in Dr. Mitchell's classroom. As I discussed literature as an English major... my mother learned the English language.

I wish I would have seen my mother's signature at the foot of my twin size dorm room bed before I invited an outsider to shatter my confidence. I wish as I recited my poetry in front of endless open mics I would have seen my mother's signature at the conclusion of every last line.

Every evening upon her return from a 10 hour work day, after a five star dinner has been cooked, she folds the newspaper to a quarter of its size... On it you'll see the day's crossword puzzle. It seems in a matter of minutes she has completed every small square on the recycled paper. 5A or 7D kneels before her like it seems everyone should. If during the day she is conquered by fatigue, frustration, or sheer brokenness.... during the evening she manages to conquer every thing else from puzzles to bills to dinner to... life. Thirty years ago, she couldn't define any of the words on the sheet and now, she could write the clues herself.

I found beauty in her accomplishment. I tried to emulate it. I was an English major after all and extremely well read. And.. English was my first language. As I sat on a Saturday afternoon I tried for hours to accomplish what my mother accomplished on a daily basis. I failed. Failed miserably. When my mother saw my attempt... 6 answers filled out of the near 200 she giggled quietly. Under her breath was a certain wisdom I had yet to acquire. She knew like I know now, that I had to find my own garden.

My story is her story. Every poem, composition, paper, and essay I write bears her name. My mother's garden, her crossword puzzle, her ability to turn rocky soil into a beautiful garden, speaks to the muzzled, often mutilated yet vibrant creative spirit I have inherited. I hope when I walk into my first class at the Law Center I will recall my mother's first steps... into this country, into a classroom, into her job. I'm sure at my age in this time she would have aced the LSAT. But her signature was signed to my application, not her own. She was too busy being a mother to me....

In search of my mother's garden... I found my own.

Hold your hand much bigger,
never wanted mine to grow
so I could always fit perfect
inside your palms just so....

Thank you Mama. I finally understand...


5/13/07