Tuesday, April 15, 2014

I don't believe you

Trends or fads, which ever you feel, come and go but not without consequence. As does the notion of change and the fear that maybe we aren't ready to face it. The endless quotes and songs that guide our woes to and from that place of despair YET we always reroute to find ourselves just where we don't want to be. What is it about the culture of doom and gloom that is so popular and alluring to even the most Socratic of poets and musicians? Is the shadowy places that lure us in with pity so deep that we never actually leave them, just get eternally lost within them? Are the comforts of conformity comforting you comfortably? Or has the danger of possibility broken that fragile spirit of hope. None of us can stand here and pretend to have the answers to amend the cracked facades but through gentle support, we can all stay together.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Earnest

Earnest conversation. I like that. When I dial a number that would hopefully be yours and can express everything on my mind and heart without reserve. I like that. Not worried about the receiving end of how and whys or why-nots and how comes. I like that. The conversation is just honest. The conversation just flows. Because my words feel safe with you. In their purest form. I like that. That, which can flow in ebbs and bows without skipping a single beat of mines or yours in our speech and emotional capacity. We don't have to worry about misinterpretation, we don't have to worry about rumors spreading, we don't have to worry about what each other thinks of this dance of ideas and manifestations of the soul because there is trust. Our nouns bounce off our lips and meet with verbs that form predication of a story meant for our discussion verbatim, and in action. Ad hominem when speaking of that which makes us afraid of our own voice but when speaking with you, fear has no place. And the only place for peace is between us. I like that.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Labels.

I hate labels.
I grew up of immigrant parents from a color-concerned 3rd world country in the Caribbean. They worked hard to send me to a catholic school where for the first three years of academia no one else looked like me; luckily I didn't notice until the third grade. That was when the comments about my hair were made. They were cute, I suppose.. "What beautiful bows, how does your hair stay like that?" I probably had an innocent accent from saying words I thought were English only to be received with confused laughter. It was that moment where I realized I cannot fit in physically because I was not meant to.

"Don't hang out with those black Americans! They are the people that don't go to school and never work!" which was the narrative of the old man, often met with eye rolls. I used to believe him, not because there was any fact but because it was fun to not have actually earned a status and feel entitled to it. Because daddy said so obviously, but I digress. So I was told to forever speak proper (I knew no other way?) appear neat and clean, polite, never talk back and be above the cut academically. My grandfather would lecture "Girls should be like beautiful flowers, always look and smell good". Well OK then.

Time goes on and I sprout my mothers hips and ass to my classmates slender frames with breast. A few more brown classmates have joined and together we faced (and conquered!) the tired politics of the old world. Sr. Francine may you rest in the peace that you denied us. Questioning my fathers reasoning about black Americans as it so clearly was ignorant; we were treated the same no matter what our GPA was. As a "flower" I was boxed long before as something else. Defined before allowing definition, when my entity was still unknown even to myself. However these strangers knew me? My friends knew me? Or what they expected because of complexion and/or grades? Goal of my teen years 1) Break the glass ceiling, 2) Get to college. 

"Girls should be like flowers, always look good and smell good". No denying the proximal affect of a beautiful bouquet. In a week those flowers and stems have wilted but still pretty, nothing more attractive than a downward spiral. And in another week they are trashed and maybe replaced. Maybe not.

Beauty gets old and boring and surely replaceable. But a beautiful spirit never expires. It's full of love, adventure, compassion, and wanton jubilee. I've never strived to be simply beautiful, a facade of good genes and makeup. I hope my spirit never dies, even when my "Beauty" does. Grandpa will understand.
I hate Labels.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Whoever

I don't need light to view you.
The glimmer of your effortless aura gives me the right amount of shine to smile in your direction.
I can feel you in every sense of emotion that I'm allowing myself to currently succumb to. To finally feel you the way I am meant to.
I'm so stubborn. The walls around me, placed undeniably by me, have cheated me of knowing how completely infected by you I've become...
So I guess I'll just continue to deny it.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

2014

In some form of defense against my perpetual possibilities I would ALWAYS downplay certain compliments. Now my friends, as honest and powerful as they are (and I'm lucky to have them), they never shy from teasing me about my physical vanity. However, personality compliments always enacted the "Be Humble" alarm and I end up playing off the kind dialogue with some humor (my defence mechanism). I fooled myself into thinking that my comfort zone in empathic-mediocrity/automatic humility meant for me to never accept genuine accolade and instead laugh it off like some potty trained puppy. What the hell was I thinking? A little pride in who I am would have probably gone a long way in life. Hm. "New Year New Me" or nah?

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Momma

I often refer to myself in the privacy of my thoughts as a prodigal daughter...simply because I fight whats best for me for the sake of battle and even maybe a challenge. Recently I watched my mother pray without ceasing (probably for me) and I saw her war-torn battle tested bible and prayer books. The tape and rubber bands barely held the paper together, the edges pig eared to tearing, and few bare spaces were scribbled in with deep passionate cries for change, help, blessings...something.
This made me cry. I felt so helpless for my mother, someone I fight with constantly... For what? The day she leaves me will be a horrible awakening of wasted pride. I should be proud of her and vice versa. I felt horrible that she was hurting so deep that even holy text left her empty. That even reading the same Jeremiah 29:11 "for these plans I have for you.." didn't appeal to her cries that I probably caused her to scream. Whatever prayer she was decreeing over me went unheard. I cried for mom then, and saw her as human as myself; but somehow better. She is my mother.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Come.

I just want you to come.
Come to me with everything you own, all your baggage, your indecisions and shames.
I want to unpack it all.
Place them neatly on the mantle to remind me of how far you've come. Also to remind me of the lenghts I have to go in order to reach you.
The lengths I'd gladly go if you were my last gasp of air.
Come to me.
Bring your renewed hopes in us and let's unpack them together. The mistakes we made let's not harbor on those packages, and treat them like last season gifts.
Whether we enjoy the process of unpacking or not is irrelevant; I want us to share the everything that encompass the beautiful being that is you.
Come and unpack.
I won't judge your filth, I won't question it. With compassionate words I help you amass what's unpleasant. With that I would only dare to remind of how I adore you for those same reasons.
I adore your filth because it is a part of you. For that reason it's unfortunately named by you which I chose to change to mere skips in your perfect beat.
The beat I dance too in hopes that you will come.
Come and unpack with me.