Free Write: Apology To My Brown Boy

About ten years ago, a  few years before I became a mother, I wrote a poem called Apology To My Unborn about my fears for my then unborn son. My son is now 5 years old and has been asking me about Trayvon Martin. I’ve done the best I can to answer him in ways that make sense to him but I’ve become incredibly saddened by the weight of it. The fact that there are conversations that I’m going to have to have with him as he gets older that go beyond normal parenting upsets me. I hate the fact that there are rules of conduct for boys of color that are meant to keep them from being murdered senselessly. It pains me. The fact that despite these rules, it takes just one person to act out and stop their life, infuriates me. But at the end of the day, my job as a parent, is to make sure that my son doesn’t carry the weight of society. I can’t raise him to fear. I won’t. 

I have been unable to write about Trayvon Martin because there is so much more to this than what I have the space to comprehend. I don’t know what to say. Tomorrow will be a month. 

This morning, I did a free write on my son and Trayvon and questions and parenting and I revisited my poem Apology To My Unborn and used it as a writing prompt. This is more or less something answering myself as my son is now older and my fears have changed. This is not a work in progress because I don’t think I can stand to go back and edit and shape it into something that makes sense. I can’t let this fear and pain affect how I raise my child. I won’t. 

My love and prayers go out to you and yours.

Love someone and mean it. Please.

B.

Apology to my brown boy

You don’t sleep
you take nightfall as suggestion
welcome most morning before the sun
you dimpled face and brown
run on both solar and lunar energy
before you came, this was my only worry
that you would watch morning from the wrong side
that you would be all moving parts and jump starts

I wish this was my only fear for you
Now that you no longer occupy my womb
you have taken over my heart
so how do I protect you from this world?
How do I convince them that you are still
more chubby cheek and wide-eyed
than scowl and suspicion?

in my eyes, you are still preemie
still five pounds, 3 ounces of wrinkle and yawn
you eventually grew
into first laugh
into flurry of knees over hands
into first stumble
into unsteady steps
into first words
into always moving
into always talking

until

you are five years into this life journey
each day your body grows towards manhood
each day your legs lengthen
each day your face shows traces of the men that share your dna
each day you become consumed with what manhood means
each day you mother swallows her heart

I wish I could freeze you in these moments
keep you young boy and safe forever
I don’t trust this world
but I don’t want you to own this fear
you smile before your eyes open for morning
laugh with strangers
call them friend before they give you a reason not to
call them friend even when they do
why can’t I keep you like this?
why can’t the world see you like I do?
innocent
worthy of life
perfectly human

You ask me about the boy who face still
holds the soft roundness you recognize
ask me why his mother is on TV crying
ask me why his father won’t smile
ask me why they are all talking about this boy
ask me why they’re marching
why is everyone so sad, mommy?
What happened?
Who is Trayvon?
Why was he killed?
Do I have to stop wearing my favorite jacket?

What do I say to you?
How do I answer your questions
without inviting you to my fear?
How do I make sense of this for you?
you smiling, brown faced boy
you lover of candy and soft drinks
and hooded sweatshirts that make you feel big
and tall like your uncles
you who runs when scared
fights back when cornered
how do I protect you from this?
How can I teach you to  love this world
when I’m not convinced this world will love you back

My Boogie
my baby

there are thousands who love you sight unseen
but I can not bare the thought of losing you
if just one refuses to see your light
I wish this wasn’t a possibility

and it doesn’t get easier
I come to you every morning wishing it would
wishing I would have the words to save you
tell you that it is as simple as what you wear
or how you sound
or who you hang with

When the hood isn’t safe
but it is
when the suburbs aren’t safe
but they are
when the best schools won’t help
when the worst ones won’t teach you
when it’s not about who your friends are
but also about what company you keep
when it’s everything and nothing

when there is no reason
No justification
no apologies to turn to dust in their mouths

when none of the answers make sense
and the questions keep coming
what do I say to you?

Each morning,
the sun storms unwelcomed through my window
and a killer is still free
when every year there’s another story
another murder
another bloodied body that owns your face
and they are never sorry

How do I tell you to  keep smiling?
To keep living?
To keep breathing?
I just do.

I keep the names of the dead firmly beneath my tongue
I hope this prevents you from turning hollow with my fear
prevents you from losing your love of candy

and if they come for you
they will know they took the heart from the lion
but they didn’t make you eat it
so forget the news
turn it off
ignore it

go play.
go laugh.
go  live the life you were intended

let me deal with this
I will make sure you have a morning worth rising for.

 

RIP Whitney Houston

 

I have a series of poems about famous women who have “broken” in the public eye. The first poem was for Britney Spears, then Phyllis Hyman and the last was for Lauryn Hill. The third poem, was more of a triumphant trumpet for Whitney Houston,  woman who came back from broken.  I remember being in tears watching her on Good Morning America. She didn’t sound the same. She didn’t look the same but she was alive and I found so much strength in that.

RIP Whitney. Your voice was a praise song.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

WIP: Not Built To Break (A Praise Song For Whitney Houston)

While watching Oprah interview her, all I could think was, “Wow. We should all be counted out and left for dead… then rise and reclaim what’s lost.” No we don’t look the same or sound the same or act the same but how could we possibly? With adversity comes change. What matters is the fact that the you continue to breathe and live and move and stand and crawl… whatever.

This is a work in progress. I wrote it in like 15 minutes while watching the DVR’d second interview today. Will clean it up as time goes on… or not.

What a powerful reminder to keep going.

Love someone and mean it,

B.

They said it was over
Gave you permission to curl into yourself and drift
away
they mourned your legacy
your life
your voice
they turned you into dust

for years you were whispered about
counted out
the butt of jokes and prayer circles
alike

tell them, whitney
tell them
you were not built to break
tell them that they
make martyrs of people too soon
throw still sweet scented bouquet onto funeral pyre
lament what they could have been
cry for the broken bones caused by leaping off of pedestals
the wings caked in mud
and self loathing

weakened but undefeated
tell them that you are still here
show them that you would gladly
trade your voice
for your life
you don’t need the pity
the aching disappointment that
the voice is no longer there

remind them that you are still here
mourn what you were
praise where you are

so what if your voice is no longer
this delicate crystal shelled trinket
neither is your life
own your rough edged growl
own the way your notes bounce in smaller range octaves
own the way you stand like the worst is behind you
sing like you were promised a thousand more tomorrows

this is your testimony to strength
that is what your song is now
teach them about perseverance
teach them about resilience
wrap a song around hearts that wish to die

praise the thing that still beats
and bleeds
and bruises

and teach them about pressing on
teach them about dragging yourself out of bed
about lifting yourself from the fog and smoke
about leaving the things that kill your spirit
about how it’s never too late to start loving the
best and worst about you

tell them it’s never too late to heal
and press forward
tell them, Whitney
tell them you weren’t built to break

You have been through hell back
own the scars
own the hoarse and cracked
lament nothing
tell them that any sound from this body
is a joyful noise
it is a living noise
it is a healing noise
tell them, Whitney
then tell them again
and again
and again

tell them so they know that you will
that you did
that you live
that you are here
and with us
tell them so they know that the end
is never the end
that the truth is that no matter how many times we fall
the body still has the strength for one more stand
for one more attempt at morning

 

Day of Letter Writing Challenge (crush)

I started a secret blog. It’s where I’m putting most of my writing. It’s private and locked so nobody can find it. It’s better this way. I want to return to this every day of writing. Before too many eyes and opinions and strangers convinced me to hold myself a little quieter. In order to get myself back in the habit, on that blog, I’m doing the letter writing challenge that I abandoned on the 7th day exactly a year ago. The challenges became too personal so I quit. Now, I can put them in a place that no one can see.

I’m sharing this one because I like it. *shrugs* That’s the only reason. Please keep in mind, that these letters are not written like I would really write someone. They’re all poetic license everything. No slave to punctuation (like I ever am.).  Please don’t think I would really send this to my crush. I wouldn’t. It’s creepy. But this is what I would say in my head if it weren’t absolutely too much. That’s a long disclaimer. I just don’t want you to walk away thinking, “Damn. Bassey is a stalker.” I mean, I am. But not because of this.

I’m stalling because I’m nervous. I think I’ll put it behind this cut. Oh! Also, this was a free write. I set a timer for 20 minutes and only used that time. They will all be free writes so I don’t talk myself out of it because I don’t have the time or I can’t think of anything to write.

Yeah. Still stalling. Here. You can blame Adele for this shit too.

Beloved:It is morning. The sun casts an uncharacteristic shadow at this hour. Unlike the brash and arrogance of summer, winter sun rises wearily. Cautiously. Without fanfare or prediction, she just appears. Like jilted lover, she refuses us warmth. Punishment for how we complain about her heat in summer, I suppose.
This is relevant somehow. Not sure if I’m sun or winter or summer or jilted lover. Perhaps neither. I wish you could tell me.

I think of you often. I wonder about your face the second light hits it. I wonder about your hands, what the fingers do when they grip tightly. Is there a difference between doorknob and caress? Coffee cup and anger? I imagine there is.
I think of you often, wonder about your voice. More often than I should probably admit– I cobble together the few sentences I’ve heard you speak. Stitch them carefully so I imagine what my name might sound like after it’s lived on your tongue.
If you saw me, would you  know? Would you fall quiet and walk away swiftly. I don’t blame you. I am  a thing you must to prepare for. I am a hurricane of a woman. I am flood. You will be swept away and drenched in me. I know. You know. So this is okay. You must be prepared for this. Gather rations and supplies. Come armed. Come ready. Come.

Are you aware of your beauty?  Not in the way that invites vanity, a mirror could tell you all you wish to know. I mean, are you aware of your beauty? The you that exists outside the glare of attention that surrounds you. There is something your eyes that suggest you don’t. That every camera flashing leaves you confused. Every single time, I imagine you hesitate and wonder, why? I’ll tell you. It’s because you glow.
That’s all I have. Just your glowing image in my mind. Perhaps, it’s best that we don’t speak. I want to hold this. Remember you this way. No knowledge of the hearts you’ve broken. The women you promised to call after. The way they waited and waited and waited longer than they are proud of. I don’t want to know you regular. Flesh and bone, pain inducing ex-lover. Someone’s horrible ex-boyfriend. I need your glowing image.
I have my own horrible and broken to contend with, I refuse to add you to the collection.

So I suppose, I must will myself to forget you. To dismiss the possibility of breath on cheek. Hand firm and gentle on small of back.  I refuse the draw of your face. Invite famine rather than imagine making a feast of your mouth.
Even, I, a glutton for creating my own heartbreak can not justify the way you haunt my dreams. The way you follow me into morning. The way mid-day conjures up thoughts of you. Night offers no solace from the oppressive always of you on my mind.
I must create a farewell song that exists only for me.
You, however, are welcome to find me. Prepare yourself for the flood.

Always love,
B.

 

Allow Yourself Morning

Allow Yourself Morning

I was kind of quoted in the Chicago Tribune.

If you knew the kind of “time” I’ve been having the last few weeks/months/years, you’d understand why the traffic of The Root article and now this Tribune quote means a lot more than it probably should. No matter how much we like to think that what others think doesn’t matter, it’s just not true. I’ve never believed that. I choose whom to believe and about what but it does matter. And feeling appreciated and understood and treasured by others when you can’t manage it for yourself is important.

At least to me, anyway.

My motto the last few days has been, “Allow yourself morning.” People who have any form of depression should understand what that means. It means, wait until tomorrow. And it means forgetting you said that yesterday and saying it again today and tomorrow and the next day and the next day until something helps you out of bed. Then out of the door. Then somewhere that is safe and helpful.

No matter how bad it gets— and it does get bad— allow yourself morning.

Things aren’t suddenly spectacular because of reasons but yesterday, I got my hair done. Today, I got my eyebrows done. Tomorrow, I’m going to Target to buy moisturizer and I’ll probably leave there with a talking trash can and 85 things that “only cost a dollar!”  but forget to buy the moisturizer completely. Then on Monday, I’ll have to go back to Target to get it and a salted caramel hot chocolate from Starbucks. And then Tuesday, there will be another reason to put a foot in front of the other.

Allow yourself morning. Even if it means, you stay in bed because you don’t trust yourself to get out of it. Give yourself that day to do that but the following day, find any excuse- any excuse— to get out of it even if it’s just for 5 minutes. But all you need is permission for one morning and then the next and then the next and then the next.

This thing can be roadblock or sliding door. That sliding door could be made of stone and barbed wire and jagged glass teeth but it can be moved.

Allow yourself morning.

And candy.

 

The Siwe Project

Over the summer, I wrote about Siwe Monsanto, the amazing, beautiful, talented 15-year old daughter of my friend, Dionne. I wrote about what  a wonderful human being she was. I wrote about how funny she was. I wrote about what a wonderful mother Dionne was. I wrote about how sad Siwe was at times. I wrote about how she took her own life. Since Siwe’s death, I’ve been struggling with ways I could do more as a human being and someone who loved her. I’ve thought about ways that I could use what few talents I had to do something more to honor Siwe’s memory and to prevent deaths like hers. In August, just 2 months shy of Siwe’s death, I came up with the idea of The Siwe Project, a global non-profit whose aim was to spread mental wealth awareness and education in the global black community. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it. I’m only a writer. I have no admin experience but I knew it needed to be done so I began talking to some people. It’s been said before but now it goes unquestioned that I’m surrounded by some of the most amazing human beings in the world. Friends, family and strangers both here and abroad rallied to offer support, guidance and encouragement. They all agreed that this was necessary. The last 6 months have been a serious learning experience for me. I’ve been tested and I’ve been encouraged. I learned that when I am overwhelmed and confused, there is an army of people prepped and ready to offer guidance and lend words (and actions) of support.

I can not tell you how grateful I am to announce that this Wednesday, December 14th in Washington, DC, The Siwe Project will launch officially. This is just a soft launch, we will be sharing our mission and plans for the future. We will announce our slogan and photo campaign. We are starting small in order to stay focused and on task but we hope to do big things. We need to erase the stigma of mental illness from our communities. We must learn to love and cherish our mental health as much as our physical health. We must encourage and support those with mental illness so that they may manage and seek treatment without fear or shame. These are imperatives. Too many of us our dying or the walking dead. This isn’t about pushing medication or specific forms of treatment on anyone. What works for me, may not work for you. But find something that works. Face it. Treat it. Then live.

The following video was directed by my good friend, Pierre Bennu. It is a version of my poem, Choices, which was written about my personal early struggles with illness. I’ve had my ups and downs. I’ve had my setbacks and falls but I’m still here and I couldn’t ask for anything else. I want the same for all of you. We can do this.

Choices For The Siwe Project

Don’t let it or anyone else define you. Seek treatment and live your best life. Mental illness is not who you are. It’s what you have. 

Come out support and celebrate. http://thesiweprojectafterparty.eventbrite.com/

Best,

B.

 

The Lost Ones.

Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough
And things go wrong no matter what I do
Now and then it seems that life is just too much
But you’ve got the love I need to see me through

 

I’ve been a little down lately. And by lately, I mean about a month or longer. I know what triggered it and I’m a little embarrassed to admit– even vaguely– that I was so affected by it. When it happened, I acknowledged the sadness and the disappointment. I inhaled and held it. And as the days went on, whenever I was threatened by a flooding over, I would inhale and hold and inhale and hold and inhale and hold. Until there was no breath left. Until my lungs were full. Until the air stopped moving around me. I felt numb to it. “it” whatever it was. It had iced my veins. I thought this was better than the flooding over. It was better than that drenched in it. This feeling nothing.  This wide-eyed and sleeping. This going through the motions.  I’ve been planning and creating and building this organization. We launch on December 7th and I’m scared. And rather than allowing the fear to take root, I inhaled. And held it. So somewhere in that breath was fear and disappointment and sadness all mingling and codependent.

I thought quiet was better. I thought silence was better. And sometimes it is. I didn’t/don’t have the time for  navel gazing and exploring. There’s too much to be done. The world doesn’t pause because you need a moment to catch up, Bassey.

And catch up I did. All the years I’ve felt disconnected from came rushing back. I’ve never felt “my age”. I’d look around at people the same age as I am and wonder why they were so grown up. Why the lived the lives my parents do. When did we decide to get husbands and mortgages? I’ve always felt a few years behind. I blamed it on the years I spent on tour. I blamed it on the illness. I blamed it on the New York City that I loved for encouraging arrested development. I felt this disconnect.

Creeping towards 40. And what to show of it? A few clips on youtube. A smattering of freelanced articles online. An absurd amount of tweets.

A frowning, yawning bank account.

I want the years I lost back. A proper do-over. There is no regret here just a lamenting. I just know a lot was expected of me. I know that I had been given so much. I know that the distance between what I’ve been given and where I am are disappointing to those who saw promise.

I saw my favorite college professor and he said what I know many have thought:

“Wow, Bassey. We thought you were going to take over the world. What happened?”

I don’t know.

The Siwe Project is my way of giving back these years I’ve wasted. At least without me here, there will be a legacy besides the brown, big headed boy who deserves a better version of this world.  The only thing I have fit to pass down (to you) is this heart of a dreamer…

“But I want you stronger sooner/ want you kind and brave/want you unafraid to fight for what you believe and need/want you beautiful and free/want you nothing like your mother…”

I’m fine. I just need something to puncture my lungs.

I need to get this air out.

Return feeling to my limbs.

 

Free Write: On Ringing Phones and Persistent Good Byes

Immigrants know it too well– the way these phones ring at these ungodly hours. The way they jar you out of sleep. The first call can be ignored. It can be dismissed as a cousin wanting money or an uncle confused about the time difference only wanting to say hello. The second is an annoyance. The frustration of being shaken out of bed by the shrill and electronic scream of a telephone. You hear the answering machine click and the echoed “hello? hello? awilo-oh? Hello?” then a dial tone. You roll over to check the time. 3AM. 4AM. 5. Your heart races a bit but you tell yourself that it’s just a cousin wanting money or an uncle confused about the time difference only wanting to say hello.

Then it rings again. It screams again. The answering machine clicks. The echoed hello. the dial tone. You know that this can not be ignored. Good news is never this persistent. Good news leaves a message. Good news announces itself. This is not good news. You lie in bed and listen. Your body stiff and unforgiving. Your breath a facsimile of itself. Your mind races. Remember both your brothers went out separately last night. You allow yourself the strength to lift your body out of the bed. Shuffle to the window. Count the cars. The boys are safe. You picked your sister up from the train station hours before. You know she is safe. Your mother and her grandson share a bed on weekends. This slumber party ritual of The Game Show Network and bedtime stories. They are safe. Your father is away on business. You do not give yourself permission to think of anything but his safety. For a moment, you forget yourself. Find your face in the dark allow the headache that has been threatening your evening to flood over. The pain reminds you that you are safe.

Staring out into the early morning dark and cold of this suburban America, you hear the phone again. The click. The hello. The dial tone. Finally give yourself permission to remember Grandmother died 2 months ago. PaPa left a little over 2 years ago.  You have been in this country for 30 years. You have watched your father answer the phone at these ungodly hours. You have stayed in the shadows and caught the words you understood. You have pretended not to notice the tears. There was the cousin you barely remember. Your favorite uncle. The auntie that fed your  you sweets and an ice cold bottle of Fanta. Your parents have been on the cold end of the receiver. They have ached about the lives they’ve chosen. The one that keeps an ocean between their bodies and their hearts. You start to feel the disconnect between the faces that shaped you and the country that raised you.

The phone rings again. You’ve lost count.

Make your way down the stairs. Forget your glasses. Forget the light switches. Feel your way through the hall and into the kitchen. Taste the cold of winter rushing in way way too soon. Your vision is blurry. Remember your glasses. Feel your way through the kitchen. The red eye of the answering machine blinks silent and furious. Eight. Eight. Eight. Eight.  Press play. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Play.

“Sista, awilo-oh…” Press stop.

If you leave now, you can still convince yourself that it is a cousin wanting money or an uncle confused about the time difference only wanting to say hello. You decide to stay. You hear the music of a language that haunts you quietly. When you were 4, it was the only thing that made sense to you. You are 35 now, it is just music. A tune you can’t connect with. You stand in the dark and force a blurred stare into the speaker. The words surround you, you swear you don’t understand but you know. The only question is who. Who now? Who?

It rings again. It screams again. Before the click, you know your mother has heard this. Has gone through her own ritual. She is prepared to pick up this time. You watch the words “line in use” flash for a few seconds, then freeze. Then click. Wait a few seconds before you gather what brought you here and make your way upstairs. When you get to the top wait a few more seconds to search  your brain for who.

Make your way to your mother’s door. Knock softly. Wait for her to ask you in. It’s nearly 6 now, the clock making a steady march towards a reasonable hour of the morning. Open the door and wait for her to say something. Anything.

“Nyono, my father died.” You nod.

“are you okay?”

“yes.”

You turn to leave. You know the history of this one. You’re not sure if a hug is appropriate. You know that there will be no poetry. No fond memories. This is only a reminder that we must heal and forgive before the next phone begins ringing.  So ask again. This time make sure she knows what you mean.

“Are you okay?”

“yes.”

Immigrants know it too well. The way these phones ring at ungodly hours. The way these oceans divide our bodies. The way these good byes rush in before you have had a chance to settle and steady.

 

 

Didn’t Turn Out Exactly How (my) Mom And Dad Wanted Me To Be

I call my blog “Tales of an Underachieving Overachiever”. It’s a tongue-in-cheek acknowledgement that the expectations I predicted or were predicted for me as a child have gone largely unfulfilled. Even in my young adult hood, I was carving my path and okay with what I was seeing but I also allowed fear to be more brick wall than persistent wind. I note that my parents aren’t sure what to make of me. I note that my uncles and aunties (friends of my parents) have no idea what to make of me. I’ve been okay with that for the last few years but coming home to restart life with a child in tow and few resources, I’ve had to come to terms with decisions that I’ve made that I’m not proud of. I’m not ashamed of any choice I’ve made, don’t get me wrong but I am ready to admit that I’ve made quite a few poor choices.

Now, it would be easy to blame those choices on my illness and the illness does play a part. Absolutely. It’s kept me paralyzed at times and spinning into a dervish of debilitation and  dysfunction. It’s why I didn’t finish college. I had trouble convincing my mind and body to work in tandem. If I could even make it out of the fog of depression to make it to class, I’d often sit there with words battling for space in my head. Thoughts speeding in loops that would make NASCAR enthusiasts dizzy. I spent most of my twenties trying to figure out how to navigate and negotiate my broken brain. I think I did pretty well but as an “underachieving overachiever”, I feel like I could have done more. But at some point, I do take responsibility for who I am and what I’ve done and I take every day as an opportunity to do and be better than I was yesterday.

That’s just how I feel. I’ve been taking inventory of my personality the last few days/weeks/months and the verdict, thus far is that I’m pretty awesome. I mean really, I love the person that I am. I’m not going to sit here and list my positive attributes, if you know me, you know them. I’ll just go ahead and write “arrogant” in the not so great section of my list. Kidding. But seriously, one thing that I’ve noticed is that as brave as I am and have been in my life, I’ve also let fear rule me. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of being alone. Fear of being unloved or unlovable. Fear of failure. Fear of success I can’t handle. The list goes on and on. I’m working on figuring out how to leap more often and more frequently. Deciding not to perform poetry anymore was a huge step. It’s all I’ve ever done professionally. It’s been my only job and I think I did it as long as I did because I was scared of not having anything. Sure the money was great when it was there but I was tired of living scared that suddenly all the gigs would dry up and I’d be left out in the cold. And things did slow down. I stopped putting myself out there because of tired of constantly having to prove and sell myself to the new batch of college students who hadn’t heard of me or seen my work. It’s not the life I wanted. One of my twitter friends (@speakwritelove) does this amazing service on twitter called #TarotTuesdays. It’s brilliant and I wish there was a way for me to praise, protect and promote her work. Anyway, she read for me about some recent changes I’ve made and marked that “my passion is finally meeting my purpose.” Speaking of course about The Siwe Project.

I know how difficult it’s been for me to live the life I wanted while trying to battle this “thing” I didn’t understand. I wasted a lot of years. I disappointed a lot of people. I broke a lot of hearts, mine included. I hurt a lot of people, myself included. And I feel like I have to pay restitution. To finally get my thoughts and actions in line with my purpose and my expectations of myself. I’m very difficult to love. I’m never emotionally or physically stable enough to hold on to. I turn and I fly and if I do return, I’m never like I was when I left. An ex-boyfriend once told me after a particularly silent car ride that “You left again.” and I was pissed off at the emo nature of the statement but I understood what he meant. I checked out and I wasn’t coming back. I ended the relationship less than a month later. I don’t know why I checked out. Or why I ever check out and never come back but I’m learning to enter things for the right reasons. That’s been the most difficult thing to learn. The “right reasons”.

I remember writing in this space about a year ago that I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ve never been in love. I’ve loved deeply and I’ve loved loudly. But I’ve never felt that soft, fold and comfort that comes with the “in love.” I’ve joked that I’ve never fallen in love, I’ve flung myself at it. And it’s funny but true. I’m finally at a point where I’m cautious and I’m careful and I’m studied and I’m learned about what I do and how and why. It’s been a slow process and I’ve noticed it slowly occurring over the last year. After some particularly terrible, relationships (both friendship and otherwise) all layered on top of each other, situations that I NEVER should have entered but was too dazed and frantic to see at the time. And then after the last guy, almost a year ago, I realized that I was tired of it all and if I wanted to love and be loved and not “leave for cigs and never come back”, I had to take careful stock of who I am and what I had to offer and why I was offering it. It’s been tough. It’s difficult to hold a mirror to yourself and notice that that hairstyle isn’t as cute on you as you thought. But it’s necessary and though I acknowledge that I still have much work to do, I’m pretty damn happy with were i am now. I have my ups and downs. I woke up a little down this morning. Not sure why. Just felt a heaviness in my belly that I couldn’t target but the difference between now and a few years ago, is that heaviness would have sunk me to the bottom of the ocean. This heaviness just sort of feels like I had too much fufu. I just need to sit a little bit and let it digest.

Which is how this blog happened. It didn’t really do what I wanted it to do. It started one place and ended another. Much like my life. Much like me.

I’m cool with that,

B.

 

Get Out of My Dreams…

I’m pretty much certain everything I write for the next few days will have a Billy Ocean lyric as the title. You’re just going to have to deal with it. I’m sorry.

I’m not sorry.

I really liked that song when I was little. I think it was half in cartoon. It’s the same reason MC Skat Kat and I were peoples. I loved that video. I know the whole dance routine. I know the dance routine to most videos that came out in the 80s/90s. We were too poor to afford dance class so that’s how I learned how to dance. I checked out books in the library to learn proper ballet technique. Remember that for my inevitable Master Class on OWN… provided OWN still exists in a year. No shade. I just find the channel hella boring except for the Master Class series.

I didn’t do anything productive today. Not one single, solitary thing. I didn’t cook. I didn’t write. I didn’t clean. I didn’t cheer my estranged truck driver father on as he participated in the world series of arm wrestling. Screaming, “Over the top, dad! Over the top!” Nope. I did none of that. I just sat here, staring at my blank google page, watching it blink and blink and blink taunting me with it’s incessant, persistent, ticking like some sort of demonic metronome.  I read a little bit. Then back to the blinking cursor. I really want to write about Beyonce’s pregnancy and how it’s turned into some sort of round about vilification of single motherhood. I just can’t seem to figure out the best way to enter the conversation. I talk about my son a lot and it’s obvious I’m a single mother but I don’t really talk about the circumstances surrounding this. And not talking about it would make my post inauthentic at best and downright useless at worst.

The blinking cursor got annoying so I did a “Name it and Claim it” I made a bullet point list of where I wanted to be exactly one year from today. You should try it. It’ll surprise you plus it will keep your goals close to you. You’ll have a destination in mind for the amazing journey you’re on now. Or you’ll have a place to look forward so you can start on a journey.

Thanks to one of my amazing followers (@kenya_d) it looks like there might be a BasseyWorld Live: Redux. I’m going to look into the venue after my sabbatical and see what happens but it looks good. It will also serve as the first fundraiser for The Siwe Project. We need funds just so we can put the website up. I  gave up a lot to start this organization. I’ve turned down gigs that weren’t really in line with where I’m headed. I’ll still do colleges/universities because I have the opportunity to spread the message as well as read some poems. Boogie is well taken care of and I trust and believe that my personal needs will be met. I’m never without. Something always pulls me through. And I feel like this is a big enough “thing” that it will have its own rewards. I have to believe that.

And I do believe it.

Even though I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to come about Boogie’s winter uniform but it’ll happen. It always does.

Paciencia y fe. 

Lesson for the stubborn and impatient.

I have nothing of interest or importance to say. I just felt like giving that patronizing blinking cursor something to talk about.

This new medication is taking my appetite so I have to remember to eat something. So far it’s protein shakes and tea. Chewing has become tedious but I’ll do it. The medication is working so I refuse to stop taking it. I might finally have the combination. I feel completely balanced right now. Not too up and definitely not down. I feel “normal”. I like normal. I just need to relearn how to function in normal. It’s a reset that I have to do with each med switch. Nothing about me changes. My personality remains the same, I just have to learn to move without the crutches. It’s almost like mental/emotional physical therapy. Which is where regular ass therapy comes in and giving myself permission to sit and not write anything all day and not beat myself up over it. This ability to be kinder to myself and treat myself the way I treat and care for others. It’s good. I like it.

I’m sorry this isn’t poetic or inspirational. It’s just all I have right now. And a closet full of shoes and bags that I need to organize in some way. Swapping out summer for fall. Every year, I wonder what happened to my clothes. Suddenly I have nothing to wear for fall. Plenty of shoes, coats and denim but where are my tops? Do I even own any sweaters? These are questions I have.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about why I’m in this deep deep place of self reflection and evaluation.

Or I won’t.

#youcare

B.

 

When The Going Gets Tough

I’ve been listening to a lot of Billy Ocean the last few days. I don’t mean, I play his greatest hit CD on iTunes once a day. No. I mean, that continuously from the moment I wake up until the seconds I fall asleep, Billy Ocean is on a continuous loop. I’ve always been a fan of his. Since I was little, I just liked the dude. I have no idea why. When I started listening to him recently, it was kind of a joke. I’d heard Lover Boy somewhere and went on Youtube searching for the weird ass Dark Crystal alien video that went with it. Then I started listening to some other songs and I was like, “Wow. I forgot how much I like this dude.’ from there comes the downloading of the greatest hits and well– you have me. Listening to this CD all day every day for the past 3 days.

I get like that sometimes. Something enters my brain and I’m completely obsessed with that thing for a week, if it’s extra awesome, a month and then suddenly, it fades slowly out of my circle of thought and it’s like it never existed. (See also: Beyonce’s new album, Les Twins, avocado toast, cooking– the list goes on.)  I do this with people too. I’m not proud of it. I’ve been doing a lot of self evaluation (evaluating?) lately because I’m getting ready for some important changes in my life. I have to be prepared to take on these huge professional and personal changes and I have to make sure that the things that have prevented me from these types of things previously, don’t rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune time. I’m not going to sit here and list all the things that would annoy me if I were my own friend (or something.) but it’s eye opening to see yourself through a clear and honest mirror. I’m working on making the changes. And accepting some of the things about me that probably will never change. One of which being that I am a complete neurotic freak. Ain’t enough medication or therapy in the world to change that. I just have to make sure it doesn’t completely get out of control. I’ve learned to check myself constantly and keep it contained. The urge I have to go overboard stays internal. So and so hasn’t contacted me in a few weeks? Okay. Now don’t get me wrong, I will freak out and come up with every illogical reason as to why not often ending with my accidentally insulting a personal friend while telling one of my jokes. (“Dude, I didn’t know Lil Wayne was your cousin…”) Now, I know that’s not true. Okay. I’m not sure if it’s true but the odds of it being true are slim to none. Now ordinarily, I would have apologized for this mystery slight that never happened just to find out what the fuck is going on?!?!? Now, however, I think these things, might even vent to a girlfriend or two, but for the most part I keep it and eventually shrug it off on some, “Well. Whatever. Everyone’s busy. Hell I’m busy. Let me get to my life. Get at me when you get at me.” See? Growth.

Kinda.

I’m taking a social media sabbatical. I’ve decided that blogging doesn’t count. These are my rules, I’ll change them how I like. I’m also not responding to emails unless they’re super important. I even have an away message telling folks that I’m unavailable until the 8th. Why the 8th? Why the fuck not. See? My rules. All jokes aside, I need a break. I have so much going on in the future, that I need to clear my head and my hurt and prepare for it. I need to be ready. Things are going to be huge. I’m being purposefully obtuse because I can’t give details. Just know that I have to be ready to handle the pressure and the stress with confidence and aplomb. Don’t you just love that word “aplomb” it makes me think of some sort of magical fruit.

My grandmother died.

I have to say that a few times a day because it really doesn’t make sense. She lived in Nigeria so every once in awhile, my brain convinces me that she’s at her house, tending to her farm and I’m going to see her as I planned in about a year. A year. I decided on a year. I didn’t know she didn’t have a year.

I know everyone says “live each moment like it’s the last” or “love the people in your life because they may not be around when you get around to it”? Wait… nobody says that. I think I just made it up. Well, there’s a saying like that and I can’t remember what it is. Point is, I’m taking that mad seriously these days. I’m all about grabbing for the highest thing. I don’t care what it is. I’m going for it. Oh, what’s that you say? I can’t so that? The hell you say. Watch me do it and then quit it and then do it again just to show off.

This blog is all over the place. Not tweeting has all these random thoughts that I usually put out there sort of just swimming around in my head playing water polo and shit.

So yeah. I’m good. Working on The Siwe Project. Trying to maintain some sort of balance in my mind, heart and spirit. Cleaning my room. Oh my God. I cleaned my room and threw away tons of stuff. Clothes and shoes and letters to old flames that I for some reason made copies of and kept. Weirdo. Yeah. Tossed all that. I don’t need that energy. Not if I’m trying to invite new ones. The past is the past. I’m ready for the future.

It’s 9:00PM and I’m ready for bed. Like I’m legit yawning. I’ve been waiting since 7 for it to be a reasonable time to sleep. See what happens when I’m not on Twitter, Facebook or g-chat? Fatigue sets in. I think doctors should study that.

I’m good though. A little anxious just because this project could be huge and I don’t want to fuck it up. But I’m pushing through the nerves. It’s too important.

Things are okay. Day one of internet (except blogging) hiatus has been a success. I have way too much time on my hands now so I’m going to start reading. Oh books. How I’ve missed you and your fragile paper pages. I think I’m going to re-ready some J. California Cooper. #YouCare (yes, I did.).

Tomorrow, hopefully, writing will happen. I have more to say than I thought.

Laters love bugs,

B.

PS. I’m okay with it and I get why it’s not as easy as most things and that’s why I want it. Because it’s not as easy as most things. Which means, it has the potential to be better. So don’t be afraid of how quirky, neuortic and adorable I am. It adds to my charm and trust me, your life will never be boring. Never.

That was an open note of sorts. If this was 7th period English, I would have asked my friend to slip it in a locker for me. I asked my blog instead.

See? quirky. Adorable. awesome.