I learned the news at 6:00am. I cried myself back to sleep for what seemed like forever.
I woke again at 7:00, tore myself from my tear soaked pillow, and tried to write a poem about it. But how do you write a poem about how history is a revolving door, spinning uncontrollably counter clockwise, repeating itself every so often.
I do not have the words for what happened, but I do have enough tears and rage to relay my message.
Charleston Wednesday smells a lot like Birmingham Sunday. Like black folks gathered round the church clapping, singing, and praying harder than fallen boulders on pavement.
This world outside is tough, but in these four walls we are safe. We've found community in speaking in tongues, in the First Lady's fancy church suits, and the way momma fanned sweat from her skin when the Holy Ghost reached down to touch her.
We are home now, in the Lord's house. There is no place I'd rather be.
There is a new face this Wednesday and we welcome him with opened arms as our families always taught us to do.
I wonder what happens next. This is where my words begin to disappear and I forget everything I've learned about writing poems before now. Haikus and sonnets vanish from my memory.
I do not know what happens next. I question whether he made an announcement, finished his prayer, or just opened fire. See I'm a writer, and I have a weird fascination with picturing everything that happens.
I picture the choir singing. Take Me To The King. Voices belting from bodies filled with love. I picture holding hands, strong embraces, tears and testimonies.
As much as I love imagery, I cannot picture bullets flying past the pulpit. I cannot picture pews becoming a safe house for little boys and girls on Wednesday night prayer. I cannot fathom how again, 52 years later, someone can walk again into the house of the Lord and turn praise into pleads for help.
I do not know what happened next. I do not know how families scavenged over blood, bodies, and bibles, and fans and fancy church hats trying to locate the limbs of their loved ones. I do not know if Take Me To The King is still playing faintly in the background.
I do not know how to end this poem.
I do not know how to transform what happened Charleston Wednesday and Birmingham Sunday into stanzas for your soul to feel.
So I close my book. I wipe tears, and snot, and oppression so strong it stings from my body.
I fall to my knees. I bend my head down to pray, sighing deeply because I am finally safe now.
And then I remember.
Friday, June 19, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Random Tips and Quotes from A Black Girl to A Black Girl.
1. Shea butter will have your skin glistening in the summer time, but you'll also mess around and be outside cooking like a fried egg.
2.There is more than ONE WAY TO BE BEAUTIFUL.
3. Always wash your makeup off before bed.
4. Eat the cake, or pizza. Drink the soda, and wine, and the shot if you need to.
5. "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."
6. You don't NEED a man, you WANT a man. Learn the difference.
7. Love yourself first.
8. Write poems. Dance stories. Become music. Decorate this world with your art.
9. Cry yourself to sleep. If you wake up and the pain hasn't left, walk into your kitchen and grab a bowl of ice cream. Emotions demand to be felt. Junk food just makes it a little easier to swallow.
10. Coconut Oil.
11.When the world tries to label you, shout back that the only label you'll accept is, "MAGIC."
12. Pray for sisterhood. It is a disappearing phenomenon. Bring it back.
13. Ehh. Bras are kinda played out. If they're meant to fall, they will fall either way.
14. African Black Soap.
15. There are black proverbs that you just have to get used to. Your family will call your mate your "little friend" until you're married. You will be told you "smell like outside," even if you were only out for one minute. And she really did bring you into this world. I'm quite positive she can take you out. Don't test it.
16. Learn how to cook. Not for some little boy. But because there is power in knowing how to take care of yourself.
17. Exfoliating your skin is not optional.
18. Gender roles need to be destroyed.
19. "Boys Will Be Boys" is unacceptable.
20. Love your blackness. Your skin, your melanin. Everything they mock and then try to artificially become. Love your hips, and kinky hair, and big nose, and the extra meat on your bones, and the way your family can turn a Sunday dinner into a reunion, the way living rooms become a sanctuary of trust, and how easily music moves through your body and into your soul, your crazy uncles, and crazier cousins. Love how women you barely know become aunts and godmothers in a heart beat, how "tender-headedness" is a real term, how you are frequently imitated but never correctly. Love the black person street acknowledgement, the all day beauty salon visits, and the gossip that brings us all a little closer together. Love your community. Love your family. Love yourself. You are MAGIC.
2.There is more than ONE WAY TO BE BEAUTIFUL.
3. Always wash your makeup off before bed.
4. Eat the cake, or pizza. Drink the soda, and wine, and the shot if you need to.
5. "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."
6. You don't NEED a man, you WANT a man. Learn the difference.
7. Love yourself first.
8. Write poems. Dance stories. Become music. Decorate this world with your art.
9. Cry yourself to sleep. If you wake up and the pain hasn't left, walk into your kitchen and grab a bowl of ice cream. Emotions demand to be felt. Junk food just makes it a little easier to swallow.
10. Coconut Oil.
11.When the world tries to label you, shout back that the only label you'll accept is, "MAGIC."
12. Pray for sisterhood. It is a disappearing phenomenon. Bring it back.
13. Ehh. Bras are kinda played out. If they're meant to fall, they will fall either way.
14. African Black Soap.
15. There are black proverbs that you just have to get used to. Your family will call your mate your "little friend" until you're married. You will be told you "smell like outside," even if you were only out for one minute. And she really did bring you into this world. I'm quite positive she can take you out. Don't test it.
16. Learn how to cook. Not for some little boy. But because there is power in knowing how to take care of yourself.
17. Exfoliating your skin is not optional.
18. Gender roles need to be destroyed.
19. "Boys Will Be Boys" is unacceptable.
20. Love your blackness. Your skin, your melanin. Everything they mock and then try to artificially become. Love your hips, and kinky hair, and big nose, and the extra meat on your bones, and the way your family can turn a Sunday dinner into a reunion, the way living rooms become a sanctuary of trust, and how easily music moves through your body and into your soul, your crazy uncles, and crazier cousins. Love how women you barely know become aunts and godmothers in a heart beat, how "tender-headedness" is a real term, how you are frequently imitated but never correctly. Love the black person street acknowledgement, the all day beauty salon visits, and the gossip that brings us all a little closer together. Love your community. Love your family. Love yourself. You are MAGIC.
Monday, June 8, 2015
6 MONTHS AGO
I was sleep.
I mean, in a comma. Completely. But the crazy thing is, I didn’t even realize.
I was going through the motions.
Smart, but not really learning.
Aware, but not really conscious.
Black, but not really, well....BLACK.
And then I began my process of awakening, and it hasn’t stopped since, and if I’m blessed, it never will.
I say all this to say, America blinded me.
I mean I learned about “black history,” knew in depth about the Civil Rights Movement, and was familiar with the term Social Justice, but I look back and laugh and smile on how far I’ve come.
How much I’ve learned OUTSIDE of the classroom.
And the work I’ve put into making a change.
Before, I would never call myself an activist.
I wasn’t on the front line, wasn’t being arrested, wasn’t holding late night, secret meetings. There was no bounty on my head. No one knew my name besides the people at my school.
So I thought, “How could I be an activist? How can I compare myself to these people out here doing magnificent movement work?”
And I realized I can’t. That’s not my life. That’s not me.
But I am an activist. In my school, my organizations, relationships, community, family, and home
In this world, I make a difference. And I fight for justice.
This is my come to Jesus meeting, for myself.
I am realizing the power I hold and the power we hold as a people.
Now stress over the past 6 months has been out the wazu ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
To see people learn our history. To witness institutions changing policies. To watch my brothers and sisters unite. To be dead tired at the end of the day, but can’t wait till the morning to start all over again. To have passion burning inside of me. To be change.
To hear the words, “I appreciate your work.”
“I want to be like you when I grow up.”
“You are the most empowering woman I know.”
That is power, and strength, and beauty, and awareness, and faith, and hard work, and change, and...ACTION.
And I am an Activist.
And I am learning, and I am making mistakes.
But I am growing more rapidly than I ever imagined,
And I couldn’t be more grateful.
I mean, in a comma. Completely. But the crazy thing is, I didn’t even realize.
I was going through the motions.
Smart, but not really learning.
Aware, but not really conscious.
Black, but not really, well....BLACK.
And then I began my process of awakening, and it hasn’t stopped since, and if I’m blessed, it never will.
I say all this to say, America blinded me.
I mean I learned about “black history,” knew in depth about the Civil Rights Movement, and was familiar with the term Social Justice, but I look back and laugh and smile on how far I’ve come.
How much I’ve learned OUTSIDE of the classroom.
And the work I’ve put into making a change.
Before, I would never call myself an activist.
I wasn’t on the front line, wasn’t being arrested, wasn’t holding late night, secret meetings. There was no bounty on my head. No one knew my name besides the people at my school.
So I thought, “How could I be an activist? How can I compare myself to these people out here doing magnificent movement work?”
And I realized I can’t. That’s not my life. That’s not me.
But I am an activist. In my school, my organizations, relationships, community, family, and home
In this world, I make a difference. And I fight for justice.
This is my come to Jesus meeting, for myself.
I am realizing the power I hold and the power we hold as a people.
Now stress over the past 6 months has been out the wazu ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
To see people learn our history. To witness institutions changing policies. To watch my brothers and sisters unite. To be dead tired at the end of the day, but can’t wait till the morning to start all over again. To have passion burning inside of me. To be change.
To hear the words, “I appreciate your work.”
“I want to be like you when I grow up.”
“You are the most empowering woman I know.”
That is power, and strength, and beauty, and awareness, and faith, and hard work, and change, and...ACTION.
And I am an Activist.
And I am learning, and I am making mistakes.
But I am growing more rapidly than I ever imagined,
And I couldn’t be more grateful.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
SOME TIMES I'M JUST
Tired...
Can I be real for a second? Some times I'm just tired. Of being tired. And I want to come on here and write about my "perfect life" and encourage you all to keep going, but some times I'm tired.
On days like those I usually turn to my journal instead of my blog. I may spend a few minutes scribbling in anger or exhaustion and the next time you see me or read my words, everything is just "PERFECT." Let me be real everybody. Are you listening?
MY LIFE IS NOT PERFECT.
And it get's so tiring trying to front like it is. I started this blog, initially, to encourage other people. But lately I've been thinking, "How can I do that if I'm not even being 100%?" My readers are my family. You all are my family, and I want to share my journey with you. Not just the pretty parts.
When you put yourself out there for the public there's a lot of discernment to learn. I'm constantly asking myself what I should or shouldn't post. How much of my life should I divulge.
IT GETS HARD.
So if I'm going to do this, I need your support. I want to share. I want to help. I want to be the sister you can turn to, to make your day better or verify that you're not alone in this world, but I need that too.
I need sisters and brothers who ALLOW me to share, without judgement. Who are in my corner whenever I need to vent.
Can I have that? Can you be that for me?
Some times I'm just tired. And I just want to vent. So here I am typing my frustration. I may have a bad day or week. Don't we all?
Writing is my breath. I breathe Poetry. This is where I exhale. I don't want to hold my breath anymore.
This post was all over the place but some times, that is exactly what I need. I hope you continue to ride with me and allow me to share.
I'll chat with you soon :)
~Naturallykbiggie
Can I be real for a second? Some times I'm just tired. Of being tired. And I want to come on here and write about my "perfect life" and encourage you all to keep going, but some times I'm tired.
On days like those I usually turn to my journal instead of my blog. I may spend a few minutes scribbling in anger or exhaustion and the next time you see me or read my words, everything is just "PERFECT." Let me be real everybody. Are you listening?
MY LIFE IS NOT PERFECT.
And it get's so tiring trying to front like it is. I started this blog, initially, to encourage other people. But lately I've been thinking, "How can I do that if I'm not even being 100%?" My readers are my family. You all are my family, and I want to share my journey with you. Not just the pretty parts.
When you put yourself out there for the public there's a lot of discernment to learn. I'm constantly asking myself what I should or shouldn't post. How much of my life should I divulge.
IT GETS HARD.
So if I'm going to do this, I need your support. I want to share. I want to help. I want to be the sister you can turn to, to make your day better or verify that you're not alone in this world, but I need that too.
I need sisters and brothers who ALLOW me to share, without judgement. Who are in my corner whenever I need to vent.
Can I have that? Can you be that for me?
Some times I'm just tired. And I just want to vent. So here I am typing my frustration. I may have a bad day or week. Don't we all?
Writing is my breath. I breathe Poetry. This is where I exhale. I don't want to hold my breath anymore.
This post was all over the place but some times, that is exactly what I need. I hope you continue to ride with me and allow me to share.
I'll chat with you soon :)
~Naturallykbiggie
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