“Love is a Battlefield” –Pat Benatar
Music pricks my heart
I try to listen, but choose
2 Dope Queens* instead
“Love is a Battlefield” –Pat Benatar
Music pricks my heart
I try to listen, but choose
2 Dope Queens* instead
Haiku rule: 3 lines, 5-7-5 syllable arrangement.
no barstool wisdom
not ready for fuck him girl
no questions, just you.
these mornings i wake
drink coffee bitter with tears
what happened to us?
I was recently blessed with a fab review of my debut book Sonic Memories from Yellow Arrow Publishing.
Here’s a little taste:
“It’s happy hour on a Saturday. Cija Jefferson and I order fried chicken sandwiches and pile into a booth at a neighborhood bar in Baltimore. My one year old is diving under the table and over the seat in constant motion. Luckily it’s only us and the bartender so she avoids getting trampled./ We’ve come here to discuss writing and being a writer and her book, Sonic Memories.” Continued here…
I found this blog post about the freshly minted prez while organizing my Dropbox. It was originally written in late November 2016. I never posted it because I tend to be publicly apolitical. Sometimes people freak the hell out and can’t hear anyone else’s point of view, which is exhausting. Now just past 100 days of D.T. in office and the Repubs are all boo’ed up and giving each other love eyes because they’ve overhauled the Affordable Care Act to the new (and worse) American Healthcare Act of 2017. Below is my fresh off the election/pre-inauguration take on prez.
It’s been 2 weeks since Trump was elected to the highest office in the land and I have been observing from a quiet distance. By quiet I mean not voicing my opinions on social media. I needed time to take it all in. I wasn’t psyched about my choices but I chose Clinton. She’d be the first female president, she cares about some of the same things I do: women’s reproductive rights, children’s well-being, and education. The night of the election I refused to watch. Instead of putting myself through the drama of watching CNN until my eyes bled, I decided to hit my DVR like a champ: Real Housewives of ATL, Masters of Sex, Insecure…In between each show I’d pop in to CNN and check the results, they looked too close for comfort. By 11pm when I finally decided to put myself to bed, I didn’t see any clear winner so I went to sleep and woke up to this…
Donald Trump elected 45th president of the United States.
Something in my spirit must have known all along because I didn’t cuss or cry. It’s like I was prepared so I just did my normal routine: showered, dressed and hit the highway to work. Once there I plugged in my ear buds and cranked up Solange’s album A Seat at the Table and listened to Weary, Mad and F.U.B.U. on repeat. Music became the balm I needed for my soul to just carry on through the next few days. There was no more laughing at Trump looking like he’s been doused in Cheeto dust, or about his hands looking like little T-Rex claws, or whatever else people say about him. I couldn’t get behind any jokes because this shit is real y’all. In fact one of my colleagues at work read a FB post History has been made, we’ve elected our first orange president. I didn’t laugh, couldn’t laugh. I’m very concerned, this man hasn’t shown his tax statements, has claimed bankruptcy multiple times, been recorded talking about grabbing women by the pussy, suggested the U.S. create a Muslim registry—like this is the Jim Crow South and freemen have to carry their freedom papers, has made sweeping statements about Mexican immigrants, and told black and brown folks what do you have to lose voting for me—suggesting our daily lives are ripped right from Pookie’s in New Jack City. I was, and still am, disappointed. I definitely can’t understand how any person of color (POC) or anybody I call a friend could vote for Trump. But as each day passed it became clear I have to know someone who voted for this man. Like my friend Tara posted on FB: My heart is breaking. I must know people that have voted for Trump? Why? I feel totally alienated from my own country. Truth be told I’m pretty sure none of my real friends voted for Trump but I know some of my acquaintances did and I never need to know who they are.
As each day went on I sucked up alternative commentary, tuning into The Daily Show w/ Trevor Noah and getting his whip-smart take on things. Then I was blessed with more musical healing Friday when Tribe Called Quest released their newest album We’ve got it from here…Thank You for Your service. Hearing the late Phife Dawg and the rest of the crew rap about the state of the world now including these elections was like the best gift I could have been given. As a child of the 80s and a teen of the 90s ATCQ was the soundtrack of my youth and to have their collective response to the world now is beautiful.
I kept up the healing through art by going to see the movie Moonlight with a friend Friday night. This movie is beautifully shot, has a great soundtrack and most important has a fantastic story that challenges the stereotype of black masculinity and sexuality. The story was a balance of harsh realism mixed with much more humanity and tenderness. For two hours I was not present in the world outside the theater. That Sunday after the election I kept up my artistic healing by visiting the National Museum of African American History & Culture (NMAAHC). Back in September when I ordered my tickets I didn’t think about the fact that 11/13 was only days after the election. Spending a day at a museum chock-full of history about my people, and America as a whole was overwhelming. From the toddler-size shackles, to pieces of wood from a shipwrecked slave ship, to a canister of hair oil from Madame C.J. Walker, to images of Nikki Giovanni and others of the Black Arts movement, and finally to an exhibit about President Barak Obama. Then reality.
As we left the museum and drove out of DC—the white dome of the capitol building ahead of us—I happened to glance out my window and see the newly opened D.C. Trump Hotel. In front was a smattering of protestors hoisting signs. Then it hit me, this is New America, which just made me think of Erykah Badu’s album New Ameryka (released 2007, relevant today). I don’t plan to protest, nor do I plan to endorse the man. I plan to respect folks as long as they respect me but don’t ever part your lips to try to tell me to accept D.T. or find the silver lining.
I wrote A Chicken Box and a Hug awhile ago but after reading Brittany Britto’s recent piece, Unpacking the chicken box: The story behind Baltimore’s carryout staple, I had to repost. Plus my girl Nicole, the villian in this story, will be starting a new jobbie and so—in honor of her moving on—I thought a little flashback to our lunch breaks was in order.
It’s 1 pm sharp, time for lunch at the 9-5. I’m posted up at my favorite table in the cafeteria second back from the main thoroughfare facing the elevators. From that perch I can indulge my nosiness and have just enough distance not to be eyeballed or hovered over by every passerby. While dining on an overpriced turkey sandwich from Whole Foods, my partners, Keisha and Nicole sit down and we get into a discussion about chicken boxes.
What is a chicken box you may ask? It is a fried delicacy that is legend in Baltimore. It is also cheap. This box is comprised of fried hard chicken wings (two for me) and french fries tucked in a box if you’re being literal, or styrofoam if you’re not. It can be found in a hood near you. Typically there’s Plexiglas involved, so you gotta shout your order through the mouth level circle of holes punched in the glass, Can I get a chicken box? Salt, pepper, ketchup! …and a half-n- half! I always decline ketchup because whoever’s serving up the grub is always heavy handed, to the point that ketchup covers the wings. I’m a salt and pepper girl, hold the ketchup.
While Keisha and I wax poetic about our various chicken box experiences, Nicole twists up her face, “Chicken box,” she says with disgust, nostrils flaring indignantly. We look at her like she just shook a can of soda and sprayed it on us.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, “Why do you hate chicken boxes? I mean its chicken and fries, what’s not to like?”
“I know, with a good half-n-half too” says Keisha adrift with the memory of a particularly tasty batch.
“It’s the words, chicken box, it makes me think about a box made of chicken,” retorts Nicole.
This comment is met with a round of laughter at her expense. We taunt her Yankee by way of Rhode Island snobbery, especially her inability to make peace with our Baltimore vernacular.
We ask if she even knows what half-n-half is, we’re met with a glare. For those not in the know, a half-n-half is a wonderful, tooth disintegrating, sweet drink that is a mix of lemonade and iced tea. Done well it can be a magical thing. The suburban term for this drink would be the Arnold Palmer, named after the golf legend. None of this moves her, though she seems more open to the half-n-half.
Just as Keisha and I are pinpointing the best places to get a stellar half-n-half a new character enters the scene, Los. He saunters over to the fridge grabs his lunch, and then regards us warily as he preps his food at the counter. As usual, he shakes his head the whole time, not saying a word just waiting for the onslaught. He already knows the routine and expects harassment but today I decide to do things a little differently. Instead of turning on Los, Nicole becomes the target. I reveal her disdain for the chicken box.
“What,” exclaims Los, “You can’t be serious?” She tries to look at him defiantly but he’s having none of it. “Come on, you’ve been in Baltimore, for what…” Then he stops and just shakes his head again, “that’s what I thought, if a number doesn’t come to mind, it’s been long enough.” Nicole feigns hurt feelings but quickly recovers standing firm in her anti-chicken box sentiment. “We’re gonna work on that,” said Los.
We all cackled and somehow the conversation wended its way to Tupac and Biggie. In fact I think I’m the one that took us there. I can’t recall how we transitioned from chicken box to Tupac and Biggie but we did. Some random stream of consciousness trickled into my brain and next thing I know I’m spewing fury that their killers still haven’t been brought to justice. Any hip hop head in the 30 and up club has had this same conversation. While I’m rhapsodizing about the whole thing Los points to me and says, “You need a hug,” and then turning to Nicole, “and you need a chicken box.”
Tomorrow I head off to enjoy Writers & Words‘ first writing retreat. I’m excited to participate as an editor and on-site staffer and look forward to meeting and/or reconnecting with fellow writers as well. My plan is to continue reading Zadie Smith’s Swing Time and to begin to revise and delve deeper into “Candy, Lies, & Larceny,” which is the first chapter of my book Sonic Memories. I’m considering the possibility of expanding my little book. I’m at the beginning of this journey, and while there will be times that I want to tear my hair out at the root, I’m down to see where it takes me. At least there are some words on the page to mix around like the folks that used to solve the word scramble on Soul Train. Good times!
Revision thoughts from the brilliant mind of Michael Eric Dyson
“The Ghost of Cornel West” by Michael Eric Dyson (New Republic: April, 19, 2015) when the following excerpt stood out for me:
The ecstasies of the spoken word, when scholarship is at stake, leave the deep reader and the long listener hungry for more. Writing is an often-painful task that can feel like the death of one’s past. Equally discomfiting is seeing one’s present commitments to truths crumble once one begins to tap away at the keyboard or scar the page with ink. Writing demands a different sort of apprenticeship to ideas than does speaking. It beckons one to revisit over an extended, or at least delayed, period the same material and to revise what one thinks. Revision is reading again and again what one writes so that one can think again and again about what one wants to say and in turn determine if better and deeper things can be said.
Is it harder for you to face the blank page or revise?
Welcome to Ben Tanzer’s compound, a magical place where there is, “…art, surfing, tacos and drinking, low slung stucco bungalows or ranch houses in Southern California…” Come through and stay if you like. I think you will. Know that Tanzer’s open about what’s important: family and a daily need to run and write. He’s also got a soft spot for Los Angeles, a place where he imagines casting off the shackles of responsible adulthood, for a more bohemian artist’s life. Then there are the many allusions to the story of Icarus—the boy who flew too close to the sun. His cards are face up. Tanzer asks if that’s cool and then opens the door to invite us in. All are welcome…
Check out the rest of the review at Atticus Review