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On Me Too

I wasn’t going to participate in this. It felt too much like a wave and not enough like an opportunity to bear witness. I was disparaging and afraid. No hashtag could paint anything I hadn’t attended in life, with others, and in imagination. I inhabit a certain body and this body carries certain truths and my choice in survival relies on knowing the depths of those truths. Many of the truths are terrifying— jagged and drooling, clawing and intending on death.

Why are silence and inaction still able to contend with reason? That’s where I stop. What is reasonable is to tell the truth. Telling the truth is an option available to me. It wasn’t always so and it might not always be so. But it is right now.

Here is one.

I have been rubbed against, groped, pushed, flashed, coerced, grabbed, undressed, abused, sat upon, laid upon, humiliated, manipulated, threatened, frightened, untucked, forced into, and stolen. They have happened often, some more than others. Some are calcified tumors collecting in my gut. Some are disassociated flashes. Some assemble on my lips and instruct me on how to smile. All have been committed by the hands of men.

I am so afraid of accusation. It has kept me silent. To point my finger away from myself and finally identify the men who have tried to rob me of my place on this Earth. My body is worth space. I’m not about to lie on myself. Not again. Men have been the culprits, are the culprits, are the daemons of this iniquity.

I am afraid to name names— men I’ve known, men I know, and men that make me a target. They have histories— always awarded that multiplicity. My attackers are men and Men. Common and explosive.

Because my attackers are men… because I am a woman, and because I am young, and because I am sick, and because I am Black…my testimony, my recollection is not of much value. My identities assemble into a potent invisible potion— a frame and a voice, separate and different. Frames like mine aren’t born to be believed. Voices like mine are only admitted purpose by way of Man’s discretion— to service, to remit, to keep secret, to assume shapes, to use. Bodies like mine are lived through.

When men complete their wants through the flesh of someone else, they are praying to their destroyer of worlds. Men cannot tell the difference between prayer and chaos.

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sunday wrap pt. 1 (8-27-17)

for Sahbabii’s Pull Up Wit Ah Stick

It is dark and I hear my neighbors cheering. They are airing the Mayweather fight in their backyard. I see two bobbing bodies. Men. They are holding glass bottles. If those bodies holding bottles move down the driveway and to the street, they are illegal.

In the background, blocks away, I hear the wallop of police sirens. Are they hungry for Black glass breaking? Do they want to pull shards of glass from their gums? Do they lick the shards hoping to taste blood’s sweetness?

The cheers now sound like cries. An upset; in which direction? Mayweather won. Even if he didn’t, the purse justified the circus. Although he should, he doesn’t have shit to worry about.

The police are quiet, hoping to dissolve into the night. I know this because sometimes I see their lights flash and hear their yowl clear. I do not move. Then they turn everything off. A cruel warning. It doesn’t matter because some people have an unaccountable sense for the police. A preternatural aerial view. Like birds. That’s why some gangs chirp.

The match is over and the neighbors are laughing. A gathering where the fight is scheduled and money the only chip to bargain is what some would call an easy party.

Above, a police helicopter passes. The searchlights are on but the helicopter doesn’t sound very close to the ground. Not low enough to disrupt any ordinary, long silence. Not low enough to make the air beneath the helicopter hard to breathe and the ground stir, and move.

The gathering has thinned. It’s cold, or too cold for now, and tonight begs to marry a blanket. My hands are stiff and my toes are numb. It is August.

The helicopter is gone. It flew in the direction of Queens. What’s funny is there have been times I’ve endangered people by pledging my allegiance to the police. Having these officers around. Having these officers around makes me feel deeply guilty.

The block wears light well. The block is decked out with streetlights emitting a warm orange glow. It’s beautiful for New York. Old. A neighborhood both remote and under surveillance.

There’s a ghost house down the block. It’s a ghost house because no one lives there but someone did. We don’t know where the people went (another subsidized house of the city most likely) but the boarded up windows and brown cracked grass remind us they are, in truth, gone. Gone. What a funny word. Final but perpetual. And the agony tied to accepting an ending. The heart aches, wondering if there is any way to work around final, just to buy time. To figure out the best goodbye, and never being able to come up with one. Always settling on ”later”. Gone. I told you it’s a ghost house. The windows are boarded up because there was fire. The side of the house is burned, the protective outer layer singed and dangling. The stories about the house might be bigger than what it really was but here is the one I know. The occupants were loud and Jamaican. Their front yard was the receptacle for all the candy wrappers and cigarette butts that blew in from the street.

I don’t know what the backyard looked like.

They were careless. Once K- leaped from her seat, on my verandah, and sprinted into the street to grab the round waist of a barefooted toddler who had run out into it. Once a fight broke out between two men, one squat and bowlegged, and they threw garbage cans at each other. The bowlegged man, father of the barefoot baby, was always caught in the web of some farce. And his mother, a rotund woman with lips always pried open with insult, sat on the cement stairs with her legs spread wide and ankle length skirt hiked up; ready and vexed. Those are the only three I remember. Everyone else? The people that regularly came and went? Faceless. 

The story really is the house caught fire because of an unattended cigarette. The story really is the floors were covered in worn and soiled mattresses– even in the kitchen. The story really is drugs were found hidden in a wall. All of those faceless people came and went to mine the wall’s ore. That’s the story I know.

It is dark and it is quiet. Every so often a car rolls past. The party is over. The police haunt and hide. It is early Sunday morning.

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for girls with no game

i feel you.

it started on the playground
of course
dodgeball met your face
and that already loose baby tooth
unrooted, dropped
into your hand and you wondered
if you pricked the loose nerve end
with your nail bitten fingers
would the pulse of pain
strike you in your cheek?

in gym class
you count the dots
on the basketball
never try to dunk
and pass the ball whenever it is handed to you.

the first boy i loved
was a nimble six year old
with a toothless baby smile
and a name so silly
my mouth can not repeat it.
when he saw me with a basketball
he told me to throw it
and i told him
i’d counted 450 dots already
and wasn’t that cool?

it always goes that way.
he asks you for the salt
and you talk about salt mines
and salt flats
and the salt your mother
would throw over her shoulder
whenever daddy came home late.

you are gameless
and i feel you.

and sometimes, i think,
if i’d learned how to dribble
or understood strategy
i wouldn’t be playing hot potato with a phone
running through
all the different ways to say
Hello
but mean so much more than
Salutations
i want to say,
Boy the way you are is beautiful
Can you feel me?

i do not know
if gameless girls
like us
even talk like that.

and you think
Aight, aight
I got this
you say that he is nice
you smile softly enough
that even if he rejects you
you will be able to land
on the cushion of your own lips.

you are so nice
so good
so girl
and somewhere,
in a spot you cannot name,
in an undottable place,
you feel like that will not be enough

he tells you the same
that you are nice
so good
so easy
and already this is complicated.

his lips do the same,
you both are looking to
fall into safety

he recognizes
that you recognize
game ain’t shit you have in common
no one is playing
this is dangerous

you say
Skin is our largest organ
he says
I feel you

Solid.

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new year’s eve/new year’s day

You say if you could leave him

stranded on a day

in a past you both shared

you would. You would

leave him standing on

the Jersey Shore

sight lines set on sea

and you would

whisper to the waves

the caries of love that

carry you back to his

tongue.

And when he calls your name

the sea responds

wave, breaking

wave, breaking

wave

of all the words

you will speak

when you’re gone.

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between the door and here

And you’re telling me you love me but why did you leave me?

And you’re telling me you love me and you don’t want to leave me.

And you’re telling me you could love me but don’t know how to stay.

And you’re telling me you want to love me but can’t bring yourself to stay.