Throw Back Thursday

Throw Back Thursday

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Smiling

7/17/2008

Petals flowing down a river of dreams and desires.I reach down to feel the cool water trickle over my fingers, catching between them a petal of a red rose. It’s velvety and silky feels reminds me of your touch.

I rub the petal gently against my cheek. Closing my eyes and breathing in deep.Flashing back to that November evening our eyes met and my heart leaped with joy when I discovered the beauty embedded in your smile.
For awhile I just gazed into your eyes …and then you spoke and to my surprise your words were as beautiful as the outlines of your lips…and together they flowed with such appeal that I knew this new found love was real when you said your name.

I open my eyes and in that instant the petal slips away, soaring into the wind, away to complete its destiny.

I kneel down to feel the water once more. Stretch back up to find my love holding the same petal in their hand. They kiss it, then touches it to my lips. As our fingers interlock, they lift the petal up to the sky and lets it soar again.

Smiling deep inside, filled with something more than love. I realize what the petal’s destiny was…to bring you back to me.

Smiling inside by and by.

 

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Their Names Were Chosen

Their Names Were Chosen

 

 

Him: Is it Silver? Stiller?

Me: Sterling. Alton Sterling.

Him: Oh yeah.. I guess I shouldn’t travel because people die otherwise.

Me:…

You forced me to breath his name as you pretended not to remember it. You wanted me to validate your ability to call attention to the eulogy of another slain black body but also forgive your incompetence as you struggled to remember his name.

Alton Sterling, Jerry Williams, Anthony Nunez, Philando Castile, Melissa Ventura, Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Emmett Till and so many more.

A deep seated rage continues to erupt from the pit of hell that also houses my stomach, abdomen, and barren womb. I will not take on the role of Martha or Mary and resurrect you from your chosen slumber. I will not let one more tongue slander the dead.

I carry each person’s name like shackles around my feet. Draped around my neck hang rusted chains, dragging across the cement floor, scratching my breasts, and clinging to my ribcage. My heart is blackened with the residue from your privileged ignorance & well meaning but misinformed bullshit. I am resisting the urge to dig through my skin to stop your masked hate from oozing through my veins as it searches for my internalized hate to finish crippling my body.

I scream and nobody hears me. I wail and people continue to exclaim that all lives matter. There is blood on your hands, a gun in your sling, and you look at me as if I am responsible for these murders.

Wake Up. Wake Up. Wake Up.

I will not give you sanctuary. You are not welcome here. I will not adorn your head with myrrh and frankincense. You can not continue to be carried by the mothers of the slain and eat heartily from their table.  How dare you look for anymore from us.

There names were chosen. There fate was death but that does not mean they are not forgotten.

Your memory will continue to rest in the arms of the living.

Am I?

Am I?

‘Am I depending on J (my loving partner) to more easily navigate white spaces?’ If the answer is yes and I do lean on her to help get through awkward spaces engrossed with huge glaring blue sometimes green  eyes; does this detract from my work as an activist in the world and in my own life. Does this mean I am less confident than I rise to be each and everyday as a Afro/African/Creole-French BLACK woman? I have recently encountered a similar debate on many different social media platforms. The question is usually something along the lines of  “is the act of a black person dating a white person a form of internalized racism” or “can you be a ‘woke’ black person (socially and racially conscious) and share your life with a white person or is this a juxtaposition.”

I need to.

I need to.

​I need to embark on a journey to fully love myself. My weight goes up and down and with each pound, whether gianed or lost the question  “can we still love this” bubbles to the surface. My most faithful relationship is with racism. I battle microagressions and racist acts against my person every fucking day. Each time I go for an interview,  grocery shopping, or to the doctors office it feels like I’m trudging through quicksand as I  fight to prove my worth to people in the world and most importantly myself. I’m tired of y’all. I’m tired of trying to prove anything to anyone. I need to take each pound of this body and learn how to make love to it better than any man or woman could claim too. I need to bask in this melanin until my soul rattles in celebration of the very skin it gets to wear proudly everyday. I need to call out my name and proclaim that she is more than loved, she is chosen for love. Worthy of goodness and mercy. Unconditionally treasured and beloved. I need to, today. Today is a new beginning. 

When We Meet Again

When We Meet Again

When I think about moving home. I am concerned about crossing paths with people I used to go to church with before I left for college. I recall more days in church where ministers and pastors filled their messages with warnings and persecution towards people who had chosen a queer lifestyle than those with messages of love and acceptance. They will be waiting to see what destruction lesbianism has done to me. How my lust filled mind has managed to navigate grocery stores and doctor offices. I don’t truly feel much different from the young woman they used to know. I still love Jesus. I still love my Mama. The only difference is now I know I love women. This doesn’t mean I’ve written off men. I love both women and men. And I’m sure many of my friends from church also love women and probably love men too and that’s fine. Actually, that’s beautiful! But will likely never admit that outside of their late night meetings or dates masked as a hanging out or a sleep over. 

I see my life as a series of moments where I’ve been or am waiting at the edge of a mountain for the next big wind to carry me over to the next precipice. But I imagine You see me at that same edge of the mountain and are waiting in anticipation for me to fall rather than soar. Some of You are hoping someone will push me and in my fall I will find salvation and be freed of this ugly sin I call love. I call freedom. That I found my truth in.

I want to break bread with you. I want to worship and pray with you. I want to talk about Kirk Franklin’s impressive  milly rock. I don’t want to be a stranger to you and I hope that you won’t stay a stranger to me. If our paths do collide I want to work with you to build a bridge to a place where we can both sit comfortably and speak easily about our fears and dreams.

Gayness. Quierdom. Christianity. Holiness. All feel like freedom. Feel like love. Maybe I’ll encounter you in California and you’ll know me as the church-going, quiet, unimposing young girl. I hope I can create space with you to share with one another how we have grown and expanded our understanding of God’s unconditional love, heartache, and community. I hope that I encounter you as my full self so you can see another example of how the goodness of Jesus has manifested in my life as a queer woman. I pray one day we can step into the light together, whole and in truth.

6 O’ Clock

6 O’ Clock

Daddy Ive been sitting in the kitchen at exactly 6:00 o clock every day for 24 years  waiting for your call. Waiting for you to come home. The only time I ever missed a call from you was around my 7th birthday. I waited by the mailbox all day for your gift to come. A family friend said he had picked it up for me and left it in his apartment. I went with him to get it. I received your present but lost my innocence.

All black men feel unsafe now. All black men feel unsafe now.
I needed you To show up ready to love me. Now I can’t show up. I can’t love you. I can’t love any of you. I can hardly love myself.
Why was I made from a love story that never truly began. We never had our chance to nurture a father daughter love. Once you moved back in. I quickly became your mother. Keeping track of your meds, hiding your condoms from Mama so I wouldn’t have to hear her cry. Why was it so hard for you to love us? Why is it still so hard for you to love yourself. Mama called and said its MS. I called back and said bullshit. You don’t get to die. You don’t get to suffer that way. No fucking way. I still need you to show up for me. I am still waiting in the kitchen and its almost 6 o clock.
Thank You.