the courage to love. {edited}

It was my Junior year of High School. Every day I made my way up those 3 flights of deadly stairs to my 6th period Biology class, and every day there he stood...up against the wall, watching. On Fridays he would wear his Varsity football jersey, muscles percolating through the sleeves as if they would burst. He was the handsome quarterback all the ladies seemed to admire...

me...well, I thought he was aaaaight'...for a white boy of course. When I walked through the double doors onto the floor, I knew he would be there to deliver his daily "cat call" while shaking his head mumbling, "damn, you are so fine".

How cute.

I ignored him, but knew somewhere in the back of my mind he existed. Being one of a kind in a sea of young black boys, he somehow managed to fit right in. His friends were my friends, so we would find ourselves in some of the same places at the same times. Cultural lines were often crossed thanks to the vast diversity of people which made our school so wonderful and unique.

Soon there would come a time when his name was uttered, mine was tied right along with it.

We were inseparable.


Throughout the years, we began growing into adults, becoming who we were destined to be, beyond the glits and glam of High School dances, parties, and ditching school. Catapulted into real life, things began to change. Suddenly, there were people staring, wondering, pointing, whispering, rolling their eyes, asking questions...

"Wow...your daughter is so white looking, hahaha..." -Maternity ward nurse.

Later that day when he came to visit we walked past the nursing station and I told her, "he" was the reason why "our" child was so, "white looking". The look on her face was worth a million bucks.

The bubble that once existed as a protective shield was no longer there to comfort us from harsh reality. Day by day, I became increasingly aware that I was Black. But he never wavered, never showed any signs of weakness and always knew I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of an interracial relationship. He became aware of it too. Walking in through the doors from work, he saw me sitting there on the couch every night watching BET News. He listened attentively as I told him how the "white man" is keeping black people "down". His face covered in awe and contempt, he listened to me complain when I saw Black men walking down the streets with White women and stopped me dead in our tracks...

"I'm White...you're Black!"

I laughed...

Nah...you see...he wasn't reaaaaaaaaally "White". He liked Hip Hop music, he sounded like all of the Brothers I knew around the way, (never forced like he was trying to be something he was not), he wore all of the clothing complementing Hip Hop culture art form, hell, he even had rhythm. He was definitely BLACK! Yup, I made up my mind he wasn't really White at all. He reminded me of the White R&B singer Jon B. The real White people I knew and hung with in High School were listening to REM, Hootie & the Blowfish, Metallica, Dave Matthews Band and Nirvana. But he was rolling blunts and listening to the Chronic, Wu Tang, Tupac & Biggie..."All things that made one Black"

How incredibly foolish I was.

I never did become totally comfortable with the fact that I was dating a White man. Or perhaps, I was simply uncomfortable with the fact that I really loved him and he truly loved me.

The need for an identity and acceptance was really strong. He already knew who he was and was comfortable with that. I on the other hand was still searching. He was definitely way ahead of his time.

Five years later, I decided it was time for me to go my own way and I accidentally introduced him to his first wife, another Black woman who seems to be much stronger than I ever was. I wanted a way out and I found it. But I never forgave myself for the hell I put him through even though he forgave me.

SugarFree. [Part 2]

It was almost as if they were photographing her dense agenda with their heavy, blinking eyes as she walked by with her casual stroll. Her hair swung just below her shoulders in a neat wrap. She was lost yet engulfed in the fanfare, unaware of the connivers before her. Her eyes were slightly slanted and everyone called her “chinky” eyed, but her near sightedness was partially the blame. Her squinted eyes canvassed the room as she waited in the doorway feeling like a fish out of water. The hole in the wall was dank with cigarette smoke, cancerous and thick mixed in with hints of various cheap body sprays and perfumes. She notices a familiar face only this time it’s different. Then two figures begin to approach her, one smiling with added makeup standing before her half nude began to speak.

“Richie baby, I want you to meet my girlfriend, she’s here for the audition,” says Belinda pushing Devyn in front of her.

Devyn stumbling manages to stretch forth her hand and instead of a handshake receives a questioning look. She elbows Belinda in her side for the uncomfortable gesture. Richie was round and short, high yellow with freckles. Something about him reminded her of Michael Bivins from New Edition and later part of the Hip Hop trio Bell, Biv, DeVoe. He had the deepest set of brown eyes which moved slowly up and down Devyn’s frame. During the introduction, Belinda takes time to smile and wave at the men in the room who seem to recognize her. They cat call and she in turn, blows kisses and winks twirling her body around in a circle for their added amusement. Richie pulls the cigar from his mouth, with a smirk and casually slaps Belinda across the ass.

“Richie! You gone’ have to pay me for that one,” she laughs comfortably placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Is that right? Not when I own this place. Get back to work, and your friend, she needs to get dressed.”

Richie turns around slowly observing the inner workings of his tightly run establishment, walks into a back room filled with security monitors and closes the door while looking at the ladies with a raised eyebrow as thick smoke lingers and fades behind him. His voice was deep and firm. Devyn could tell he was the type of man who strongly disliked repeating himself.

“Girl, that’s my money over there, you figured out your stage name yet?” Belinda becoming anxious, taps her foot, then pulls out a cigarette from her small clutch, awaiting Devyn’s response all while watching the cat caller’s out the corner of her eye. A bartender covered in tattoos leans over the edge of the bar to give her a light and he waits as she inhales deeply before exhaling. Devyn stood tense looking at the door of her soon to be new boss trying to get her mind to connect with the words that flowed from Belinda’s mouth.

Becoming a byword like the others she had heard about, tasty, yummy, mocha, sweetness, and honey, she wanted to opt for eccentricity by leaning towards something more intriguing but Belinda insisted that she adopt “Sugar” as her persona.

“Why sugar?” Devyn looks at her displeased as they begin to make their way to the dressing room noticing the curious stares from other patrons and workers in the room. She brushes past an older gentleman in a gray suit who slightly grabs her hand and as she pulls away in disgust he laughs a confident laugh while the half dressed young lady who is keeping him company frowns with jealousy. She begins to rejoin her friend in conversation who is seemingly too busy talking to herself while walking ahead of her to have noticed her previous encounter.

“Because sugar is sweet, reminds people of tasty candy and childhood memories…shit, I don’t know. They laugh. Men like that kinda’ stuff, besides you look sweet and innocent. Let’s hope you stay that way,” says Belinda as she leads her through a door behind the bar, down two flights of stairs and into a large room filled with mirrors and plush purple chairs.

SugarFree. [Part 3]

We.the.People.do.What.we.must.

I guess...perhaps I didn't work hard enough...

"Let me know where your Youtube videos are so I can jack off to them." -former Manager

"I can get away with being ashy, I'm light skinned, but you're darker. You have to make sure you put some lotion on your face when you come to work." -former Supervisor

"I understand you didn't get your paycheck on time, but in situations like this, you can't get upset. If I were you, I would've just prayed on it." -former Store Manager

"Maybe I saved you from blowing your money over the weekend. If you can't wait a few days to get paid, then you're not handling your finances right." -former Supervisor

"We don't allow you to leave and take a lunch, that's why we pay you for the full hour." -former Store Manager

"Even if you are eating lunch and you hear that bell, you have to get up and service the customer." -former Manager

"You have children right? Well, I was once a single mother. Sometimes we make bad decisions. I'm not sure what your support system is like, but, one day God will bless you with a husband like he did me." -former District Manager

How do you know that I'm not a widow?

"Never read the customers the amount of interest involved in their contracts" -former Manager

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Sorry I let you down.

"Omowale"

A tilted picture frame hanging on the wall, the sudden eeriness of cold, angry air passing through an empty room, and the noisiness of silence...

all subtle but noticeable indicators that something's...wrong...out of place or missing...

dusty bookshelves, weeping plants, they all tell the stories and secrets we do not wish to share with visiting onlookers...investigators who insist on peering into the timid depths of waters so deep. They know people like me, they can sense us, see past the mask. Each of us are dying to tell it all while dying not to tell a thing. Since the truth is stranger than fiction...my life thus far has been absolutely and positively...unbelievable.

His father often visits from time to time so that we can escape and hide the pain underneath blankets of lovemaking. The kind of lovemaking that's good enough to put a Band-Aid on an open wound and a "ring on it" for security's sake. We're...just "friends", an agreement confirmed and adopted on both sides with ease. He leaves, boards his plane, and I turn on the television to see his face. He's funny. Everyone seems to think so. We have definitely changed throughout the years. We had no idea who we would be, back then...

Our son, well, he's funny too. A genius of sorts. His father and I bounce back and forth trying to take credit for his many talents. Now an 8-yr old dashingly handsome young man, his world is shattered because he has suddenly realized he won't be the 1st Black president of the United States. He was born into a world of circumstances. Young parents running the streets, crossing paths with intentions of partying on, then traveling on. I didn't understand how unlikely I would be in ever having the luxury of simply "crossing paths" with anyone.

Our son doesn't understand that leaving home is not an option because he's mad at his mother, he doesn't understand the weight of racism and that there will surely be more to come because he looks so much different than the rest of his family...well, because of his "circumstances". He doesn't understand the law, sacrifice, or why "If you and my dad still get along, then why can't we all be a family?" Instead he cries gut wrenching tears on the other end of the phone and I try my best to do what a mother does, comfort, console, and insure him that he won't be "messed up" when he grows up like he's told by others.

Recently, I went to visit a friend I went to college with who had just given birth to her first child. I walked through the door and noticed immediately that her son had been born into much different and better circumstances than most. I explained to her how different her life would be. We laughed about how the tables had turned, my last two pregnancies came by so quickly, each time she found out I was pregnant, she showed up with drinks and blunts wondering why I had a frown on my face when she walked through the door. When I arrived, there were no blunts, no drinks, just gifts. She said she wanted to teach her son an important value and bring it up on a daily. She wanted to instill in him how important the decisions we make effect our lives. How one thing, leads to another thing, so on and so forth...

so true. She's got it...what motherhood is really about...the first time.

Being Pro Life, there are options, and open adoption is a choice my son, his father and I have all had to live with. The choices we make in life are seeds that bloom and blossom and can have the life choked out of them by weeds...

or...they can turn into a beautiful garden with flowers giving off the grandest scent.

He calls with good news more often than not. Brags about video games and how great he is at...well, everything...so through the tears, the pain, the uncertainty of it all, I can wake up and smell the roses.

That's why I like to call him Omowale.

Omowale - "the son who has come home"

SugarFree. [Part 1]

She hears the bass thumping Nelly’s Long Night featuring Usher from
outside. The music played so loud the melody amplified bringing in the scattered patrons from the curbside. Sitting in her white, modest, two door, 1999 Chevy Cavalier, seat belt still tightly fastened, she punches the buttons on her radio hoping to find something that would distract her decision making process.

It was well after 11 o’clock at night and the parking lot was loaded
with vehicles. The commute had taken her thirty minutes to arrive in Gary, Indiana. She was sure there would be no one she new from the Southside of Chicago frequenting the club.

Club Moet was a hole in the wall off of Route 20 adjacent to a quaint Motel called the Chateau Inn. Grasping the steering wheel, she glances in her rear view mirror at the men standing in a small crowd giving each other “dap” as they talked loudly amongst themselves. Cold smiles and hungry stares unable to mirror her naive appearance looked back at her into the depths of her core; and as the bodies began to move past her open window, the men peek in to catch a glimpse before heading towards the building. Her grip of the wheel suddenly becomes tighter.

“Hey baby, are you coming inside?”

The sound of a gentle,masculine voice whispers persuading Devyn to release the steering wheel. Devyn tilts her head slightly out of the window just to show her expression of disgust on her face only to look up and see the pearly whites of a handsome brother standing well over six feet tall. The scent of Jean Paul Gaultier cologne filled the air reminding her of fresh linen with a mixture of mint and cinnamon. After pausing for a few seconds waiting for a reply, he notices her tension and continues walking behind the men who accompany him. Glancing back at her, he shrugs his shoulders. She thought to herself, sure he may be fine but no man who comes into a place like this is serious about dating. As soon as she finishes her moment of clarity, one of his friends confirms her thinking.

“Yeah, we wanna see you shake that ass shawty.” A voice shouts from the shadows along with a few chuckles.

She pretends not to hear them, reaches behind the passenger seat for her bag and places it in her lap. As she watches the men disappear into the music, she takes a deep breath, releasing herself from the security of the safety belt and then her vehicle. Stepping into a puddle of left over rain; she gets mud on her white Nike Air Force Ones.

“You know what…,” she says aloud hoping that the sound of her own voice would induce a breakthrough. The spring was making its close forcing life to move on to another phase of growth and Devyn felt herself changing. She pauses to decide whether or not this is a sign that she is making a bad decision and wants to turn back.

Pressing her backside onto the outside of the driver’s door she gazes into the night’s sky. She reflects on all of the other signs, like having to return home when she reached the end of her block to retrieve her bag, making a last minute turn off of the expressway to get gas before the empty indicator light lit up, and getting a phone call on her cell about a mysteriously available ticket to a sold out Jill Scott concert, she ignored it and pressed on. Clenching her hand me down Coach bag, she makes her way into the building dragging her pink roller backpack behind her.

SugarFree. [Part 2]

does your wife know you're my soulmate?

Perhaps that did not come out right.

"He loves me...he loves me not...he lov-"

I was content with the belief that I'd never see you again after all these years. After all, you never came for me. You never looked me up. I know, it's...complicated. I sat dangling my legs for what seemed like an eternity hoping you would come...mounted on your white horse with the promise of forever on your lips. I even pretended to ignore your name while eavesdropping in random conversations and fought back tears when looking over photographs of you and your family...children who once called me "emma" (mother in Hebrew)...locked into a religious doctrine that would have me in a position to be your 2nd wife, (I was hopeful) I waited to play my position.

"Did he tell you he loved you?"

"Yes."

"And you believed him?"

I did. She knows I did. But, the question that was lingering in my mind was, did she? There were no steamy, freaky tales to spew about our forbidden love affair. Just two people having a hard time breaking away from each others presence and conversation. With him I could just...be.

Well, that was 5 years ago. It took me years to recover. I fell head first into an unhealthy relationship because there was no one who could come close to the prototype you created.

Who knew your brother would show up at my place of employment looking just like you?

You see, I never met his brother before, but when I saw his face, something in me made me stumble over. But I thought that idea would be a coincidence so I blocked it out of my mind and decided he was too cute to pass up. I asked my co-worker to do some magic, give him my number and get his. Later that evening, it was confirmed. He was your flesh and blood sibling...

What are the chances?

We laughed about it and became complacent falling back in line where we left off many years ago.

Hearing your voice on the other end of the phone was like having a piece of heaven fall from the sky. I didn't know where we were going, what the outcome would be. I just wanted to hear your voice. Seeing your face was better. You had a special way of making me feel like the Sun shines every day just for me.

I knew one day you would have to go away...again. We know that in this lifetime there is too much work to do and not enough time, for us...and I'm not mad at you. I'll see you next time.

Thank you.

a.piece.of.cake.

I've read some wonderful books throughout the years. Off the top of my head I could name all of the auto-bio classics from the "if you ain't read this book you must be crazy" list, like Assata, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Soledad Brother just to name a few. These people have all resonated in our minds as freedom fighters and/or revolutionaries, but what about the every day person who starts out with the odds against them who just wants a small piece of that dream? What about those who have a dream to inspire and help others through simple survival of the fittest?

Someone recommended that I read this book last year and I looked it up online, saw the synopsis and thought, "average novel" and decided it could wait. It did. I didn't find myself inside a book store until almost a year later and I made it all the way to the checkout line with a Zane book and Eric Jerome Dickey novel before it sang to me from across the room. What struck me most was that despite everything the author had been through and would endure in her life, somehow she managed to become an attorney (I noticed that on the back cover of the book). This sister went through so much and conquered it all by facing her fears head up and acknowledging the windows of opportunity in her life that she needed to slip through. She also took advantage of the chances to exchange a new batch of positive people in her life for the old outdated ones who were interfering with her chance to grow.

I don't want to give away too much. All I can say is that this book changed my thoughts about life and pursuing dreams more so than any other book has because the author was truly a person I could relate to. Check it out...

Finding.Pretty.Underneath.

Snip.Snip...Snip

This is a public service announcement.

When I grabbed the scissors, I may have gasped once or twice, but I knew that hair had to go and I couldn't wait another moment. I didn't care about the jagged edges, the unevenness or the patches of naked scalp exposed from excessive relaxers and glued in tracks over the years. These pieces of my crown have failed to grow back in, a small price for the cost of beauty I suppose. I've done the "big chop" several times now, (4 times now to be exact) and now I know that I can move from style to style with ease without being too much effected by the outcome (and/or transitions).

What I have noticed however, is the effect my somewhat seemingly radical hair statements have done to those around me. To many of my friends, perming my hair is seen as an insult to African people, a slap in the face and just plain self defeating. To my friends who have probably never gone natural in life, cutting my hair off comes as a complete, utter shock. "What were you thinking?"

"Did you cut your hair off?"

Everyone wants an explanation to comfort whatever it is that they are feeling inside based on their own beliefs or misconceptions about beauty standards.

More than anything I use my hair to express the changes that I feel inside and cutting my hair usually indicates new starts or beginnings in my life, the release of negative energy or simply the need to be free from the every day hassle of styling my hair.

I CAN'T HELP YOU feel better about the way you think. I will take the time out to state that I am a Black woman who loves experimenting with the way I look and that I shouldn't be judged by that from either side.

Moral Examples of Political Symbolism.

"How can the white American government figure on selling "democracy" and "brotherhood" to non-white peoples-if they read and hear every day what's going on right here in America, and see the better-than-a-thousand-words photographs of the American white man denying "democracy" and "brotherhood" even to America's native born non-whites? The world's non-whites know how this Negro here has loved the American white man, and slaved for him, tended to him, nursed him. This Negro has jumped into uniform and gone off and died when this America was attacked by enemies both white and non-white. Such a faithful, loyal non-white as this--and still America bombs him, and sets dogs on him, and turns fire hoses on him, and jails him by the thousands, and beats him bloody, and inflicts upon him all manner of other crimes."

~Excerpt from The Autobiography of Malcolm X


Malcolm's question was rhetorical. However, it seems as though the question has finally been answered over 40 years later standing on the political symbolism of a risen Messiah named Barack Hussein Obama. It amazes me how skillfully crafted the moves are by the players in this game called American government. There is almost a "good cop/bad cop" technique and many of us fall for it every time. In walks a man to "correct" all of the unnecessary killing and wrongdoing's of the last, yet there is no real restitution, justice, or legal reprimand for all of the lives which were lost in an unfair and unjust war, mistreatment and faulty handling of the people of New Orleans, and countless brothers who have lost their lives to trigger happy police. Now, the weight and the pressure to restore diplomacy in foreign countries is placed on the shoulders of an African man with a Muslim name. Very clever.

I've noticed a great deal of emotionalism amongst many people of color as well as others. Does the election of Obama change the hatred in the minds of those who see my people as inferior? Will many of our inner cities finally receive the funding needed to implement a proper education for children who statistics say will never succeed? There is a need for equal education across the boards which does not depend greatly on the income of those in a particular neighborhood. Does this suddenly decrease the chances of Black men being shot in the streets of Chicago, New York or L.A.? Will we now be able to call upon Obama personally to bail us out of jams like Jena 6? Will troops finally be sent into places where they are definitely needed? Places which lack mineral resources and political governments which can be infiltrated by outer sources?

While everyone has gotten in on the piece of the Obama pie, (McCain & Clinton have a new found partnership with the chosen one) will he extend himself too far and too thin?

I've watched Obama give convincing speeches on his plans to restore diplomacy with foreign countries and although he sounds sincere, I cannot help but think about Columbus and his less than diplomatic approach to foreign relations. (Even he was smart enough to have a brother tag along for his conquests).


Are we a people so eager to trust, so eager to love that we still follow the pieces of silk left by our captors along the path to awaiting ships?

birth of a nation

I dream in color
Queen mother
Waving magical, mystical wands of light
With every stride and stroke
I invoke the words that I write
Cart-wheeling on roads paved to Sankofa
The heels of my feet covered in brass
kissed by lips the color of the deepest mocha
Shattering unsteady ground beneath me like glass
Shifting plates causing quakes and storms in the Black sands
I spin around so that the Earth can roll and the Sun can smile to greet me
He instead sends a brown face before me in his place
With the strength of a thousand tribes speaking love in many tongues
In one hand is wisdom in the other, grace.
Whispering freedom into the seeds of my soul
My womb overflows, creating, protecting, shielding…
Like the strongest storm
bringing forth what once never was…
and is again.
Yet to be reborn

desperately seeking.

familiar with the concept
she exists in being some...

thing

to some ...

body

leaning on the hopes of evolving
into some
one's
everything

realizing

there is a difference between some

and every.

the context
the definition

always...

changes
''things"

she remains complacent

knowing

no one can be everything to anybody

she begins
searching for some thing...
some body...

who is every thing she ever wanted to be.