Rivaflowz.com

The (Late) Valentine's Day Post

2012-02-15T21:23:00.001-05:00

for boobie.

I felt like a fool.

Pushing that wooden spoon through a thick batter, allbecause you’d mentioned that you wanted to trythe apple desert I mentioned on Twitter. I baked two whole cakes and gave ahalf to everyone in the writing group, so no one grew suspicious. We discoveredmonths later that they all knew.

In the extra room of my parent’s basement, in a pile ofpapers and old journals, is proof. A fourteen-year-old Erica scribbled neatlyon a blue line, the first line of a poem stanza…

“I will meet him at Barnes and Noble, a latte cup caressinghis lips.”

If I’m correct, that latte cup was a Panera smoothie. Still,this detail did not confuse me. I knew from the moment he shared his firstanecdote with the group that I was hooked. He leaned into a wooden bookstorechair and whispered to us as if the bindings were listening:

“Girls are ridiculous now. I went on a date the other day with a womanand we had a really good time. I figured I’d send her flowers the next day. Idid. She called enraged and wanted to know why I sent them so soon after ourdate. She thought it was creepy.”

I want flowers.

It was the first thing that popped into my mind. Soon, Irealized that it was hard to focus on the words leaving your lips, just the waythat they moved. I wondered the stupid things girls question when they’re inlike.

Where did he shop?

Is that a beauty mark?

How long has he had that notebook?

Have I made my way in there?

Has he thought about kissing me the way I’ve thought ofkissing him?

On our second date I found those lips on my own. We saidgoodnight. I did a salsa around my room and called a friend who told me to liveagain. It’d been three years since I’d really considered affection.

You said we were moving too fast.

I wrote you a poem.

You said we weren’t moving fast enough.

I played hard to get.

In my stubbornness, I realized one thing: I love you.

I love you like our first Christmas tree. I love you likelittle girls who pray that they’ll one day end up with clones like theirfathers. I love you like watching that clone sit across from his reflection,laughing and comparing notes on last night’s game. I love you like opened cardoors and pulled out chairs.

I love you like waiting in a green dress, with my mother, inthe living room. I was waiting on a text that you’d arrived. It never came.

You were the first man to knock on the door, shake handswith my mother and ask for her permission. I placed my hands on my hips with aferocity that always drives men away. “I’m 23!” I belted. “I don’t need you tocheck in with my mother on whether or not you can take me out.”

He smiled. “I want your parents to see that I’m good people.”

I love you because you are good people.

You hold my hand in the car while driving.

While dancing…

While sleeping…

While watching our Wednesday night show…

Are you afraid I might leave? Never.

I love you like wet cheeks and apologies, Six Flags and carfights, and laughter mixed with rum and coke.

Can’t you see that I’m drunk for you? I stumble over thesewords so often, my anxiety suffocating my expression. I’m sorry that I’m not sogreat at this believing thing, but my scars are still healing.

Don’t you see me bleed every time you tell me that you aren’tgoing anywhere?

I want to believe. I will.

I will wrap my mind around the notion that you aresolidified. & even if the fates change their minds, you’ll still be my bar.An insurmountable mountain that all will have to climb to surpass the notch you’veleft on my heart.

Mark me. Je t'aime.

-riv-

(Wanna read my other Valentine's post over at Edge Magazine? Go here.)

Banquete de Matrimonio.

2012-02-13T09:21:00.003-05:00

Mi familia es el diablo. Well, only at large events like these. We could never congregate without madness. This one took the cake. Literally.

There was scattered fried chicken everywhere. After the leftover salad was through being tossed around the room, it was the only other entrée everyone had left to throw. I wasn’t looking forward to dinner anymore. By this time, all the bridesmaids were chasing the groom and the bride was in some corner weeping. We’d all messed up.

We should’ve told Maria that Alejandro slept with her mother. No one thought it mattered much anymore. It had been so long ago. Thirteen years before, Fiona, Maria’s mother, had shown up with a young hombre to the annual summer Rodriguez reunion. Maria was away at summer camp that year. He wore a muscle shirt, faded jeans and skin as tight as a drum. Men clutched their drooling chulas, it was a sight to see.

Soon after the barbeque, Maria’s father was released from prison and the papi chulo she brought that night was long forgotten.

I walked over to Maria, her gown dragging in the spilled fountain residue. When everything was revealed, Uncle Tony knocked it over to get to the groom. Everyone was suddenly enraged by something they’d known for a long time. Idiotas.

The room was crestfallen. Guests collected their things quietly as her weeping filled the now empty space. Paper doves seemed to flutter above her head, the beautiful and silent decorations now a loud and tacky reminder. I kneeled down next to her and spoke, “This tux was almost fifteen hundred dollars. If I’m ruining it for you, I must love you.”

She almost smiled.

Maria opened her mouth to speak when a frazzled Fiona came bursting back into the room. Her blue dress, almost as elegant as the bride's, boasted spirals of cascading torn lace and mascara tears. "Maria! You know I didn’t mean for this to happen this way. I wanted to tell…”

Maria jumped up with a seething fury and pushed her mother to the ground. She pulled at the withering garment, once she’d landed, and planted her butt firm on her mother’s chest, pinning her down. The only guests still lingering, Uncle Pedro and his poker buddies gawked from the back of the room while I tried to use all my manly might to separate them. The tontos de grasa, grinned like Cheshire cats clearly deriving a carnal interest from the sight before them. Asqueroso.

“Why mom? WHY?” Maria was now pummeling her mother’s chest with her feminine fists while Fiona tried to shift from harm beneath her.

A small voice interrupted their commotion, “Mami, Maria why are you fighting?”

Maria’s ten-year-old brother Joseph looked down at his family with tears welling in his eyes. No one noticed he’d come back into the reception room. He had no idea that simply carrying a pillow would result in the food and dish fiasco he’d witnessed later on.

Maria ignored her brother’s pleas, “Tell me the truth! Have you been sleeping with him all along? When were you going to tell me Mami? On the honeymoon? After our first child? When?”

Fiona cringed underneath her daughters strength and shivered at her utterance, “I didn’t….I didn’t…..I didn’t want Joseph Jr. to find out about his father this way.”

-riv-

(photo via)

F.L.O.W. List Uno (The Rebirth)

2012-02-03T10:02:00.008-05:00

Hey guys! It's been a while since I've done one of these. The "for-love-of-words" list is a Friday compilation of all the articles/literary things I'm reading right now. Enjoy!

A compendium of documentaries that you should see for Black History Month. Tamra Davis' "The Radiant Child" based on Jean-Michel's life is one of my favorites.
Black, Female & Disabled: A great piece written by a good friend of mine about her issues with equality on campus (& elsewhere) & her plight w/ cerebral palsy.
NPR's tribute to Don Cornelius. R.I.P.
Dream Hampton says, "Walk, Don't Run, To See Red Tails."

-riv-

Re(juve)nation.

2012-02-02T11:04:00.005-05:00

For the girl with skin like the richest soil: I love to watch you grow.

Today I received a text message from a younger cousin, as I was leaving work.

It simply stated, “We broke up.”

She was referring to her year and a half, off-and-on-again, relationship. I called her on the way home. The snide teenager, always strapped with a smart remark, burst into tears. It’s amazing how heartbreak changes us.

The nonchalant suddenly care.
The fearless and brave become the scared.
The calm and collected spout anger.

On the phone call, a voice emerged from me that I did not recognize. It told her that his excuses were bullshit. It said that nothing could ever stop a man, who truly wants to be with you, from BEING WITH YOU. The voice relayed stories of men who were here today and gone tomorrow. It questioned her morale and told her that she was better off without him. That same voice told her to immerse herself in her progression and not to look back.

It occurred to me that this voice was that of a mature adult. It was the experience and knowledge weathered by years of disappointment. I was not the angry nineteen-year-old who pummeled her fist into the wall upon discovering her boyfriend’s betrayal. I was no longer the bitter twenty-year-old who slung her past across the page in the form of journal entries and F-you notes.

I am the twenty-four year old, who has wiped heartbreak from her face. The adult who is able to regurgitate the sodium of wet cheeks through blog posts and advice for a beautiful and naïve younger relative.

After our conversation, I drove down the FDR in silence. The question sat on my mind, “What would I tell my eighteen year old self, if I could warn her of all the things to come?”

Go.

Dear Erica,

You will discover that wearing Vans and skateboards, under your feet, will not hide the fact that your chase is relentless. You are boy crazy. Stop writing his name in Milky Way pens on your arm, remove his presence from your journal and stop giving him your words. You’ll write a poem for a smile and hello, but you’re worth so much more than that. You’re worth more than back staircases and lies, denied first kisses and a prom date that will ask you back for his tux money.

“It was an expensive rental. I did this for you, you know.”

Don’t rush to an ATM and give it to him, afraid that he’ll expose your desperateness for an evening companion. Don’t sneak into your mother’s bedroom, slide into her arms and lie to her about your evening. Keep the dreaming for better part.

Write for you and only for you. Don’t garnish your words atop stand-you-ups, meetings gone awry and emcees who don’t rhyme your name. Collect journals and write your future. Delve into the used bookstore reads you’ve been meaning to get to. Don’t wait until you’re in college for a realization.

Realize that you’re gorgeous. Trace your contour in a mirror and remind yourself that you are a roadmap to beauty.

Don’t let anyone silence you. God gave you a boom box vocal to deafen the nonbelievers. A stage is not the only place for your voice.

The older me must’ve been my conscious. That last notion is why I started this blog. I reconnect with the teenage me every once in a while. I find her on pieces of looseleaf flung in high school folders and storage room journals I'd forgotten about. She humbles me.

It's that same girl that fuels my sympathy every time I'm called on to give youthful advice.

What would you say to your teenage self?

-riv-

(artwork by briana mccarthy)

Second Chances: Book Review for Cupcake Brown's "A Piece of Cake"

2012-01-25T17:16:00.008-05:00

Warning: Spoilers Below the Divider!

I’ve been collecting a lot of memoirs lately. My favorite used bookstore boasts a proud selection featuring Amy Tan, James Frey (eh his work is a bit inaccurate), Mary Karr and many more. A co-worker noticed my new kick and suggested I read something a bit more riveting. She told me about a memoir by an author named Cupcake Brown.

Stop.
Rewind.
Play.

“You want me to read a memoir by a woman named Cupcake? What’s it about?”

She laughed at me, “Rough foster home, drugs, prostitution, gangbanging, etc. It’s a compilation of all the things this woman has been through. She’s a lawyer now, despite her circumstances. It’s a great read though.”

I raised a stereotypical eyebrow, “Uh-huh. I’ll think about it.”

I never thought about it. In fact, I didn’t even place it in the sacred space of my journal entitled “Must Reads.”

Sigh.

On one of our date night Barnes & Noble trips, the boyfriend headed to the biography/memoir section for Steve Jobs’ book. I was annoyed because they didn’t have Aimee Bender’s “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake” in stock. I glanced over the sections features. A sprinkled pink, green and orange cover caught my attention immediately. Sure enough, it was “A Piece of Cake” by Cupcake Brown. A “New York Times Bestseller” at the top of it solidified the sale it for me.

Oh what the hell? I was looking for a book with cake in its title anyway. I made my way to the register and bought it immediately.

I didn’t judge a book by its cover, but I did judge it by its synopsis. I’ve decided that this is equally wrong. I’ll never do it again.

____________________________________________________

Brown’s book is a voyage. I haven’t encountered this much madness since Sista Souljah’s “Coldest Winter Ever.” I’ve even ditched my car for an entire week, so I can use the hour train ride to read. It’s that serious. Every chapter will have you yearning to know how she combats her next issue.

Cupcake, or La’Vette (her alter ego), greets tribulations galore after the untimely death of her birth mother. Along the way she tries to poison a sadistic foster mother, becomes a Los Angeles Crip, is molested, dabbles in prostitution, struggles with domestic violence and still manages to advance in the legal profession.

Bonkers.

I’m only on chapter 38 out of 53, but the book already gives me great hope. One of my closest childhood friends suffers from several of the addictions Brown highlights in her memoir.

At nine, she was helping me perfect my script legibility and trying to convince me of the homosexual undertones in Langston Hughes’ work. At twelve, we’d visited Chinatown and my jealousy reared its ugly head while she explained immigration and its effect on NYC to my mother. At fourteen, I watched her (she was 6’2) scare away the bullies that had followed me home with the intention to jump me. She was my idol, a warrior in her own right.

She was such an intellect and skilled individual, that it didn’t surprise me when she started to mastermind criminal professions.

Around our sophomore year of high school, things drastically changed. She became involved with many of the things that Cupcake had to face. (Yikes, my iTunes just started to play J. Hud’s “Still Here”…crazy coincidence.) We eventually grew apart as her interests began to endanger my life. Over the years we’ve caught up every now and then; her stories weighing heavily on my heart, I’d always try to lend a helping hand.

After a manic episode, a call from a local rehab and listening to her mother’s tears; I decided I could no longer deal with the anxiety of our situation. Her phone calls would send me into crying fits. I would continuously worry about her and it kept me up until the wee hours of the morning.

I had to let her go.

That was six years ago. I’ve heard whispers about her through family members and mutual friends. Today she struggles with some of the same things, but has slowly started to get back up on her feet. She is far wiser about life’s hardships than most in their early twenties. I pray that she’ll use this knowledge to navigate the turbulence up ahead.

Cupcake Brown’s book retaught me about starting over. She’s given me back the faith I’d lost in a friend and some associates, along the way. This week, I’ve decided to give my long lost friend a call, find out how she’s doing and give her this book. Whether or not her change is permanent, the chapters in this read will remind her of second chances.
& in the inscription I’ll write…

“To Life and living; third time’s a charm.”

-riv-

PS: Shout out to Erika for copping the book upon my suggestion! #readerlove

The Camaraderie of Women

2012-01-24T18:29:00.004-05:00

I once heard somewhere that women didn’t dress up for men. Instead, they dressed for one another.

I never believed this.

When I wriggled in my skinny jeans, buttoned my cardigan, and threw my bohemian scarf around my neck; I did it for no one but the woman in the mirror.

Unfortunately, I found that this notion isn’t true for everyone. I discovered that the creatures of gossip and banter, were immersed in a competitive nature: Staring one another up and down, hating each other for no reason at all and pummeling the rest to get to the top. Sound familiar?

It should.

I’m not sure if this nature is birthed from insecurity, self-preservation or both; I just know I’m sick of it. I’m used to the silly bickering and he-say she-say of my younger years. I’m used to “girls” starting wars over menial, trivial and irrelevant things.

What I’m not used to, or never want to become acclimated to, is dealing with it as an adult.

As a teenager, I questioned my mother; “Things are different when you’re older right? We mature and leave the childish antics behind, don’t we?”

My mother smiled a sad smile. She warned me that things were different but still the same: Girls just became women who played more mature games, but games nonetheless. The silly things that happened within the classroom would make its way to the workplace, my home and everywhere I had to encounter other women.

“But you don’t have to make that your plight baby. You can choose to be different.”

I am.

Sure, humans argue. We are creatures of emotions, anger, betrayal and revenge. However, the estrogen side of the fence seems immaculate at these traits when it comes to our own. I’ve seen most men put one another on, disagree today and shake on it tomorrow and congratulate each another. This is rare amongst my gender.

I recently had a conversation amongst friends about this. One friend told me that I couldn’t expect others to live my life the way I do. I held my female friends to the same standards that I held myself. This wasn’t fair. She’s absolutely right.

So I had to make a decision. In the year 2011 if your morale affected your ability to form gender camaraderie, you had to go. I said goodbye to a lot of friends and associates this year, especially females. Some of these friends were girls I’d been acquainted with for more than a decade. Some were women I’d shared amazing experiences with. All were slowly turning into two-faced creatures I did not recognize.

When I made the decision, I expected a feeling synonymous with heartbreak. Instead after a month or two of no drama or disappointment, I felt a weight lifted off of my shoulders.

Women unaligned with camaraderie of any shape or form are not allowed in my circle. In case you’re confused about this misalignment, let me clarify.

The Workplace/Career: Why are we so quick to put another woman down or put her in her place? Whenever I get an email from a comrade or someone looking to delve into the same industry, I welcome them with open arms. I give lists of open mics, great advice and links to blogs they should check out. I’ve even designed complimentary blogs for girls who lacked inspiration to kick-off their writing career. During my late teens and early twenties, I’ve come across so many women who are the complete opposite. Upon expressing my admiration and seeking advice, I’d get petty micro-aggression responses like:

a. “Oh you’re trying to blog? That’s cute. Start small.”
b. “I’m a writer, you’re a blogger. Let me tell you the difference.”
c. “Aren’t you a poet? That’s not the same thing as writing. But I’ve heard some of your stuff, it’s….good.”

Ha! I seldom take on these women. Usually I just give them a smile, thank them for the information and hand them my card. Sometimes, I get regret filled emails from them after they find out my unannounced accolades.

Relationships: Find out your man is cheating on you? Who are you going to call? Not Ghostbusters! Certainly not the man who committed to you either.

Instead, you’ll call the other woman. Yes, the chick that nine times out of ten doesn’t know about you, thinks your relationship is failing, and/or thinks you’re his roommate/cousin/ex-wife/crazy baby momma.

Did you forget the fact that you’ve both been betrayed? Did it slip your mind that you have probably been hurt by the undeserving idiot you’re fighting for? Did you glance over the shared commonality of hurt and distrust?

Yep, you did.

Friends: We’re so easily annoyed by the betterment of our friends. Women travel in packs and only divide to talk to one about the other two. <-----That number/statistic comes in many different variations. I’ve had friends who have raised their nose at me for trying to better my relationship and opt out of clubbing. I’ve had friends who’ve tweeted live at my shows that they were sick of me flaunting my career. (Ha! She thought I wasn’t following her.) Oh and the best camaraderie-less friend of all? The one who is only there to steal/imitate what you have and once she has it, your union is no longer necessary. User!

camaraderie: mutual trust and friendship among people who spend a lot of time together.

Now sister, I might not spend that much time with you. In fact, I might not even know you at all. However, I’ve walked a mile in your shoes. I share so many of your plights. I know what it is to suffocate, exhale, break and mend. Before you have even had the chance to swap stories with me, you’ve made up your mind.

I’m here to steal your man.
I’m here to steal your spot.
I want your style.
I’m here to embarrass you.
To one up you.
To laugh at you.
To call you anything, but your name.

Well, you’re wrong.

Here’s a challenge:

For the career girl: Uplift your comrade. Show them the light without crushing their dreams. Stop the fear that someone is coming to take your spot. No one can do what you do, but YOU.

For the woman who’s about to confront the other woman: Go confront your man. Give a sister the benefit of the doubt.

For the friend: You’re not a comrade if you’re prone to gossip about those who you claim will be in your wedding. We are maidens of honor even away from the altar. True friendship is to know and love the jigsaw flaws that complete the puzzle of your companionship.

Truth.

I don’t dress up for other women. There is no competition on my mind as I walk out of my door. I will no longer befriend and join those who deter our gender from unity. I’ve got way too many mountains to climb; there will be no lengthy trudging on jagged rocks along the way.

When I woke up this morning and left for work, I saw me everywhere. Not in the mirror that adorns the bedroom wall nor the rearview mirror of my car, but in the eyes of every female I came across. We are all slight reflections of one another.

I see you glimmering. I’m gon’ let you shine.

-riv-

(artwork by Briana McCarthy)

--humility.

2012-01-16T21:15:00.006-05:00

I'm in the editing stage of my novel.

At the outset of brainstorming the notion of a masterpiece, one is enthralled and excited about this part of the writing process. That is, until you actually get to it. Other than cringing at my grammatical errors and rolling my eyes at clichés, I’ve been flooded with the memories attached to my manuscript.

I started my novel during my freshman year of college in a fiction class ask a eighteen-year-old writer, who felt typos were inevitable and my world was the most interesting thing ever. I added an advanced fiction writing class to my roster—with students two years older than me—convinced I knew just as much about creative writing as they did.

During the first class, we listened to a quiet girl’s tale of a woman swallowing paint after her craftsman husband cheated on her. The round table discussed her theme’s relevance to Dostoevsky’s work and the Romantic ideals within her text.

Say what now?

I was immediately stunned at my classmates’ comparisons and realized almost instantly that I should’ve taken the first part of the course. This fact shut me up for the entire semester. I was afraid the wrong analysis would send me straight into social pariah mode and I wasn’t having that.

When it came around to finally sharing my novel, I was extremely excited. It would be the first time I’d speak up in class, knowing the subject was clearly something I was an expert on. The other students, who’d read the partial document the night before, were in love with my work. On the way to class, two girls stopped to ask, “Are you complete? I want to read the rest! Where is it?”

My confidence was at an all time high. I was convinced my professor was just as amazed as everyone else was. I walked into my buzzing class with a pile of my manuscripts adorned with a cute cover and poetic quote.

“Today we’re reading Ms. Buddington’s novella. Wasn’t it an interesting read?” The students all nodded and agreed. “I’ll say my comments first, I felt it was very urban fiction. It reeked of the typical black love story sprinkled with a bit of poetry. It has potential to be great, but isn’t near that at all. With much work, it will be. Anyone else?”

I was immediately crushed. I’m sure there were comments from my peers that would’ve been easier on the ear, but I’d stopped listening. Clearly, the class was filled with women who were enticed by the love triangle between the pages. The only critique that mattered, was heard.

To make matters worse, I was so immersed in my edits for the second half of the semester that I completely missed the deadline. Two days after it was due, I sent my instructor a hurried e-mail.

“Professor,

I’ve been incredibly busy and I completely missed the deadline for sending in the paper. I sincerely apologize. Can I hand it in immediately?”

Most professors were easy on us. We were usually given small deductions for late papers. I just knew I would be okay.

I was in for a surprise.

“Ms. Buddington,

I will not accept your paper. In fact, I suggest that you humble your entire literary existence. It seems to me that you were so into your own work that you forgot about the pieces of your peers. Perhaps, if you take my class again, you’ll be more attentive to everyone else and not so focused on your own career.”

Damn.

It was understandable.

After speaking to her, her perspective was that I reveled in my spoken word/writer fame on campus and my attitude portrayed that I didn’t care about my academia. When I told her that I was a freshman and incredibly embarrassed by how little I knew, she was shocked. She’d assumed I was older and my silence was me just being plain rude.

Although she’d misconstrued my solace, she was right. I’d given nothing to the conversations of the classroom and expected to be rewarded for the selfish effort I’d finally made. I’d grown accustomed to the approval of my high-school English teachers and left my modesty in my dorm room.

Although my teacher was a bit rough on me, her words humble me every time I work on my novel. Five years later, still banging away on the same piece, I’m confronted with teenage me every time I reread it. Editing the words of your younger and more inexperienced self might be one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

Now, twenty-four and blossoming, I abhor typos. I now understand that there are way more relevant things than my own world. & I am quite the critique giver.

As my novel editing winds down, I can revel in the experiences attached to it: There's the boy from Brooklyn, in my fiction class, who inspired the main male protagonist, the bourgeois mid-east boys from the memories of my university who adorn the office setting in chapter three, and the father who still writes poems in the basement of my parent’s home.

Even the main character, the straight A/B student, awkward & angry, who scored that one C+ in her advanced writing classes, is an experience all her own. She’s a grown up now: Rarely separated from Microsoft Word, craves Barnes & Noble and practices humility with her editors.

Sometimes.

The ~~End~~ Beginning.

-riv-

dating, insecurity and other lost things.

2012-01-11T19:57:00.004-05:00

I let you seep into my skin that summer. Let us lie on white sheets with drunken lips and lie to and on one another.

& I knew you were lying then. I know you're a liar now, but I can still taste the truth in my naiveté. This is how I want to remember you. How can fallacy drizzle like perfection and truth be not so easy on the ear?

Remember the rooftop you promised me? The starry night sky and first date? We sat and talked for eons as the streetlights pushed through my blinds. You tried to convince me hours before, that the illumination was indication for you to leave. My conversation kept you.

You spoke my language. Bookstores and dreams, journal keeping and August romance.

Why did we leave that room again?

Or was it just you that left? Did I miss all the cues?

I should have read your lips instead of chasing them. They spoke something like, “In another lifetime, we could have been together.” Why not this one?

I didn’t ask questions. I just let you promise me things and tried them on. One size fits all, doesn’t it?

You called me could-have-been-beautiful.

The if-you-lost-a-little-weight got lost in translation.

I kept breaking your English. Selective listening combined with a gouged third eye.

I told you that I loved you through text, after three martinis, from my home-girl's phone. You relayed the story to me the next day. You thought your ex had sent it. I was too afraid to tell you that it was I.

My friends say I love too hard. What other way is there?

Those weren’t friendship kisses or stranger-swapping smiles. That was black and white. No gray area.

Remember the Jill Scott concert? The place where her words became similes and metaphors for our “situation.” We opted out on our usual dutch-dinner that night. I immediately offered to cook, waiting for fruition.

You said you had a phone call and you’d be right up.

I was good at watching warm food turn cold and sitting alone at tables.

Where were you again?

I was never good at this. This thing.

There was some talk about leaving and your ex coming to town. There was cold chicken parmesan and angry words. I just remember the leaving part. Vivid.

Was it really two hours you sat in your car, outside my apartment, telling her about us?

Did you ever choose me?

I am good at trashing rooms and playing love songs. I became great at waiting on the phone to beckon. Your ringtone was John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.” I heard it about twice, during us. Or whatever that-thing-we-did-that-summer was.

We call ourselves friends now. They all do.

Eventually.

Bygones don’t exist in a man with a guilty conscience. They evolve into overdue phone calls, 3am texts and pleads for forgiveness.

I’m no fool. I know just what you are. We are. We were.

We’re reminders.

Reminders that better exists in a world bereft of hope. Reminder of what falling down feels like. Reminder that God plays a joke every once in a while to humble us.

& still you seem to seep. Drizzle as though you aren’t aware of your bitter taste and tarnished dream. Ask me how I’m doing although you’re aware I’m fine. Cross the threshold of my mind, although you are uninvited.

…but ain’t that love?....& shit.

-riv-

Best Flows of 2011

2012-01-05T22:55:00.011-05:00

To commemorate the new year, I've decided to list my favorite blog posts of the previous year and show you how they all came to fruition.

Last year I revamped the style of the blog, started new categories, continued old ones and really took risks with my work. Looking back, I can't help but marvel at the amount of vulnerability I've let run amuck on this site. I'm proud of my growth.

Here are my favorite posts of the past year, counting down:

10) Cracked Crown: In 2010, a good friend of mine lent me Pheobe Hoban's A Quick Killing in Art. The book covered the Haitian artist Jean Michel Basquiat's downward spiral, celebrity friends, art dealers, fragile soul and demise. Between then and 2012, I've seen Radiant Child (one of his documentaries), the movie based on his life (which is terrible), read countless works that included him (Andy Warhol's Diaries & Keith Haring's Journals), and visited his grave and last place of residence. Dedication huh? As a Caribbean artist with a culture reluctant to most professions that are not of the math & sciences, Basquiat's story touched me. He rebelled to craft what his heart desired, breaking this very same muscle in the process. A sacrifice indeed. All of this, inspired a poem.

(my friend Blue & I, at Basquiat's grave)

9) Looking Glass: A short story based on one of the most incredulous experiences of my life. It will eventually make its way to my memoir in true form.

8) Growing Apart: This memoir was born in a daydream. I was reminiscing about an old best friend and crush when I decided this would be a great story about life's passing moments. This one is for all the boys/girls next door.

7) Bullyisms: This blog was the most difficult thing I've ever had to write. When you've spent years bandaging your scars and you're fully invested in a new outlook, digging up the past is an excruciating task. I forced these words upon my keyboard and even shed a few tears in the process. The vast amount of articles on bullying and a few after school specials prompted me to share my story. I knew I wasn't the only one who'd suffered. The emails and comments after the piece proved that and helped me to heal all over again.

6) Space: I received a text message from a friend who was annoyed with his come-around-all-the-time-girlfriend. This was the philosophy that couldn't fit into my iPhone text bubble.

5) A Belle in Brooklyn: I've done a ton of "Good Reads" segments on here. They're usually small synopses & anecdotes of what I've read for the week. Straight to the point. Demetria Lucas's first book brought out an intricate and sprawling review, that was one of my most viewed blog posts of the year.

4) Facebook Ruined My Relationship: I think this title is pretty much self-explanatory. -_-

3) Warrior Women: I swear, I've been ruminating this piece since my freshman year of college. I was in one of my Professor's offices, which was actually shared by women, and I was stunned at all the literary awards and honors they had plastered on the wall. After ogling them in jealousy, I noticed that there were no family photos nor treasured memories. This sat on the back of my mind for the next three years of school. Every time I entered a female English professors' lair, I would look for signs of loved ones. I only found one sign, out of over a dozen of them.

2) Erica versus Riva: This post was a vulnerability I'd been hiding all my life. My best friend asked, "Where better to lay it than on your blog audience? Young women, whom are all our age, that are going through the same thing. I think that's what they've been craving." Fruition.

1) Roundabout: This story, for me, took the cake. Rereading it, I found myself toppling over at a humor I didn't know I possessed. I'm even contemplating a series for young adults entitled Junior, for girls with "frenemies."

Last year, I wrote a ton of writing resolutions. This year, I'm keeping it mighty simple.

1) Write everyday.

2) Publish this damn book.

3) Publish this god forsaken book.

Sigh.

-riv-

Good Reads: Joe Hill & Gabriel Rodriguez Have Got the Key to My Heart

2012-01-05T13:08:00.017-05:00

My bookshelf is in serious trouble, god bless its spine. I've fallen in love with a new genre.

Remind me to add "no toppling" to my literary prayers.

My boyfriend, is a serious comic book/graphic novel lover & has pushed me into reading a few of his favorites. Those include; Y The Last Man, The Walking Dead, 100 Bullets, & Fables. This newfound love couldn't have come at a more perfect time. My students were about to create a graphic novel for their winter semester project, one of my co-workers is the granddaughter of a comic book great and quite frequently brings in controversial graphic novels for me to ogle, and middle schoolers seem to have a renewed excitement for the genre. Thank the new DC 52, quirky comic novels like Diary of a Wimpy Kid and superhero remakes for that.

Just as I was about to ween myself off of the panel & speech bubble kick to get back to fiction, the boyfriend walked in with Joe Hill & Gabriel Rodriguez's "Locke and Key."

As an older cousin to a Green Lantern and Superman fiend, I took a glance at a comic book or two. Most issues went something like this:

1) Superhero minding his business.

2) Villain comes along and screws everything up.

3) Superhero almost loses this battle. He's so close to death, you can feel it.

4) But how will they ever carry on with the next issue? Oh, wait there's been a turn of events.

5) He's alive!

6) Villain is dead, or locked up. (Depending on the morale of the company.) The end.

Bleh.

Well those few issues fooled me. There are a ton of graphic novels and comics with relatable themes and amazing plots. There's something for everyone. I'll never judge a book by its cover again.

Well, unless it's drawn by Gabriel Rodriguez....

Hill already boasts a ton of amazing suspense and horror fiction within his resume. This skill blended with the intricacy of Rodriguez's canvass, puts any black and white novel to shame. I mean, who wants just words anymore?

Sorry literati, I'm kidding.

Anyway, the story is about three children who have a horrific experience in which they lose a parent who's been surrounded by an incredible magical realism; all his life.The three children: an emo, a shy jock and a fidgety little brother, find themselves living in a home riddled with mysterious locks and the keys to dark adventure.

The protagonists try to untangle the mystery of their new home while intertwined with the past, present, future and other dimensions. I felt as if I was reading three stories at once. Don't you love the book within a book thing that authors do?

Upon each endeavor, Hill leaves his audience mystified with another piece of the puzzle and questions riddling your heart.

It also doesn't help that Rodriguez's finale artwork will have you unconsciously veering off the expressway to work to the nearest Barnes & Noble or comic shop.

Yeahhhh, I swear I haven't done that. Much.

I'd bang out the full synopsis here, but then there'd be no mystery right?

Give your reading palette a new taste. Don't say I never fed you anything.

-riv-

The New Year's Kiss Superstition

2011-12-27T17:31:00.005-05:00

Last New Years, an age of simplicity for me, I wrote a blog post about my writing resolutions. Nothing seemed more important than finishing my novel and banging out a blog post every now and then.

This year, my list has grown vast with all the complexities that a year makes:

At the beginning of 2011, I was teaching at one school,trying desperately to write a novel at night and performing at your occasional open mic. Easy right?

Now throw two more jobs, more freelance work, another novel and a full-fledged relationship into the mix.

Not so easy.

With all the stress of work, life’s ups & downs and other unexpected tribulations; things with your significant other can get sketchy. For a woman/man who desperately wants to change the dynamic of their trying union, the holidays and the New Year are everything.

There’s this silly superstition that a kiss for the New Years will set the tone of your relationship for the rest of the year. I have few friends who are looking forward to taking their boyfriend or random-sloppy-drunk-dude-they-just-met to an isolated corner for a midnight pucker upper. They’re convinced this will change their love life dynamic for the New Year. A co-worker even told me:

“There’s something about when the year comes to an end.Relationships take a turn for the worst in December. Everyone’s anxious about not completing their resolutions and is frustrated about how they will change for the upcoming month. The holidays change everything though. People get back to happy by January. It’s a cycle and I see it happen with plenty of couples every year.”

Not to diss my co-worker’s philosophy, but I don’t agree.

What’s with everyone believing that the issue you had at 11:59pm will dissipate by midnight?

If you had issues with your man/woman on Christmas, they’ll still be there on the sunrise of January 1^st. Whether or not those problems are resolved, isn’t up to superstition. It’s entirely up to YOU.

I’ll take a page out of my personal book. (In fact, my boyfriend and I are planning on writing a joint blog post about this. Look forward to that.) Black women, and women in general, carry a lot of weight around. I’m not talking about our thighs and hips, but our emotional baggage.

I’ve had plenty of brothers lie and cheat on me and I’ve forgiven them. However, my suspicious nature sometimes carries over to the new party. Kind of like rollover minutes.

For the fall and some of winter, we haven’t fought fair.During arguments, I’ve brought up previous relationship incidents, which have nothing to do with him, to justify my behavior. He and I have also assumed one another’s reactions, before the situation plays out, based on past experiences.

None of this was healthy. During one of our final disagreements for the year, we came to a mutual notion. Holding onto the past was not allowing us to create our own memories. We decided that we would hold each other accountable through things we’d learned about one another, rather than through other partners. In doing so, we plotted how our communication will grow during the New Year and immediately started to enact it.

We didn’t do this post-kiss or the night before January 1^st.We did it right there and then. We didn’t preface our commitments with “for the New Year…”, but chose to rectify our issues on the spot and carry them into the new era with us.

By doing so, WE controlled our destiny for 2012. No one else.

For all the women and men, who believe in new starts and do-overs, the power to change is buried beneath your internal butterflies. Don’t let birthday candles, a shooting star or a New Year’s kiss dependency get in the way of what you deserve.

Superstitions?

Only we can mend ourselves and our situations.

Super stitch that.

-riv-

store, in spanish.

2011-12-22T00:35:00.006-05:00

Jennifer owns Palm Street bodega on Main Street

An island where block boys
Turn cubes in brick weather

And bricks
Aren’t always synonymous with a high
But a heaven

A chess piece slapping
Heineken having
Almost gentrified dream

The same playground fingers that grab twenty-five cent Cheetos bags
Flip birds
And tell papi who flips sausage, egg and cheese’s
They’ll pay him next time

C&C, quarter water guzzle
Trying to use sour power straws, like real ones
Metro cards taped to the counter
Fly with the open-door wind
Weekly’s only

But daily…

The neighborhood ain’t the same
Starbucks the new high and a deli,
With two floors and wi-fi
Buildings erected sky high

Jennifer mourns her domino-effect memories
Sitting humbly on an almost foreclosed home’s porch
Bills stacking on the porcelain fifteen year old table

Bought on the birth date of a teenage daughter
Who writes short stories of loss
In the writing class I teach
With figurative language:

“My mother of pearl withers
Her shine, watered down
With a drawn store gate
A for sale sign
And ghosts of what used to be

Can everything go back to normal? Everything?”

I ask her if her mother will be present during parent teacher conferences
If she’ll place her pointer finger on her work that adorns the wall
A scarlet A, encircled by a teacher’s approval
I am excited for those that she loves
To see her excellence

She says they’ll be moving to the shelter today
Ain’t no time for that
Just brick weather
Watching the bank hammer a sign into their lawn
The bodega block boys helping moving boxes
The little playground fingers waving goodbye
Jennifer, her mother, standing in front remembers the sounds…

Children’s laughter
Car screech
Slapping chess piece

Knight takes queen

Check.

Reflections: Erica Versus Riva.

2011-12-14T20:16:00.001-05:00

This might be one of the hardest posts I’ll ever have to write. Hopefully, it’s also therapeutic.

Bloggers adorn their posts with perfect pictures, pretty words and half-truths. We snip the negative from our lives, lending smiles and good company to our readers. It’s a sacrifice of sorts, keeping the lament in our personal diaries. For those of you who bare it all, I adore your courage.

Today I’ve decided to be courageous:

I’m not comfortable in my own skin. In fact, for a few years, I’ve been wearing someone else’s. Erica gets up every morning, pats on Riva’s makeup, slips on Riva’s heels and borrows her words for the day. Erica even delves in her habits; eyebrows, nails, and organization.

The truth is, Erica was a skater girl. A kick loving, curse slinging and over analytical extrovert. A nerd with a zest for journaling and Harry Potter. A romantic with a gossip and drama loving spirit.

High school and college stifled me. Girls in higher heels and upper echelon begged me for tact. They caressed the underlying notions that I’d never be good enough. Everyday, as I face the mirror, I realize that I am an imposter.

I am a shell of my former self.

I’m 5’11, with size twelve feet, big hands, an awkward smile and a stomach that kind of spills. To the stores; I am TALL, LONG and find-it-online. To the bullies, I was sasquatch, goofy and nerd. To the men who failed to assess internal beauty parallel to external, I was “alright”or “okay.” To myself, I am undeserving.

That’s where it starts, doesn’t it? With yourself?

I find it hard to take compliments. I often cringe at the utterance of beautiful or pretty directed towards me, suppressing the urge to look behind me and search for the woman they’re truly talking about. Defense mechanisms are my forte:

1) In social settings, when the men are more adoring of your friends instead of you, twiddle with your phone. It shows you don’t care.

2) If anyone asks what’s wrong, nod and smile. Never let on too much. Insecurity is not attractive.

3) Stay clear of things you used to love to wear, before anyone pointed out their flaws. Bright colors, horizontal stripes and tighter things only emphasize your thickness.

4) Talk fast and quick. Perhaps if they know you are a celebrated poet, scholar and writer; your looks won’t matter too much.

…and, go.

Years ago, I had the opportunity to confront my insecurity. I stood on my first well-known stage surrounded by people who actually had requests. Fans of sorts. I could have dropped my bitter cloak there. I should’ve swallowed the attention whole and relished in the fact that I was a great writer, performer and someone who deserved everything.

I didn’t.

Instead, I blacked out. I let a pretend confident spirit envelop me and tear the stage apart. A train car voice cascaded from my lips and took charge of her surroundings. No microphone needed, I’d placed my morale, in rhyme, on the ears of many. It was beautiful. However, the instance the clapping faded and I cascaded down the stage’s steps; I was hunch shoulder, smirk-never-smile and nervous-wreck, shell of Erica, all over again.

I never took the time to rectify this.

After leaving college, I immersed myself in work. Between juggling three jobs, writing and delving into your first serious relationship; it’s easy to forget how you feel inside. It’s the quiet spaces that get you though. The long drive home and the train rides poke at the unsettled things:

What’s next Erica?
Will you ever be good enough?
What does he think?
What does she think?

Lately these thoughts have started to stir again. They’re not as potent as before, but they’re strong enough to alert me.

What happens to a girl deferred? Does she fiddle with spanx, nip and tuck her figure where it’s unpleasing to the eye? Does she close her lips in pictures, pretend as if her slightly corrected teeth don’t exist? Does she revel in her emotional and academic depth, attributing it to be the only thing anyone values about her?

She shouldn’t have to do any of these things.

I’m no demi-god, but damn it I’m gorgeously flawed. I am temperamental and emotional and I’m quiet and calm. I’m bitter and broken, but I’m great at putting my loved ones pieces together. I’m loud and an extrovert, but I’m serene to those who need a listening ear. I’m unfocused and stubborn, but I lug a bag filled with everything to make sure my students have ANYTHING they need.

I will write these words until I believe them. Even if I never get my book off the ground, if this blog never takes off and if I never become the writer I want to be; I will write to be whole. This alone, will justify my pen’s purpose. My purpose.

Upon initiation of insecurity, a woman faces the mirror and feels as if she’s alone. In fact, these quieted feelings push the birth of our neglected diaries. Soon, we grow and abandon those tales as our new found confidence blooms.

What about those who never find their confidence? What happens to the girls whose petals fall before they spread their arms out to the sun?

Are they a lost cause?

No.

I’m twenty-four and still searching for my respire. These underlying notions sit deep beneath my brown skin. No fingernail or scream can shake/scratch them loose. I know now, that it’s the power within our affirmations that make us believers. It’s our ability to understand our disproportionateness from our reflections that make us stronger. We are so much more than societal norms and media gloss. We are abundant.

What happens to a girl deferred? A remarkable spirit tarnished by her peers. A lone fiddle, waiting for her strum. What happens to a girl deferred?

Answer: Well, I’ll tell you one thing is for sure. I ain’t no damn raisin. I am no longer living a shriveled existence. I’ve got time to bloom.

Watch me grow.

(pic belongs to me)

Missing Me: A Book Review for “A Belle in Brooklyn” by Demetria Lucas

2011-12-08T13:41:00.001-05:00

Caution Readers: Spoilers after the divide. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Simplicity provides a fine line between elegance and plainness. –Dre; quoting Sydney’s first article in the movie “Brown Sugar.”

I yearn for a simple elegance. In fact, my sophomore year of high school, I roamed the library shelves for it. For black women and literature, it was a rare existence.

My friends, at fifteen, were immersed in “The Coldest Winter Ever”, ”Flyy Girl” and Zane’s numerous texts. These were my generation’s sneak books: Texts we knew we weren’t supposed to be reading, but ones that carried the intense and pervasive drama that you couldn’t pull your eyes from. I couldn’t relate.

We were black suburban girls. Girls who had enough cousins in the hood to understand it, but didn’t have enough street smarts or residence for inception. The teenagers in these texts had baby mama drama, drug dealer boyfriends, illiteracy and sex galore. No diss to the ones that could relate, but I was looking for me. Where were the reflections of black girls who led normal lives? Regular Jackie’s that silently crushed on Jamal next door? Block party loving, book reading and Kool-Aid smile girls. Girls that become college women and engaged in red cup and stereo love. College women that bloom into strong work forces and fight awkward co-worker flames.

I finally found all of this in one book: Demetria Lucas’ “A Belle in Brooklyn.”:

Ms. Lucas, your publishers betrayed you. They slapped on the subtitle, “The Go-to Girl for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life.” At first glance, without appropriately reading the context and title arrangement, one assumes they’ve happened upon a dating guide through the mishaps of the writer. Something we’ve all read time and time again. This is the furthest thing from the truth.

Sure, I’ll admit, there are a few chapters with bullet point guides on dating. However, Lucas lends us her FULL story with no regrets.

Black women, on the topic of dating, are rarely completely honest when it comes to their experiences. With Lucas’s book, it felt like I was talking to a home girl who was finally telling me the entire truth. A flurry of the variety of emotion of every woman slashed across her pages. In ever chapter I found a chronological phase I’d pushed through. She was personable, awkward, quirky and could care less who paid judgment.

Some of my best friends have a blurry way of relaying stories for fear of this same judgment:

“Oh how did I meet him? Um, well we knew each other from around the way. He’s cool. I liked him. We hooked up. It was alright. Now it’s over.”

Say what now?

Lucas talks about the things we keep silent. The moments that don’t quite smell of violation, but reek of harassment. She relays the something-ain’t-right-here moments I’ve always feared someone might find out about. I found myself enthralled at the audacity of the brother from Atlanta, I pitied Lucas during her tantrum on the steps of my favorite museum and I threw my copy at the gall of the guy on the European journey.

She also talks about the good moments:

The glow of white smiles against brown and firm melanin.
The incomparable buzz of mixed liquor and love.
Slurring all the right words.
Falling for your “best friend.”
Getting over goodbyes.
Watching them boomerang back like good karma.

I sprawled out on my sofa and in one night I devoured Lucas’s book. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter and spewed every emotion possible since Ernessa T. Carter’s “32 Candles.” I was mesmerized.

___________________________________________________________

Lucas is a compartmentalizer. Upon initiation and the deflowering of any situation, she categorizes the experience and files her emotions. In one chapter, she employs a golden rule from her dating code of honor:

“…under no circumstances do you date an associate’s former flame. That broad definition of a man who was once important but is no longer includes anyone who paid for dates for a woman in my wide-reaching circle, all of their exes (of course), jump-offs, one night stands, and any person that a current associate was crushing on, whether he expressed mutual interest or not.”

She then goes on to explain how social networking expanded her network and states that it was difficult to meet anyone that she didn’t know. A few paragraphs later, we’re given amendments to this infamous girl code rule! A rule that women have debating amongst their friends for years. How ridiculous does your “off-limits” get? When is it okay to step over the line? These questions are all answered in the “Dating Code of Honor” chapter.

Another chapter that raised a ton of “mhmms” and yesss girls” from me was “An A/B Conversation".” Lucas meets a handsome stranger at a party that drops the most applicable who-your-man-is philosophy I’ve ever heard. He states:

“The people you seriously date only come as A’s or B’s. Anything else like a C through a Z, is a time killer. It’s not the real thing, so why put forth the effort?”

A man is defined as: “….the nice man your parents would like to see you dating or married to. He is reliable, rational, dependable, honest, humble, considerate, and goal oriented...(You see where this is going.)”

But B? Oh B man: “There is something about B. You can’t ever really put your finger on why. He doesn’t do half of what A does, but you will do twice as much for him. He’s not really reliable. He’s definitely inconsistent and usually not entirely honest. He might not be conventionally attractive, but he’s hypnotized you into believing he is the finest man you will ever encounter. He is, however, drama.”

The argument?:

..life gets way more interesting around B.
Your emotions run the full gamut.
You might coast with a variation of forty to fifty mph with A, but B is zero to ninety in six seconds flat.

Sound familiar? Yes! Amen.

Trying to figure out who to choose when it comes to these two brothers? Get the book!

Ms. Lucas, you’re a new age wordsmith. This memoir-esque, blogger style, acronym filled text kept me on the edge of my seat. It is the journal I was afraid to keep all my life, for fear someone might find it. It’s the details I didn’t tell my friends, for fear they’d raise an eyebrow. Most importantly, it’s me over and over again. Within each chapter, I laughed and cried as my memories collided with your world.

Although you aren’t the fiction I usually adore, your stories weighed just as heavy on my reading heart. If there is a fine line between simplicity and elegance, you’ve drawn it clearly. Looking forward to your next Picasso.

-riv-

Death of My Journals, Birth of a Writer.

2011-12-06T00:02:00.001-05:00

The same girl who stood at the banks of her undergraduate university estuary and let her journals drown, is refilling journals once again. Back then, I wasn’t a writer. I was an emotional poet: I only strung rhymes together when I was angry or hurt. I’d channel those emotions when I’d perform and stun slam crowds with unbelievable memories.

The work I penned during my high school years accrued several awards, competition wins and notoriety. I was traveling with these emotions to universities, different states and venues. It was good for a while. Then it started to take a toll on me.

Show prep was:

1) A lemon, brought up by room service for voice control.

2) A playlist, particularly songs from the time of the poem’s events, on the iPod.

3) Minutes of remembering: Stirring up the sorrow from the break-up, the lies or the tribulations.

Ready.

My reputation of emotion grew so strong that I was frequently requested for Valentine’s shows or charities. They wanted me to pen poems for organ donation, AIDS awareness, State of the Black Man and more. They wanted an angry and loud poet that would scare the daylights out of their audience and convey their message to no avail.

I wasn’t writing for me anymore. I was even taking on the emotions of others, a masochist really, as research for new poetry. I’d had enough.

I woke up one morning, with a strong heavy on my heart, boxed the journals loaded with poetry written upon request into cardboard and took the short walk to Hampton University’s banks. I watched the sorrow float briefly and then be swallowed whole.

I made a choice that day. I was going to write for me and only for me. Selfish much?

No, not at all. I’d felt strongly about all the topics I’d written about. During my research for writing on them, I gained a philanthropist heart and volunteered/interned for remarkable causes. However, I’d lost my purpose.

I used to write to relieve my stress and my pain. I used to write all sorts of genres; plays, short stories, etc. Yet here I was, penning for everyone but me.

I went to the store and bought a new slew of journals that night, I enrolled in a fiction writing class the next semester and I started this blog.

My occupation, besides being a teacher, is writing full time for ME. I still perform from time to time, when the purpose is something I’m enthralled about. When I come across an article or cause that moves me, it might find its way into my humble writing abode. Other than those instances; I adore this site, the new notebooks filled with aspirations, and sharing the truth that is MY world.

You only get one pen life. One that might be burdened with the weight of the world or one that is a free glide of inked individuality across the page.

Use it wisely.

(pic via here)

Roundabout.

2011-11-22T21:40:00.001-05:00

Shelby is a whore. Alright, that’s not exactly true. She’s got a great cumulative GPA, helped to reconstruct N’awlins after Katrina and loves kittens. Shelby is a sophomore and two years older than me. She’s French-Canadian and Nigerian, five foot nine and has green hypnotizing eyes. Still, all this doesn’t negate the fact that she’s a certified whore. What gives you a certification in whor-ism you ask? Ah, let’s see….

1) The drunken bout on a sixth floor balcony with Marcus from the football team.

2) Perhaps it was the midnight ruckus behind Burger King, whopper style.

3) In fact, it might’ve been the late night studying in the restricted section of club library.

Regardless of her extracurricular activities, Shelby still manages to have most of the institution’s male population fawn after her. The simpletons grovel at her feet; fingering her long brown locks as she walks by, approaching her with a free drink at the bar and cheating on their beloved girlfriends.

I’m Shelby’s roommate, Veronica Alvina Theodore III. Yes, my mother and grandmother have the exact same name. What makes it worse is everyone calls me Junior. From the moment they placed the ink on my birth certificate, I was destined to be a sidekick. I played second fiddle and follow the leader to shimmery girls all throughout junior high and high school. A nerd with a fashionista mother—I was always dressed to the tee, but lacked the social skills to survive amongst those at the top of the food chain. Thus my popularity was in limbo. Sure everyone knew me, but no one actually cared to get to know me.

Freshman year of college at Holland University was my chance to break free of my pseudonym’s shackles. I applied to the smallest college in the country, so that I could develop an entirely different persona. High school was a blur of trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit in and desperate pursuits of third base. I didn’t want to remember it and I left it all behind.

Things were going well. I’d just joined the school’s newspaper, beamed at a progress report filled with A’s and B’s and I was taking home my roommate and Canadian college bestie for Thanksgiving. There was only one problem:

Here at Holland, I was Ronnie the journalist; a cute girl who worked at the smoothie shop where the athletes came post games. A great platform for spotting biceps and dimples. However, back home I was Junior; A Lemony Snicket, newspaper obsessed, almost-cool bore.

To make a long story short, Shelby uncovered everything. She made a mad dash through my bookshelves and deemed me a nerd, cracked jokes about me with my pretty and evil older cousins around the dinner table and even brought back the name Junior with her to school.

“It’s cute! Why are you so ashamed of it?” Shelby asked while trying on a winter dress for formal at the campus dress shop.

I poked my head into her dressing room and glared at her mirror, “Because I hate it! I like Ronnie better. Can we just stick with that please?”

Shelby looked around as if she was considering it, “Hmmmm no, I like Junior. Who knew families could pass down the matriarch’s full name? That’s awesome.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back into my own dressing room. The size 8 jeans I was trying to fit my size 10 thighs into, wasn’t working out. I sighed and threw them to the floor. Suddenly, Shelby walked into my dressing room, “Junior, how does this look?”

“I told you not to….” She looked fantastic, stunning even. She twirled around in the almost sheer skin-tight mauve gown and did her best pageant girl smile. “You look alright.”

“Just alright Junior? Ah, come on! Give a girl her props.” She hurried out to take off the dress and make her purchase.

Sigh. Shelby was never going to let this whole Junior thing go. I was glad she was the only one who knew. I wasn’t letting a dumb nickname and a slightly awkward demeanor ruin my four years of glory. I would ask Shelby to keep it a secret and we could leave this all behind us. After all, what are best friends for?___________________________________________________________

Shelby is a tramp.

The Thanksgiving trip had lessened my model of a roommate’s respect for me. Shelby was on a rampage. She told every new group we hung out with that my nickname was Junior. She was suddenly asking me to fetch things for her and telling me to change things about my outfit, whenever she got the chance. Guys said they were automatically attracted to her take charge attitude. There was nothing take charge about Shelby. She was a subtle, mean and evil control freak. She was ruining my life:

1) When guys, cute guys, came over to study with me in our communal living room, she’d walk out for snacks in boy shorts and tank tops. She’d switch all the way to the snack cabinet and slowly bend over for Doritos she strategically placed on the bottom shelf. My partners—usually stuck in some frozen trance—would drool on the calculus assignments we’d have to present the next day. The same idiots would sometimes even have the audacity to ask me for Shelby’s phone number. The nerve.

2) When guys would ask us—us meaning BOTH—if we were coming to an event, she’d always find a way to speak for me. “Oh Junior? She’s got article deadlines!” “Isn’t ComicCon in town?” “Beer Pong isn’t your thing hun! Remember when you threw up all over Zach Devlin? What a night!” Trick. The truth is, she’d rather spend time with a guy alone. We always carpooled. Bringing a friend along would guarantee her no solo time at the end of the events.

3) I was even dumb enough to believe she was giving me good advice on meeting a nice guy. Shelby told me Jared was too dumb for me. Jared graduated top of the class three years later, Shelby did him graduation night. She told me Mike was a frat boy and no self-respecting girl dated a frat boy. Shelby joined a sorority two months later, she had her first Greek relationship with Mike.

I was sick of Shelby. Her evils were so sneaky, I couldn’t even complain about them without her having a perfectly logical excuse for her behavior. It usually ended with, “I was just trying to help, gosh.”

A few semesters later, Shelby and I were still friends. Why? I have no idea. We’d moved out from the same apartment and had separate majors, but still she managed to stay close by at all times. Perhaps, deep down, she really liked me. Yeah right.

After sophomore homecoming game, Shelby came to the smoothie shop. I was supposed to have the night off to attend, but my manager was a jerk. The only solace I was going to have was greeting the players as they came to replenish their energy later that evening.

Shelby sat at the table closest to the counter wearing a mini-skirt and belly shirt in 50 degree weather, “Hey girl! What time do the players start coming in?

“9 o’ clock. Scouting again I see?”

She laughed and then looked at the clock, it was 8:53pm, “Something like that. Joseph Terry is a new transfer quarterback with NFL scouts looking at him. He doesn’t know his future wife is right here on campus. I’m gonna wait for him to notice.”

I snickered and started to wipe off the counter, “Whatever.”

The boys came pouring in, on time, with their duffle bags thrown over their defined shoulders. I rushed to my cashier station as a cascade of brown formed to place their orders with the other employees. There was a silent melancholy that spread across their faces, I could tell they’d lost.

As I was giving a next-time smile to my seventh customer, Joseph Terry cruised in. Shelby was right, he was gorgeous. He wore a ribbed tank with gym shorts, his butterscotch seeming to spout from every crevice. Joseph had only been on the team for a month and had every girl on campus paying attention. He walked up to another player and did one of those weird manly hug and gimme-a-pound things and put his order in. Shelby moved from her post to accompany me at my cashier station. She stood next to me looking entirely too eager.

“Everything on lock bestie?” She said as she brushed down her mini skirt and fumbled with her hair.

I glared at her, “You look fine.”

Every player leaving the counter asked for her name or number. She refused politely. I look at Joseph to see if he’s noticed her yet. Sure enough, still waiting on his drink, Joseph was grinning our way like a Cheshire cat. Ugh, what an idiot.

Shelby took notice of this and cleared her throat as Joseph came to my cashier station. He handed me his money still wearing his stupid grin. He even had the nerve to fumble with his change. Shelby talked on and on while this was happening, about nothing, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. He slightly tripped on the way out, almost dropping his grape smoothie. I hated him.

Shelby even had the finest of the fine feeling like they couldn’t talk to her. If a guy like Joseph could feel inadequate around her, she was bound to crush me.

_______________________________________________________________

Shelby is a slut.

It was football season and Joseph Terry was almost never in town. Shelby decided she’d need a steady boyfriend for the winter and started to date an imbecile named Derrick. He was a senior that had a serious alcohol problem, but Shelby ignored it because he owned an Audi and he was a trust fund baby.

On their first date, Shelby begged me to go with her the entire day.

“Come on! I don’t know him like that and he kind of scares me a little bit. I need you.”

I stopped in my tracks even thought I was 4 minutes late for Media Ethics 101 already, “If he makes you uncomfortable, you shouldn’t be going out with him. Period.”

“If something happened to me, wouldn’t you feel bad that you didn’t come? Pleeeaaassseeeee Junior, just this once.”

I’d agreed to hell. On the first date Derrick brought a fellow circus act they called Custard. We hung in the Audi on the beach boardwalk lot and took shots of some dark liquor I couldn’t pronounce. I actually took sips, there was no way I was doing anything sweet with a guy named after desert. I decided I needed fresh air after an hour of Custard and Derrick’s banter about cow tipping and farm hoes. They were from some dump town in Wisconsin, that was their fun.

I came back from my walk to find Shelby running down the other side of the boardwalk with nothing but a bra and a skirt on in the freezing cold. Derrick and imbecile were chasing her in their boxers. I didn’t stick around to find out what happened next. I took a cab home.

Soon Derrick wanted to try romance. He told Shelby he was going to take her to an open mic. She was afraid they were getting too serious and decided that if I came on their outing, he would get the message.

Fraid’ not.

Derrick glared at me from the rearview mirror all the way of the backseat drive to the jazz spot where they held Spoken Word Wednesdays. He saw me as the tag-a-long and his key to NOT getting any tonight. I stared out of the window the rest of the time.

We found seats in the front and ordered some appetizers to pass the time. Derrick eventually stopped glaring and began to loosen up. The scene was cool—a live band to play between performers, covers of Raheem Devaughn by melodic voices and angry poetry for mother’s who were never there. I was having a great time. Shelby and I bobbed our heads to the interludes and grasped our Appletini’s in laughter. It was almost as if the last three years hadn’t happened.

_______________________________________________________________

Shelby is a floozy.

When they said “Junior come to the microphone, you’re next on the list.” I was expecting some little brown guy to come up to the stage and perform. After the third announcement, I’d realized they were speaking to me. Shelby signed me up, without me knowing.

She yelled as I walked to the stage, “You’re always writing stuff girl! Show them what you got!”

This girl who called herself my best friend didn’t even know I was a journalist. She didn’t even know they difference between a sonnet and an article. Maybe she was just trying to help me and here I was doubting her again. Then again, this could be another way of embarrassing me.

As soon as I got to the stage, I saw Joseph Terry in the back of the room alone. He was facing the stage and wearing that dumb ass grin again. Shelby, turned around to face him, was likely wearing one too. I hated the both of them.

I’d had enough. It was time for Shelby and the school to hear about who she really was.

I spoke into the mic with my best poet voice and mimicking gesture hands:

I don’t pity occupational hazards for jezebels// there are risks when you lay on backs// then fret when streets call your name// skin reflecting graffiti walls// how many have left their tag?// is insecurity written there?// your deeds are no secret// you are no longer a whisper// I’m here to scream you loud//

I am sick of you calling me un-pretty behind my back// sure you feel I have no tact// materialism and fashion I may slack//

but there’s one thing I’m confident in//this poem, right here// and the walls that talk// I’ll tell them, you said, “What’s good?”

The crowd burst into applause. Even Shelby and Derrick were on their feet. Maybe I’d gotten through to her. I rushed off stage, thanked everyone who’d congratulated me and sat amongst my sort-of companions once again.

Shelby immediately grabbed my hand with a smile, “Oh my God! I knew you wrote and stuff, but I didn’t know you were that good.”

Sigh. She didn’t even know the poem was about her.

________________________________________________________________

I’m over Shelby.

I’d decided I was going to let the next two years pass by, keeping my head in the books. In the real world, I wouldn’t have to deal with her. The least I could do was put up with her for now.

Derrick decided Shelby wasn’t paying enough attention to him and dropped her like a bad habit. She didn’t even notice.

Since I’d given in to Shelby’s antics I’d agreed to meet her everyday after our 11am course, for lunch. We were both taking double doses of required Physical Education electives in the same building and food was the only thing we could agree on after strenuous activity. Leaving the locker room, Shelby started to walk the long way to the lunch hall.

“What a way to give me more activity woman.” I groaned.

“The long way gives us a glimpse of the sports gym and..”

“Yeah, yeah. Joseph Terry might be in there.”

“Good girl! Now let’s go.”

I rolled my eyes and reluctantly trudged behind her. Turning the sweatiest and stinky corner of the entire Phys Ed. building, we bumped into Joseph. Surprise.

He was at the other end of the hallway and Shelby had started her famous switch while I was trying not to fall asleep before I got to to my delectable tuna sandwich. Joseph was wearing his stupid grin. It seemed as though it grew wider and wider the closer we got. We walked past one another without saying a word and continued on to the cafeteria.

When we got outside I hit Shelby in her arm, “What’s the point of all the extra if you’re never going to speak to him.”

She rubbed her hurt shoulder and laughed, “One day you’ll learn. It’s all a part of my game. He’ll come to me.”

________________________________________________________________

Joseph Terry never spoke to Shelby. In fact, we rarely saw him after that day. When we did, he seemed to be in a rush still wearing his big dumb Chiclet-tooth grin. Stupid.

Shelby found other pursuits and successfully hunted them down. She’d come to the conclusion that Joseph was either mentally retarded or gay. I went with both.

________________________________________________________________

Two years after graduation Shelby and I were still friends. She moved in with her boyfriend and stayed local and I headed back home to New Jersey where I was working at a small publication. We still spoke every now and then to reminisce my torture that she calls “The Good Ol’ College Days.” Right.

We finally planned a trip back down to our stomping grounds for homecoming. We spent an entire weekend greeting memories—ones we (she) wasn’t entirely proud of—and going to alumni parties galore. Shelby and I were at our last party, sitting at the bar, when a big familiar grin appeared from the darkness of the dance floor. It was stupid ass Joseph. Grinning.

“Heyyyyyy Mr. NFL Player Joseph Terry! How are you?” Shelby slurred and crooned.

I waved a small wave and went back to nursing my Vodka. I nudged Shelby with my elbow, in the process, to remind her that she had a boyfriend.

After a few exchanged words, my back turned to them, I heard Shelby mumble, “I’m gonna head to the little girl’s room. I’ll be back.” Psssshhh, still playing hard to get.

Joseph took a seat next to me, “How are you Veronica? “

Gasp. He knew my name. “I’m alright. Enjoying alumni weekend as much as possible.” I noticed a ring on his finger. Good for him.

“Married huh?”

“Yeah, two kids too. That’s funny.”

I laughed in drunken confusion, “What’s funny about that?”

He smiled, “I always pictured myself marrying you.”

I almost dropped my Vodka, “What? Ha! You’ve got jokes sir.”

He took my slipping drink from my hand and confirmed his statement, “I’ve always had a crush on you. I used to get real nervous around you. You’d have me grinning like a fool. But you were always so mean looking. I thought you hated me.”

Just then Shelby came back with her hair swooped in a different direction and placed her hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “What are youuuu guys talking about?”

Joseph smiled his stupid smile. I sat in shock. The world around us buzzed. Shelby seized the opportunity to seductively pull Joseph to the dance floor.

Shelby is still a whore.

(pic via here)

24 Things I’ve Been Meaning to Say.

2011-11-18T21:21:00.001-05:00

Well, it’s here. It’s finally arrived, the big 2-4. Okay, perhaps it’s not that big of a deal. However, the day before Thanksgiving, next week, I’ll be be twenty-four years old. I can’t believe it will only be one year until I celebrate a quarter of a century alive. Just yesterday I was throwing them back and falling asleep at the club.

Actually, that was three years ago at my 21st birthday extravaganza. Yesterday, I was enjoying steak and vegetables while catching up, with the boyfriend, on one of our favorite shows. Tonight we’ll probably enjoy Grimm with a shrimp pasta. Sounds quite boring huh?

Not really. The truth is, I’m old. You might be dying laughing in front of your computer screen. I saw that “hmph” you just spewed at me. Well, you don’t understand. When I left college, I grew tired of the relentless games and trials of youth and decided it was time to grow up.

You’re probably trying to process why a girl in her early twenties is developing middle-aged routines and a wine-aged outlook on life.

I’ll tell you why, twenty four times.

1) Clubs suck. I don’t know what does it for you ladies. Either you’re wasting money and purchasing drinks, just to get groped and confronted by unworthy men. Or you’re having drinks purchased for you by unworthy touchy-feely men. Whether you’re leaving with less cash, a one night stand or tarnished humility; you’re screwed.

2) Drama is no fun after 18. Sure, it was fun to call the other girl back in high school and have passionate arguments with your secondary ed. sweetheart. Now it’s disgusting. Drama at this age comes with harsh consequence.

3) Oh he’s your baby daddy? Oh, you’ve been seeing him on the side for seven months? Oh, you’re pregnant for him? You can have him sweety. No man is worth months of silent phone calls, busted windows, and a brokenhearted child.

4) You’re nothing but a credit score in this country. It seems to me that during the third decade, twenty-something year olds destroy their rental history, leave a slew of unpaid bills and take on any credit card possible.

5)I want to be totally financially secure when I’m thirty. Prada will always be here.

6) Diseases are real. I have tons of friends calling me to tell me about their sexual romps with John, Jack and Gabe. John from one week ago at the supermarket, Jack from last night’s lounge event and Gabe that just joined the church. Sorry, I’ll take the friends-first route.

7) Drunken girls get taken advantage of or get into accidents. One Corona please bartender.

8) *Vibration #25 while at the theater* Why is my phone going off like this? Shit. Someone is having an argument about their homegirl’s inappropriate pose on Facebook with their man. Why did I comment on this?

9) Reality shows are the furthest thing from reality. Well, except X-Factor.

10) I want grown up friends. Grown up friends with common sense, intellectual conversation and jobs.

11) Hopefully this will keep WorldStar Hip-hop, Zane book reviews, and porn spam off of my Facebook mini-feed.

12) Wine and cheese is better than stale hot wings and beer from the bottom of a rusted keg.

13) I’m just sayin.

14) Diseases are real. Pap smear, pap smear, pap smear.

15) I like lattes and writing at Barnes & Noble. Sue me.

16) I met my future husband at Barnes & Noble. I predicted this. I repeat, I did not meet him at the club.

17) Starbucks is inside of ALL Barnes & Nobles’. I’m just saying.

18) I really like Barnes & Noble. Could you tell?

19) I love real love. Like soothing warm, in your arms, I just wanna cook, marry and procreate with you love. Damn.

20) My planner is my God. At-A-Glance Refills are my Jesus.

21) Well, not on Sundays.

22) I’m happy. I know what I like.

23) I’ve been performing, traveling and bugging with my girls for the last five years. I crammed two decades into college. I went to an HBCU. Nuff’ said.

24) That being said, I’m about the reverse of this number in Riv years.

This year, I look forward to a cozy Italian dinner with family and friends. I’ll probably cop that book I’ve been meaning to get. I’ll tweet, “It’s my birthday fool!” I’ll sleep in longer. On the weekend of course. I’m a teacher, so I’ll be at the blackboard on my actual born day. I’ll hug my little cousins and thank them for inspiring the force I am. I’ll kiss my man and tell him he’s made this year an amazing one. I’ll even finish that last round of book edits for the publisher.

I’ve got twenty-four plus reasons for simplicity.

Bring it on.

Good Reads: GeekGirlDom

2011-10-21T11:48:00.005-04:00

I'm a geek. In case you couldn't tell by the Bullyism piece and these avid Good Read posts, I thought I'd remind you. Last weekend, my boyfriend and I stood on a five block line at 9am in the morning for New York's Comic Con with a bunch of other humans drenched in fantasy. The early birds definitely caught the worm. We slithered into the convention center in less than twenty minutes and immersed ourselves into the fun immediately.

We saw the advanced pilot for "Once Upon a Time", listened to a panel about the new DC 52 Batman comics, caught a glimpse of Stan Lee and I even got the chance to rock a Vegeta hat. (Stop it, you're judging me.) Anyway, there was a Harper Collins booth on the convention floor that had a signing for Leslie Simon's "Geek Girls Unite: How Fangirls, Bookworms, Indie Chicks, and Other Misfits Are Taking Over the World."

I missed the signing, but I did grab myself a signed copy on the way to Jay and Silent Bob's podcast.

The guide features a categorization of all the geek girls in the world: Literary, fan girls, theatre, artisans, fashion....apparently we're everywhere. Guess which one I classify as?

Anyway, the book even recommends other works for each category to explore & heighten their geek-isms. One book synopsis that caught my attention was Curtis Sittenfeld's "Prep." Although I don't agree with her horrible physical characterizations of the few African-American characters in the text, it reads a lot like my secondary education life. Lee Fiora, her protagonist, is/confronts every stereotype of the high school caste system. The only thing that seperates Sittenfeld from the mastermind behind "Mean Girls" and all other mini-chick flicks is her eye for the detail and depth that leads to such occurrences. I'm only halfway through, but so far...I'm giving it 4 out of 5 stars.

Simon and Sittenfeld don't disappoint. Geek at heart? Give em' a glance by clicking the links above.

(comic from myspew.com)

Facebook Ruined My Relationship.

2011-10-19T19:30:00.001-04:00

Cameron is a jerk.

Three years ago, this blog would’ve begun with some poetic description of his awesomeness. Now that I’m older and wiser, he is nothing but a mere example.

THEN:

Cameron was my sort-of boyfriend. At twenty, when men told me they were detached or separated, I believed them. His words were something like, “We’re not together right now and we might work things out, but I don’t really know.” Back then, my insecurity and ignorance translated that into “I’m single.” For an entire summer, we went on a litany of dates: Neo-soul concerts, dinner and laughter, staring at the stars from my apartment balcony and drunken double dates with my roommate and her boyfriend of the semester.

Soon my written work was taken asunder by love poems and sonnets of Cameron. My Facebook notes were adorned with my sentiment and I found myself purchasing tickets for his favorite band. He became the “we-don’t-need-titles” love of my life.

Women have a way of misconstruing men’s movements. It’s true; sometimes actions speak louder than words. However, in some rare cases those words boom louder than the physical mixed messages we cling too.

1) Cameron had made it clear from the outset of our “relationship” that his ex was kind-of still in the picture.

2) Every time I’d bring up why we didn’t have titles, he’d avoid the topic and veer into a completely different conversation.

3) After every date, he’d remind me of how much he valued our “friendship” and hoped that we’d be “pals” forever.

Yeah, I had all the signs. Still, I chose blindness over my third eye.

After every great night, he’d write general statuses on his webpage solidifying my false hope.

“The future holds beautiful things for us.”

For me, tagging him to the top of the love verse in my notes with no protest meant his “ex” was non-existent. When he wrote things on my photos and on my wall, I was sure of my exclusivity.

Facebook soon added the ability to see previews of what someone was writing to another person. I witnessed Cameron write identical statements on the photos and walls of tons of other girls. His ex-girlfriend eventually caught on and began to stake her claim anywhere she could on his page.

I was mortified.

When I confronted Cameron he reiterated the statements he’d said so many times before. He was right. He’d warned me that he wasn’t in for the full ride and still I’d given him the driver’s seat.

NOW:

After a few weeks of I-hate-you and reclaiming the Dave Matthew’s Band concert tickets I bought him, we decided we’d just be friends. No seriously, just friends.

Years have passed by and we’ve both danced in and out of new relationships witnessing the union’s trials through broken mini-feed hearts, photo albums and a fluctuating emotion of updates.

Recently, he and one of his new beaus came to watch one of my performances. She enjoyed herself and added me to on Facebook and is an avid reader of the site. I’m sure she’ll even read this. Hopefully, she’ll catch on.

As I witness the flurry of a familiar feeling slash across my recent FB stories, I am struck by dejavu.

Clearly the two are going through a breakup. She’s posting “the-why-oh-whys” and he’s STILL gallivanting the fact that he doesn’t care by cascading inappropriate comments/lingo on the pages of hors d’oeuvres. (The English pronunciation.) He’s even gone as far as to block her.

I’m not bothered by Cameron’s actions. In fact, I’m eerily used to them by now. What bothers me is the girlfriend’s reaction and how incredibly similar it was to my own. Her digital heart on her sleeve went from posting lovey-dovey photos, written work and announcements of their mush to anger and resentment. I’ve sailed on that ship.

However, there is one factor that remains the same. Cameron is STILL a jerk. Within the last few years, even when he’s in a relationship, his internet behavior has rarely deviated. Onlookers assume that when a man’s Facebook is flooded with photos, an “in a relationship” and any activity that sounds anything like romantic bliss, he’s committed.

CRAP.

I have over 2,000 Facebook friends and if you really look at most of the pages of these “committed” men, most of their relationship activity is FEMALE initiated.

She sent the relationship request.

She has photo albums called: “My Pooky and Me” “Boo-Daddy” “Luv of My Life” or all of the above.

She’s writing updates along the lines of, “I absolutely love my man.” He’s writing updates like, “This weekend was awesome. Looking forward to the future.”

Oh and trust me! She will believe because she spent 3 hours and 12 minutes with him on Saturday, he’s referring to their future.

In between the flood of romance on Cameron’s page provided by his girlfriend there were still instances of his a-hole activity:

1) Tuesday 7:43pm, Janice’s Page: “Damn girl you look good in that dress. When am I going to get to see you?”

2) Wednesday at noon, Tia’s Notes: “This love poem was good. Was it about me? Haha j/k.”

3) Friday at 4:00pm, Kareem’s photo: “This is at the strip club dude! Why didn’t you invite me?!”

Even with all this evidence, his girlfriend still sees him as the love of her life that could do no wrong. It isn’t until AFTER the breakup that she starts to see his minute indiscretions. Suddenly, the commentary that’s been on his page for WEEKS is a new reason for their untimely separation.

She soon places the inevitable status on her page: FACEBOOK RUINED MY RELATIONSHIP. WHY AM I EVEN ON THIS? IT’S TIME FOR ME TO BE OUT.

I’m annoyed.

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this, but it’s certainly time I’ve said something about it. Just like guns don’t kill people. (People kill people. Not that I’m in support of guns. Hmph.) FACEBOOK DOESN’T RUIN RELATIONSHIPS. PEOPLE RUIN RELATIONSHIPS. (Sometimes outside people ruin relationships. Eh, you’ll find more info on that here & here.)

Someone once said to me that social networks are a platform to either see who someone really wants to be or who someone really is. In particular, Facebook is most often the latter. Provided that most of your friends are classmates, comrades and neighbors; they provide insight on your real persona.

If your man is casually flirting through wall posts and such, he’s probably doing it outside too.

Like Ms. Angelou says, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.”

Believe it or not, there are some folks who can show their relationship digitally and still survive their union! Here’s a few tips that I’ve seen some of my friends, with successful relationships, use:

1) Flirting is usually blatant and noticeable. If you’re in a relationship and someone is showing inappropriate love on your forum, ignore it. If you’re especially brave, tell the person that they’re violating your CLEARLY PUBLIC relationship.

2) Looking at photos is one thing, commenting lewdly or with ;-) faces on one with a miniskirt/six-pack showing is clearly out of line.

3) Terms of endearment makes things awkward, avoid them. I could understand if someone is a longtime friend or family member, but starting your greeting to the girl who sits next to you in Math class with “Hey hun”, complicates things.

4) Posting photos of you receiving lap dances, too frisky hugs and/or other questionable activity could also add fuel to the fire.

There are tons more, but you’re an adult and I’m quite sure you can identify most of these wrongdoings on your own. If you have to ask yourself, “Will my girl or guy approve of this?” It’s probably not the right choice.

Back to my previous point…

Cameron was/still is/most likely always will be a jerk. I knew this pre “relationship.” I’m quite sure she did too. Facebook didn’t ruin your relationship. He did.

Take your blame to the source.

redemption. (bully-isms)

2011-10-12T18:34:00.000-04:00

There were two things that got your ass whooped in my school:

1) Looking like a nerd.
2) Looking like a nerd with a permanently raised hand.

Let me give you the visuals first: At thirteen, I’d accrued an incredibly large gap from adolescent thumb sucking, glasses as thick as coke bottles and a head of poof perm; due to my mother’s try-it-at-home experiments. It also didn’t help that I was extremely talented in reading/writing.

That being said, I was in for it.

Earlier on in my school career, I’d moved from the boroughs of New York City to the burbs’. The third grade teacher at my elementary school placed me at a table in the back of the room, until they could scramble up a desk for me. Immediately I was the center of attention. Girls’ high pitched whispers glazed the bellows of the boys, all pondering the same question: Who was the freak?

This might not have been their inquiry. In fact, my twenty-three and more sensible self will tell me that the excitement arose solely from having a new face around. However, my nine year old insecure self was immediately frightened. Agitated with the urgency of needing to know whether I was liked or not, I came to a conclusion: I would stand my ground; I would be an individual and set my own trends.

I was doomed.

Kristin Hall was the first to speak, “I’m the flyest girl around here and if you want to get in good with anyone, you have to join my sorority.”

“Sorority, what’s that?” I asked.

The other girls who’d accumulated behind her snickered, “It’s something my mom was in. It’s when a group of girls all hang together and does whatever they want for fun. You can only hang with us though.”

“No thanks, I kind of want to get to know everyone.” I breathed.

Kristin placed her hand on her hips, swung an evil glance around the room to the rest of the students and smirked.

“Fine, do what you want.”

Little did I know, Kristin’s glance would define my entire primary AND secondary school career. It seemed as though everyone was afraid of her and since I’d rejected her invitation, I was the enemy.

During lunch, I’d sit under my favorite tree for the next two years beckoning for this phase to pass. I hoped that it would all be over. While catching up on The Babysitter’s Club and Nikki Giovanni, in the shade, the girls would walk past and throw insults for no reason at all.

The trials worsened. It was within the awkward phase of the pre-teen that the horrors of puberty and ignorance-gone-wild occurred:

Jamiya and Zaria spoke, quickly and quietly, to me between classes and afterschool. They were a part of Kristin’s group, more popular than ever now, and quite the commodities themselves. I was touched that they’d decided to fill me in on their days, on the walks home. We lived in the same neighborhood and rode on the same buses. In the comfort of our front lawns and block party shenanigans, we were friends. At school, we were at war.

The two girls came to my sleepovers, they laughed at my jokes and we discussed homework at night on the telephones. It didn’t matter to me that they were unavailable for conversations during learning hours. I’d summed it up to their fear of Kristin. I was dead wrong.

When the girls’ birthday parties came along, I never received an invite. It wasn’t until the Monday afterward; the females of the locker room began to speak of the amazement of Jamiya’s and Zaria’s weekend double pool party.

“Why wasn’t I invited?” A Harry-Potter-obsessed-thirteen-year-old-me asked.

“Because you aren’t cool. If the other kids saw you at our parties, they would have thought we were losers too.” They responded.

Soon, they stopped speaking to me too.

It was after our severance that I realized no one was afraid of Kristin. In fact, she wasn’t even available to attend the functions. It took one glance, one nickname and a few years of torment for me and a few others to be deemed uncool. We had no place in this hierarchy of the band boy and gossip obsessed. We were outcasts.

I was reminded of this throughout the remainder of my teenage life:

A best friend since age nine, who reeked of love for me, chose society’s depiction of beauty as his high school sweetheart. I was held down and beaten because I’d read a poem about gang-violence at the school’s rally for peace. Girls threw things from the back of the bus on the long rides home. Insults were pelted in classrooms where I always knew the answer. Soon, I’d find myself confined to the marching band room, auditorium and library shelves; drowning in the literature that proved to be the best friend I’d ever have.

The silence became too much to bear. People seemed to swarm in and out of my life at a rapid pace, leaving only the residual of hurt. My parents were gems, instilling that I was talented and special. Two teachers, Mr. Bowman and Mr. Abel, insisted I was bound for greatness. A group of young NYC writers, who seemed to appear out of nowhere and a simple Google search, embraced me as though I was one of their own.

During my senior year, I learned to avoid the inconsistencies of high school. I started to take the Long Island Railroad into the city to attend cultural and writing events. The pieces I wrote on those train rides helped me to win a local poetry slam, city-wide slam and a national one. Close to graduation, I’d become the buzz of my high school. Soon many that disregarded me tried to clinch me into their circles. They tried to reach out through the social media that now connected us. I ignored their attempts.

During college, I decided to detach myself from my “hometown.” I threw myself into the academic slam scene and toured the country between classes. In school, I became known as “poetry girl” or “Can-we-get-you-to-perform-at-our-show?” I found several friends who saw me as a sibling, mentor or shoulder to lean on. I wrote profusely, channeling my anger and resentment into masterpieces. The work I performed became a source of income and notoriety. The jar in my heart, with a tightly closed lid, flung open with the stir of my pen. My pain was good for something.

_______________________________________________________

I found myself back in my hometown after college and caught glances of the girls who’d once deemed me a failure: Some were on their third child and unwed, some were searching for Mr. Right and always dating Mr. All Wrong, others were fighting demons in rehab or other institutions. Some of them had genuinely changed; others were still stuck in their ways. I’d love to implement the what-goes-around-comes-around rule here. I’d even love to shake the hand of Karma herself. But what good would that do me now?

We all have the dream of coming to the high school reunion and spreading our triumph all around. We all love to wear our accomplishments like badges and raise our chests high, dancing the shiny reflections in the eyes of the vicious.

But why should we punish those of the present with the antics of their childhood? Judging by Kristin’s face—high and looking for her next fix—cringing at the neighborhood bodega at my presence, seeing me was triumph enough.

If it were not for the angst of high school, the anxiety crumbled deep within my stomach, there would be no writer. There is an everlasting cringe that wades in the waters of my psyche. Our past, preferably those aligned with youth, is a dampened stain on our new beginnings. Although I am not a fan of these feelings, I am inclined to dismiss the nervousness, the blue-moon feeling of not fitting in and the slight paranoia that keeps me on the defense. If it were not for the laceration of this emotion, I wouldn’t bleed ink.

_____________________________

What do you bleed?

family gone south.

2011-10-03T10:44:00.001-04:00

Uncle John is a murderer.

He hasn’t always been this way.

As a child, he’d come for summer visits to New York from his home in North Carolina. The first time he’d ever visited, I was playing in my room when a southern drawl boomed from downstairs.

“Where’s my welcome wagon at?!”

I raced down the steps to greet the mysterious Uncle John. Dad had been bragging of their childhood antics for the last week. He must’ve been important with all the preparations that were made. The guest room, usually used for storage, was cleaned immaculately. The kitchen refrigerator was filled with huge steaks and a lager that neither of my parents enjoyed. Most importantly, dad was in a suit and mom was in a dress. This was a rare occurrence.

Uncle John stood in our doorway with a bright blue suitcase, huge farmer boots and dirty jeans that didn’t do his clean plaid shirt justice. My parents smiled and shook his hand ferociously, leading him to the living room. I sat at the bottom of their steps listening to their conversation.

“John, we’re really glad you’re here. It’s been so long.” My mother mused.

“I’m glad to be here. Glad to help with your situation and all.”

Father smiled, “Listen we’re not going to need much; just what we were going to receive from the farm, a bit early.”

Dad was referring to grandma’s farm. Uncle John was the only one who stayed behind to take care of grandma and the farm’s small cotton export. Grandma was dying of cancer and didn’t have long. I didn’t know her or Uncle John, because of a family feud—ten years ago—at grandpa’s funeral. My mother and father left NC for New York and I was born soon after. They never wanted to discuss why.

I assumed they were trying to receive their cut of the will, before my grandmother’s passing.

Uncle John laughed, “Don’t worry, I’m here to give. But first, where’s Rebecca? I’ve been waiting to meet my niece!”

My parents yelled for me and I ran up a few steps and back down, so they wouldn’t figure out I’d been eavesdropping the whole time. Judging by my mother’s face as I entered the living room, she already knew. I greeted my Uncle John with a hug. He was a pale peach with a fierce brown mustache. As he kissed my cheek his hairs prickled the skin on my face. This made me laugh.

For the next two weeks, Uncle John told me the other side to father’s stories. We stayed up late, sitting in the firefly illuminated sky. He told me that grandma was a mean old lady, my father was a bad kid and the farm was the green on the other side. While my parents were at work, I showed him my favorite parts of the neighborhood. He disclosed his favorite book with a boy named Holden at the library. I showed him my favorite swing at the park. He laughed at my infatuation with pickles in the huge bodega jars on the counter. I taught him what the word bodega means. Uncle John became my best friend.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Grandma didn’t die till seven years later. Even though my parents were able to pay their back mortgage, they never went to see her. I was eighteen now and in my freshman year of college at Rutgers in New Jersey. Our red Volkswagen pulled up in front of my dorm and honked. I signed out with my resident advisor. In the “where to” box, I wrote “North Carolina.” In the “Reason” box, I wrote “funeral.”

When we finally reached the farm, my heart pounded with excitement. It’d been almost a decade since I’d seen my precious Uncle John. I was also excited about finally being able to see a piece of my family’s history. The farm was adorned in green fields with a small red house at its center. The wheels of our car fought with the stones that led up to the path where an older and tired Uncle John stood.

He greeted us in a crisp plaid shirt and the same dirty jeans. I was surprised they’d lasted this long. He seemed somber as my parents stepped out of the car and walked to the back to take out our luggage. I jumped out the backseat and ran to hug my uncle.

Mid-run I noticed two things:

1) The look Uncle John wore on his face had suddenly turned into a sly smile.
2) The smile was not that of an uncle.

He confirmed this with his next words.

Uncle John pushed me away from him, with his hand on my shoulders, to have a closer look at me.

“Damn girl, look at you all grown up and stuff.” He licked his lips. My parents were too occupied with our belongings to notice.

I smiled uncomfortably in my short almost-summer dress, “Uh, thanks Unc. I’m looking forward to a tour of this place. It looks so awesome out here.”

He gave me another glance up and down, “I’ll most certainly give you any kind of tour you want.”
Still, my parents failed to notice this.

We took a tour of the farm after an amazing breakfast served by Uncle John’s farmhand, Mary. Mary wore a plaid shirt and dirty jeans too. She was young and beautiful, long flowing blond hair and a perfect smile. She showed us the cows, the chicken coops and the old and unused contraption that used to turn cotton into cloth. I hoped that being alone on the farm with Uncle John, meant she was his love interest. I was disappointed when her fiance, another farmhand named Gideon, came to pick her up after work.

In the evening, after my parents went to sleep, I sat in the foyer and worked on my humanities paper that was due the next day by email. Uncle John came out, with his sly smile, to join me.

“Hey Unc, you have wireless Internet here?”

He laughed, “No ma’am, but there is a café in town that does that kind of stuff.”

“Oh okay thanks. I’ll head out there tomorrow.”

“How’s school anyway? Giving them boys a hard time? Or are you too giving?”

I sneered, “I’m not giving anything Uncle John. Let that be the last time you ask me anything like that or I’ll certainly tell my father.”

I slammed close my laptop and headed upstairs to my room, where I locked the door behind me. I was thankful the funeral was scheduled for tomorrow and then we’d be on our way.

The funeral was small but a beautiful send off. Grandma asked to be cremated and her ashes to be scattered in the fields. A few friends, neighbors and even the town mayor came to say their goodbyes. Apparently our family owned the oldest farm in the state of North Carolina. Today, they would also deem it a historical landmark.

During the repast, Mary, Mom and I helped bring out the food to the guests.

Mary picked up a plate with pigs and blankets, “Your mother-in-law was a strong one. It wasn’t over till it was over with her.”

Mother smiled, “Yeah, she’s always been that way. Seven years after diagnosis is incredible.”

Mary paused, “Seven years? Diagnosis? She’s had several sicknesses and was tired, but she just died of plain old age dear.”

My ears were suddenly perked.

Mother asked, “Didn’t she die of the cancer?”

“She didn’t have cancer hun. I don’t know what John told you, but I’ve been here on the farm with them for five years. For four of those years, John’s momma was out there farming and healthy as the horses in the stables.”

My mother made a mad dash out of the kitchen to my father. I soon followed to find out they were headed out to the yard where Uncle John sat alone. Mary came out soon after.

My father demanded an explanation as my mother pleaded for him to calm down. Uncle John sat and listened to my father rant and rave for a few minutes. There were spurts of “no good” “always lying” “truth” and “family.”

The word family seemed to finally get my Uncle’s attention.

“Family Dylan? Where the hell have you been the last eighteen years? Not with family that’s for sure.”

My father groaned, “You know why I haven’t been here John. You know damn well. That doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to know what went on with my momma.”

“You don’t deserve anything! I took care of momma these last years. You don’t think I hated her for what she did too? You don’t think I wanted to leave too?”

“Then why didn’t you John?”

Everyone stood at an eerie standstill. The neighbors and friends who were inside eating were all on the porch, waiting for Uncle’s answer.

Uncle John stood his entire six feet and bellowed, “I didn’t leave because I know what family really is. Did you know we were about to lose this farm John? I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t lose what great –great granddaddy started and daddy continued. This place is legacy.”

“Legacy! After what that man did to us John? Forget his legacy!”

“I can’t forget. I didn’t forget a thing. Not him touching us—“

“John shutup!” Father interjected.

“—not the way momma knew and never said a thing. I didn’t even forget you leaving me here with the bitch after the one person who’d ruined our lives, could never do it again.”

Uncle John’s words were puzzle pieces clicking together in my mother’s eyes. This explained everything.

“I couldn’t stay. There were too many memories.”

“There were good ones too Dylan.” Uncle John lamented.

“I’d have helped you save the farm John, but this isn’t my legacy. It’s yours and momma’s. I couldn’t forgive her ignorance.”

Uncle John sighed and resigned to his seat, “I know, neither could I. That’s why she had to go. I poisoned her slowly these last few years. I had to save this farm. We weren't selling crop anymore. Something had to give. I had to see what was left of my family again. That's why I lied about her having cancer. It was the only way I could see you Dylan. You're my legacy. She drove you away after papa died. All she and papa did was take from us. It was time she gave something back to this family.”

Writing: Productivity

2011-09-19T01:18:00.000-04:00

Writing Space was looking a tad crazy, so I decided to get it back in order. Sometimes, your space is the reason for lack of inspiration. I’m not taking any chances. Happy Monday!

Reading F.L.O.W.: A Gift and a Gander

2011-09-15T17:49:00.001-04:00

On my mother’s birthday every year, she gives ME a gift because she says I was her ultimate present. Yeah, she’s awesome, I know. This year she gave me Walter Mosley’s novel “White Butterfly.” She knows I adore him and Mr. Easy Rawlings.

I also came across Colson Whitehead’s “Sag Harbor” and almost fainted. I enjoyed his book “The Intuitionist” during English thesis in undergrad and had no clue he had any other texts. I know, shame on me. He also has a new book out called, “Zone One.”

Also, there are so many dope literary things happening this weekend/upcoming week. Don’t say I never gave you anything:

A) The Brooklyn Book Festival goes down this weekend. Come through for features from people like Terry McMillan, Jacqueline Woodson, Walter Mosley, Colson Whitehead, Joyce Carol Oates and many more. Find out more info here.

B) Toure is having a book signing in NYC on Monday. He’ll be reading from his new book “Who’s Afraid of Post Blackness?” & having a panel discussion with Nelson George and Dr. Marc Lamont Hill. More info here.

Until these awesome events happen, check out my new books’ synopses:

Listen to Colson talk about “Sag Harbor” here.

Read about Mr. Mosley’s book here.

Relationships: Space

2011-09-13T22:23:00.001-04:00

One of my male best friends sent me a loaded text message yesterday:

“Soooo is it bad that I’m tired of seeing my girlfriend every day?”

I had two reactions to his text message. Seeing as though I’m a female, the first is expected.

1) Emotional: “Oh my God, do men tire of us this quickly? Is this what my boyfriend asks his female friends about me?”

2) Rational: “Well, how much time together is too much time? How much time apart is necessary?”

Payton, my best friend’s name for this post, insisted he needed his space. He said he was ready to spend a night in his bed alone for once and needed the lack of femininity every once in a while. He asked if he should tell her or just start to ignore her. I sat and pondered my best friend’s notions and tried to determine if his annoyance was birthed in the fact that he owned a twin sized bed or had a super glued girlfriend. I couldn’t decide.

There is absolutely no book on my shelf that I could refer to for this information. There are absolutely no females, that I know, that would have a well thought out answer that wasn’t solely based on a bad relationship. So I decided to go straight to the source….men.

I first turned to a close friend, we’ll call him Dante, and told him my dilemma. He was against my best friend’s stance. Dante believes that if you choose to be in a committed relationship, you should be able to see yourself, one day, marrying that person. He’s also convinced that the only difference between dating and marriage is expressing your love in front of a room full of people. Dante agrees that space, every once in a while, is mandatory in a relationship. However, he feels that Payton’s rationale is borderline disrespectful.

“If we’re married, can I kick you out of our bed? Can I stay away for a couple of days because I’m annoyed with you? Sure I can, but I won’t because it’s bad taste. He’s annoyed because he’s not ready to be in a real relationship. For the girl, she’s in too deep with someone who doesn’t always want her around. I don’t put time restraints on the people I love.”

Jadon, another pseudonym friend of mine, used a comparison of two of his relationships:

“I was with this one girl, who I kind of liked, and she was crazy clingy.”

Define clingy:

“She was always up under me and wanted to have nicknames for each other. That was weird.”

Sounds like she was just in love with you to me.

“Nah man, that wasn’t love. I’ve only been in love with one person. I’ve only had one real relationship. She was cool to be around. I had to be around that girl everyday.”

Hmmm, interesting.

Within our short conversation, Jadon proved Dante right. The girl who seemed to be clingy, was one who he sort of liked. The love of his life, who was around just as much as Ms. Clingy, was excused because she was…well….the love of his life. Also known as, someone he enjoyed having around EVERYDAY.

Lastly, my female friend Cara interjected her thoughts into my pending blog:

“My husband and I annoy each other a lot. Sometimes we just need space and time to kick back without one another. Sometimes I even go to a hotel for a few nights.”

Really? A hotel? You two share a beautiful matrimonial bed, home rather, and you’d prefer the comfort of a rented room? Scary.

Eh, I think it’s time for MY opinion.

First off, I don’t think anyone knows the definition of a healthy functional relationship anymore. My boyfriend and I discussed this the other day and we both agreed that it’s a union in which both parties are capable of accomplishing tasks separately and are still able to function as a pair. A lot of couples are afraid of stepping out of the “honeymoon phase”—or perhaps just one party in the relationship—and they slack on their own responsibilities and often neglect other loved ones.

During the honeymoon phase everyone receives texts/phone calls that have this kind of ring to it, “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

This may seem alarming, but in actuality it’s quite alright. The first three months of a good relationship feel like both people have found the only other person in the world. Tasks will go unfinished, phones will go unanswered, and hurricanes will blitz about outside and neither of you will notice. This is expected.

After those three months, in order to maintain your healthy relationship, you have to find an equilibrium. Both parties must be willing and ready to go about their real lives and reunite whenever they find the time. No one person can fulfill an entire person’s life—this is why we have family, friends and associates.

So I’m stuck somewhere in the middle:

Yes, clingy girls/guys do exist. They are stuck in the honeymoon phase or riddled with fear that their relationship is coming to an end. In order to appease their flawed notions, they grasp their partner’s with death grip and never let go. If you find yourself on either side of this situation, you’re either:

1) Crazy as hell.

2) Not into the person as much as you thought you were.

If you’re option two, you should reassess your interest in your “significant” other and decide if a committed relationship is where you really want to be. Because yes, this person will ALWAYS be around.

For Payton and other questioning gentlemen:

To save your lives and your relationships—never tell a girl you need “space”. Unless of course you’re taking a long separation to “think things through” or “see other people.” If you need said space, take it. If your girl is an understanding and rational human being, she’ll just give it to you. The next time she calls and says I’m coming over don’t hesitate to tell her that you’re hanging with the boys tonight. The next time she wants to go another chick flick don’t hesitate to tell her you’d rather study tonight. (Even if it’s a little white lie. I know you’ll really be home watching Thor on Blu-Ray or bootleg. Perhaps you just didn’t have the money for the flick.)

Payton’s rationale for space—an empty bed to sprawl out on and lack of femininity—will likely get him slapped and dumped. Cara’s runaways to her hotel will likely end up in matrimonial divorce.

If you’re feeling too crowded, take your space. If you’re having an issue with your partner,(circles pointer finger around ear and makes coo-coo sound) have a conversation about it.

Equality in a relationship lies within the ability to inform your partner about the divisiveness in your duality. Anything else is separate and unequal.

Godspeed.

Looking Glass.

2011-09-09T16:43:00.001-04:00

Janine was sick of looking for love. Instead of trying to find it, this homecoming week she'd promised the only "Hearts" she'd be walking into was a popular club downtown Philly. She wasn't really a party person, but after a breakup and a bad junior midterm report she needed to let loose. James, her ex, was responsible for the F's and the permanent frown stuck to her lips. It was all she seemed to think about lately.

"Girl! Are you just going to sit in the booth all night? Come party!"

Adina, her too loud best friend, stood with her hands on her hips above her. The rest of their flock eyed the prey nearby. They’d come to flirt and made it clear by parting ways to hunt for men the minute they crossed the threshold of sobriety and drunken stupor.

Janine sighed, “I thought I could, but I’m just annoyed and tired.”

“Alright, have it your way! Sit here and pout.” Adina sashayed back through the crowd in her black and too-small mini dress.

After slurping on the last of her drink, Janine headed to the bar for another. The mass of sweaty arms reaching for the bartender’s attention was enough to abandon her quest. Halfway back to her beloved booth, she noticed a slender young man standing in the corner near a speaker. He was a butterscotch tone with a goatee and a pretty smile that seemed to be pointing in her direction.

She quickly looked over both of her shoulders. No one behind her seemed to be returning his grin. She looked back towards the stereo. He was gone.

Janine made her way back to booth and played with the sugar on the rim of her drink. Who was he? Why was he smiling at her? Was he smiling at her? Did he….

There was a tap on her shoulder. She turned around ready to let Adina have it, when her mystery man smiled down on her once more.

His name was Giovanni. He wore brown cheek-length dreads that seemed as though they’d been dipped in gold at the ends, a Raven’s fitted hat on top of them, plaid shirt rolled to the elbows and ripped jeans. He wasn’t Janine’s type at all. Usually, she was into the extremely clean cut guy: fresh caesar, polo and asshole written all over. Perhaps, eclectic is what she needed.

Eclectic he was. Giovanni was half Irish and half Nigerian. He was raised in Seattle, but going to school at Ohio State and visiting a cousin. He studied Urban Planning and had a concentration in Fine and Performing Arts, Costume Designing to be exact.

In return, Janine told him about her breakup with James. She told him she was ready to leave Penn State and start her PR company in California. She even told him a few stories of all the crazy people she’d met in her lifetime.

He laughed hysterically as they walked through a neighborhood park after hours. She held his hand, which was incredibly soft for a guy’s, something she hadn’t done in a long time. She ignored the vibration of her phone, knowing her friends had started to stumble home without her. They abandoned the club scene, embraced the night sky and shared until the sun rose. Janine found herself in front of her University gate entrance telling him good night and watched him walk back into the darkness.

That night, she’d failed at her mission of not looking for love.

________________________________________________________________

Giovanni visited a lot. Within the next month, he popped up every weekend to see his cousin, or so he said, and of course, Janine. He’d pull up in his red BMW and they’d paint the town the same hue. They spent an entire semester deep in conversation: Dining at cheesesteak spots, lounging at Jazz café’s and exchanging their innermost thoughts. He was perfect.

Or was he? The fact that Giovanni refused to add her on any social networking sites and didn’t seem to exist on any—was a tad weird. Janine soon remembered that it was those very same sites that ruined her last relationship. She shuddered and put it past her. Maybe it was good that he wasn’t into the net.

Janine was also perplexed that in almost a month, Giovanni hadn’t made a move. During the first two weeks she’d come to the conclusion that he was a gentleman. Now that they were approaching the second month, she began to worry. Either he was gay, not interested or took the friendship stage too seriously. She hoped it was the latter.

One night, while he was getting ready to sleep on her sofa, she came out from her room and asked him outright, “You don’t want me, do you?”

He looked at her perplexed, “What do you mean? I’m crazy attracted to you.”

“So why haven’t you made a move?”

“I guess I’m not ready yet. I want to take things slow. Let’s become real good friends before anything else.”

He kissed her on the cheek and Janine headed back to her bed. In her slumber, she tossed and turned. Her restlessness was not caused by nightmares, it was because she wasn’t convinced.

________________________________________________________________

Halfway through the second month of their “union” the two finally fought. Janine didn’t know what to call their relationship, or lack there of, and Giovanni was still using the I’m-not-ready excuse.

There was a heavy silence in the room. Words were thrown, voices were raised and accusations were heard; but there was nothing but breathing now. The sound of a phone rung through the air. Janine snatched her blackberry from the couch that a hurt Giovanni sat and sunk in.

“Hello?”

An older woman’s voice spoke, “Hello. Hi I’m looking for my daughter Melissa. It seems she’s been calling this number, I can tell by the bill.”

Janine interrupted, “Melissa? I don’t know a Melissa, you must have the wrong number.”

“Listen I know she’s been calling…”

Suddenly Giovanni placed his hand on hers and pulled the phone away from her ear. Janine could no longer hear the woman yelling at her. He hung it up and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Janine smiled, “I understand. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

All was silent again.

________________________________________________________________

Janine was frustrated by Giovanni’s behavior. She sat in the computer lab of her department and pondered. Only girls wanted to take their time with these things. Perhaps she was being too hard on him. Perhaps he was truly waiting on the right one. Her friend Silah sat next to her and noticed Janine’s look of concern.

“What’s been going on with you J? You’ve been a little unfocused lately.”

Janine was shocked, “Really? Is it that noticable? I thought I was doing well with keeping up with everything despite all of it.”

Silah was a city girl from Seattle but a country dame deep down. She’d lived in Texas for three years before coming to Philly. Unlike Janine’s other friends, she was only into graduating and nothing else. Even though she was incredibly beautiful, green eyes that accentuated her short curly dirty blonde hair, she had no time for men or games. This was the type of girl that Janine liked to have on her side during class and study time.

“Despite what?” Silah questioned.

Janine started to tell Silah about what was going on between her and Giovanni. She explained that she thought she was through with men for good and was astonished when he’d come along.

At the end of her story Silah sat stunned. “Wow, I didn’t even know you’d moved on from James. Who is this guy, can I see him?”

Janine pulled up her Facebook albums to show her pictures that the “couple” had taken on their various outings. Silah had a curious face on.

“He’s cute. He looks ridiculously familiar.”

Janine said, “Really? You guys are originally from the same place. It’s possible you could know him.”

Silah leaned over to Janine’s computer and went back to the thumbnails of the album. She clicked on a picture of Giovanni sitting on some steps alone. She turned her face in a weird direction and peered at the image.

After what seemed like a long time, Silah uttered, “Does he drive a red BMW?”

Janine looked confused, “Yes…”

“Is he a performing arts major or minor?”

“Yeah, how did you..”

“Does he go to Ohio State or University or something like that?”

“Yeah! You do know him! Did you guys go to high school or…”

Silah interrupted her, “Janine, I don’t know how to tell you this…”

During Silah’s hesitation, Janine braced herself for the next words. Silah had probably encountered Giovanni romantically or knew someone who had. Perhaps she had really horrible information about him. Perhaps he was long lost family. Whatever it was, she decided she didn’t want to know.

“Wait Silah! Just forget it. I don’t want to learn anything bad about him. Just stop…” Janine grabbed her things and started to leave the computer room. It was in this moment that she realized how deep her emotions were for Giovanni. She didn’t want to hear anything about his past that didn’t come from his own mouth.

Janine looked over at Silah as she was leaving. She was wearing a worried look on her face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Silah.”

As Janine began to exit Silah jumped up and said in the quickest way she could, “You should know Janine.…your boyfriend……is a girl.”

________________________________________________________________

Janine walked back into her front door in awe. Everything Silah said made perfect sense. After telling Silah she was crazy and needed to seek medical attention, she’d explained everything to her. The puzzle pieces slowly started to come together.

Silah said she went to a Performing Arts High School with Giovanni and he/she made costumes for all the plays. On Halloween he’d/she’d done a great job at concealing himself to look like a guy and he’d/she’d fool everybody at the parties. His real name was Melissa Williams and most importantly Melissa was all girl. Silah said she recognized her face immediately and didn’t know how to break it to Janine. They put the name into a search engine, where pictures of a girl who could’ve been Giovanni’s twin sister popped up in several cast photos.

Janine suddenly remembered his soft hand in the park, the woman who mysteriously called in the middle of the night and most importantly his lack of affection.

She reached for her phone, now infuriated, and started to dial Giovanni/Melissa’s number. Suddenly she realized that she had the perfect way of confirming it all.

Since there was no NAME caller ID on cellphones, she’d never seen his/her name pop up. She text Giovanni: “Call my house phone.”

The house phone rang and it read: MELISSA WILLIAMS 555-0293

Janine answered, “Hello Melissa.”

_______________________________________________________________

Giovanni was Melissa. Melissa ran away from home a year before college started and never called her mother again. When they found out she was a lesbian, they immediately outcast her. When they wanted to apologize for what they’d done—she wouldn’t let them.

Traumatized by her family’s reaction, she formulated a way to keep anyone—including classmates, friends and loved ones—from knowing about her secret. She’d visit straight clubs, just enjoying the view of beautiful women, hoping no one would recognize her. She didn’t mean for what happened with Janine to take place.

Janine sat on the other end of the line as Melissa told her story. She almost felt sorry for her. Still, she was hurt, betrayed and most definitely pissed.

She finally spoke, “Your life story is crazy. I’m sorry that’s happened to you, but you lied to me. I’m sorry, I can’t forgive you.” She hung up.

________________________________________________________________

Janine spent the rest of her night writing her racing thoughts in a journal. How could she have been so stupid? How didn’t she know? How many other girls had she swindled? Was she the first? Did it matter?

She fell asleep with the notebook and pen in her hand and soon the sun rose on her heavy heart.

Janine woke up to a knock on the door. She looked at the clock, it was 8am. She was sure it was Silah coming to check on her.

She opened the door to find an unfamiliar and beautiful girl her age adorned in a pink Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie, skinny jeans and sneakers. Her butterscotch face gleamed in the sun and her teeth glistened as she spoke, “I drove all night…”

Suddenly the unfamiliar girl’s face, adorned in golden tipped dreads, registered. It was Giovanni….Melissa.

She spoke again, “I just want to talk.”

To be continued…

Reading F.L.O.W.: B&N Trips I had NO business making.

2011-09-07T18:52:00.000-04:00

Even though I just copped Colson Whitehead’s “Sag Harbor”, Demetria Lucas’ “A Belle in Brooklyn” and “The Last Man” comic my boyfriend has me hooked on; I still walked into a Barnes and Noble.

Don’t judge me.

At least I didn’t leave with a journal! I didn’t feed my other obsession! That’s good right? RIGHT!? *conscience mumbles* “What about the two you purchased at Marshalls? Don’t those count?”

Sigh.

Anyway, I’m just really excited to have these two texts in my collection. One to help me with that last push of my novel and the other to fuel my political/social fire.

Imani Perry’s “More Beautiful and More Terrible” & Joseph Bates’ “The Nighttime Novelist”

Relationships: Square One.

2011-09-06T13:24:00.000-04:00

Marie is in a dead end relationship. Yellow signs, cars making u-turns, and collisions could happen on a screen across her boyfriend’s face; and still you’d think she' didn’t realize it.

Jonathan has options. He can date whomever, whenever. It’s believed that he doesn’t realize the one girl who stands out of the bunch and has all the attributes to being the one.

Sheila is with a “good man.” Accustomed to heartbreak and disrespect, a man of this caliber is out of the ordinary. Leary of this newfound behavior she breaks it off, scared of unpredictability. We think she doesn’t realize that his intentions are genuine.

These people have three things in common.

1) They are all AWARE of their predicaments and have chosen to stay in them.

2) Where are they exactly? Square Ten: A comfortable safe place where risks, chances and changes never take place.

3) What are they afraid of? Square One: Starting all over again or taking on new/risky situations.

We are all guilty of self sabotage. Some of us are genuine in our philosophies: “Monogamous relationships are not for everyone.” Most of us harbor our true emotions and place shelters over how we really feel. The house, the kids and a family life have become the opposite of the norm. Thus some of us follow the trend.

I’ve watched women and men place shells over themselves continuously, until they become the little ethnic dolls that become smaller and smaller as we lift each cover. Isn’t that what we’re all afraid of? Being small? Being vulnerable in this mass of world around us?

Commitment means letting go of everyone else, chancing your heart on another human being and having to start all over if everything comes crashing down. Getting rid of a negative relationship means restarting. Trying again is hard, trying again and failing once more is even harder. God forbid you’re in a great relationship and you’ve never seen a healthy functional one. Sound the alarm! This guy/girl MUST be a serial killer, everything is too perfect. There’s too many risks involved.

Abort.

The fear of Square One is something that I’ve heard quite frequently these days. It seems as though no one is willing to take on the risks of relationships anymore. That’s understandable, with all these new no good men/women round here hurting each other. Oh wait, they’ve been around for centuries?!?! Go figure!

Life is a balance of good and evil. We take on things that have a skewed probabilities, everyday. Every time you get in a car or a plane you are ten times more likely to die than those walking. Every time you wake up to go to that stressful job, you lessen your life expectancy. Every time you pick up that bottle or cigar, you heighten your chance of ailment.

Relationships are no different. Standing in a corner, square one, will not keep you safe from all the things that you’ll confront along your stubborn way.

For the girl in the dead end relationship: Jump ship! What’s so scary about starting over again? Getting to know yourself? Hearing your own thoughts? Doing the whole late-night-conversation, mixed messages, will-there-be-another-date notions? There are far worst things in life.

For the guy who turns a blind eye to Ms. Perfect: What awaits you? More one night stands, an STD or an accidental child? As opposed to home-cooked meals, a companion and a future you can depend on? That scale looks pretty unbalanced to me.

For the girl who runs from love: He exists! He’s no fairytale or serial killer. (Okay, he might be. There’s a probability of that, but that’s besides the point.) He might just be exactly what you’ve been waiting on. Seize your moment!

I started at Square One three months ago. I put my heart in the hands of someone I didn’t completely know or trust. But, I took a chance. I confronted that risk. Now, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Who knows? We might not last, we might end on mutual terms or we could end up in eternal bliss. Only destiny and the deities know the outcome. I can’t worry myself to death about tomorrow. Like a hurricane, tomorrow comes and it goes. Despite our preparation, it still leaves destruction and turmoil. After that, we are only responsible the aftermath.

Aftermath: Dividing yourself from the negative, multiplying the possibilities and adding opportunity.

Carpe Diem.

Writing: Goodreads

2011-09-05T17:27:00.000-04:00

(pic via here)

My book collection is ridiculous. Between Barnes and Noble trips, used bookstores, fairs, and online; I’ve accumulated almost 200+ texts. My most prized possessions were flung all about my living space, desperate for attention. Even when I finally placed them on shelves, I still had a hard time finding titles I’d filed according to size. My process was simple, or so I thought: Hardcovers on one shelf and paperbacks on the others, biggest to smallest.

After desperately seeking a tiny Nikki Giovanni text one day, I realized it was time for a change. Ever since this experience, I’ve created my own brand of a library system.

Here’s how:

1) Organize your books based on genre. You can choose to categorize them in whatever way makes your life easier. My categories look something like:

2) Enter your books into a database like GoodReads and let it do the author alphabetization for you. Remember to put them into your categories here as well!

3) Now, stack your books back on to the shelf according to the database order.

4) When complete, feel free to label your sections on the shelves. This way, you don’t have to leave the categories up to memorization.

As a writer, I often have to refer to books for quotes, philosophy, reference or just plain ol’ inspiration. This system helps me keep a clear head while penning my thoughts. This way I don’t spend any crafting time on mad book hunts.

Happy Organizing!

Reflections: Moment

2011-09-03T14:07:00.000-04:00

There are those everlasting songs: Tunes that sifted through summer flings, tragic breakups and stick to our most treasured memories. Yeahhh, those songs.

Today, listening to Pandora and pushing a sponge against an encrusted plate, one of those songs took hold of my cerebellum and pulled me through my past, present and future:

When my father was working at BET, he used to come home with samples of new music. I remember him bringing home Ruff Endz’s “Someone to Love You” single and tossing it to me.
“They’re on the come-up; I think you’ll like them.”

It was like I was outside of myself. A girl of fourteen, swinging to and fro in a tattered swivel chair, placed the CD in her computer’s drive. After the first three lines of the song, she pushed the headphones closer to her ears, amazed at how easily the lead singer verbalized every teenage girl’s truth.

The tears were unexpected, the repeat inevitable and the emotion indescribable.
There is a moment where every girl realizes the difference between a good man/boy and the one she dealt or is dealing with. After this moment, we either take one of two turns. The first path is that of denial: A long and twisted road scattered with false hope and wishful thinking, half-assed men greeting us along the way. The second path is that of truth: A lonely journey trudging morals and values that will beam their brightest only in the palm of the purest heart.

The latter seems too cliché for these teenage girls. They are taught by life’s love lessons earlier on that fairytales only exists in books.

I believed that too.

That there was no boy/man with a mother that had raised him like mine had. They don’t respect their temples as we do. Love was only for breaking hearts and hurting slowly.
I neglected my moment. Flung my headphones aside and smirked at my tears. What a beautiful and imaginary song! Surely, a woman must’ve written this for them. Surely, they were puppets on some label’s string. There is nothing real about these lyrics.

I wonder how many girls have fled this moment. I wonder how many have thrown themselves right back into the ring, fighting a fight that is not their own. I wonder how many have sat in front of mirrors, asking what they did wrong. I wonder how many cry for no reason. I wonder if they know and understand that they are not alone.

Lucky for me, I had a mother to whisper good things to me. As a child, she sung Ray Charles’ “You Are So Beautiful” every night while I fell asleep. Every time I found myself on path number one, the melody of her voice would drift quickly into my mind. I’d awake from a lively slumber, gazing at a fool who would soon see my back as it left.

I am sick of hearing friends complain about men who aren’t worthy of their time. We have so many excuses for the neglectful ones. Sunglasses and smiles hiding our bruises, we uplift them to pedestals on which they don’t belong.

If you are reading this and you’ve missed your moment, I’m giving it to you. Good men exist, they teeter on the corner of opening your eyes and letting your guard down. This is your moment, if you’ve missed it.

Run, renew and wait.

haitian men.

2011-09-01T17:05:00.000-04:00

Mildred went to Florida and came back pregnant.

She always spoke of Michael, the man who brought her to America; her hand in his and their future in the other. Between Mildred’s departure from Haiti and becoming my babysitter, Michael became a passerby. After he left her, to fend for herself in this faraway land, she only remembered her beloved homeland in pain and pieces. I’d listen to these stories while she churned, on the stove, a delicacy I couldn’t pronounce. When she finally told me about the man that had broken her heart, we made the pact that we’d never speak his name again.

Six months later, after a vacation in the south, I’d asked Mildred about the bump that began to grow underneath her apron.

“Who’s the father?”

Mildred turned to my chubby nine year old body perched on a kitchen school and hissed, “That is none of your business child. Eh eh! Well, if you must know, it belongs to Michael.”

She couldn’t help but share her secrets with me, but this was a secret I would not have minded her hiding.

“Why Mildred? Didn’t he hurt you?”

She laughed and churned some more, “Haitian men are the womanizers of all womanizers. You can’t help but be drawn to their spells. They always come back though. He’s back and he will be back again.”

He never came for her. In fact, as Mildred’s stomach began to sprout her sadness grew deeper. She’d sweep about the house, turning one glistening eye to a corner she thought I couldn’t see. My heart sunk, because Mildred was great at the one thing I could never seem to do for her: Make her feel better.

I was the queen of stomachaches. After grasping my ear and calling me a baby, Mildred would concoct a special remedy for my ailment. My eyes flew open wide as she dropped lettuce into boiling water and sugar, calling it a tea. She was good for using clear glasses instead of mugs. The iceberg leaves would flutter about, becoming slimy, while I made a gruesome face at them. We’d sit on the steps and wait for her ride home as she would make sure I devoured the icky tea that I secretly enjoyed. About three months into her pregnancy she grew too weary to take the bus to work. This is when I met Jean.

Jean, her best friend since childhood, drove a rumbling 85’ Toyota and wore the most handsome smile I’d ever seen on an older man. He was a deep brown covered in mustache hair, always wore the same black Members Only look-a-like jacket and wore his compassion for Mildred on his sleeve.

I asked her once if she could ever love Jean. She shook her head no and went about her work.

At such a young age, I’d begun to understand the complexities of love. Much like vegetables and hard work, we (humans) aren't amicable with things that are good for us even in matters of the heart.

Jean was a good man. His cologne seeped from the front of the car as he spoke from a tongue I barely knew. He’d quote his philosophy often, which I wouldn’t understand till almost a decade later, “Males look for opportunity, men look for permanence.”

By the way he placed his hand on Mildred’s round protruding stomach and laughed heartily at her horrible jokes, I knew his words were coated with adoration. He took us to diners on Fridays, comforted in his new paycheck, he’d tell me I could pick anything I’d like. I dipped my spoon into a mile of sundaes before Mildred realized the sparkle in Jean’s eye.

One day everything came to a halt.

There was a heavy knock on my door, like a collector coming for his rent. Mildred answered the door, now eight months pregnant, facing an indignant and smug Michael on our doorstep. He placed his hand on her shoulder and looked towards her stomach.

“What do you want?,” she asked.

Michael sneered, “You and my baby of course. I’ve come into some money and I’ve come to take you both to where you belong.”

“And where is that Michael?”

“Florida of course.” He rubbed her cheek and leaned in closer. “Mildred you know mwen renmen ou. (I love you.) It doesn’t matter where I’ve been. I’m here now.”

Mildred breathed a loud sigh. Her shoulders suddenly resigned all her might and she almost pulled him into a hug, as the sound of a car horn broke their momentum.

It was Jean. He sat atop the hood of his rumbling Toyota, his members only jacket suddenly seeming like superhero spandex.

He walked towards the three of us, “Let’s go Mildred. You are no child and you will not be told what to do. “

I watched intently as I sipped my icky tea, nervous of Mildred’s answer. My parents pulled into the driveway with concerned faces. Everyone was at a standstill.

Everyone, except for Jean.

His eyes turned into slits as he peered at Michael, daring him to say he was anything more than half of a gentleman. Michael, a coward in his own right, said quickly and quietly, “I don’t have time for this.”

Mildred finally responded, “When did you ever?” She grimaced at the sight of his back leaving once more.

Mildred soon left our home and took a leave to take care of her new child.
________________________________________________________

As a teen, I’d witness a grayer Jean and happier Mildred window shopping at the mall; a little bouncing girl singing French nearby. It’s within this perfect picture, that I understood Jean's reference of the difference between a male and a man. A male chances opportunity, a man delves in permanence.

As I watched Jean grab Mildred’s hand and pull her to the next store, I heard the little female with pigtails call him “daddy.”

Jean was no missed opportunity and no fleeing hero. He was a fixture.

As every real man should be.

Setting Sail.

2011-09-01T17:00:00.000-04:00

What’s going on readers? I’m here as promised. It’s a tad bit later than I planned on but here nonetheless. This fall, I’ve made a promise to myself to keep my blog updated. I’ve forced myself to revamp, rebuild and create a schedule; just for you. The procrastinator inside of me is pissed, but she’ll just have to deal.

I’m currently holding two teaching jobs, working on the second draft of my book, booking show dates and freelancing. As you can see, I’ve got my hands full. As full as they may be, I just can’t let go of my baby. (Rivaflowz.com)

With that said…

For the first week after re-launch, I’ll follow an irregular schedule. I want to flood the site with good content, so everyone can adjust to the new formats. From this Thursday to the next one, I’ll post something new every day in each of what will be consistent categories. Those include, but are not limited to:

Reading Flow: I’ll post short reviews/synopsis’ of the books I’m reading for the week. Don’t expect to find any Zane, romance, Tila Tequila or Snooki books here. Just sayin’.

Memoir/Short Story Thursdays: Self-Explanatory.

The F.L.O.W. (For Love of Words) List: All things literary and not-so-literary in one cute list.

Writing Advice: You’ll get to hear my frustrations of the writing process and who’s helping and who’s hurting. Oh yeah, I’ll throw some advice in there too.

Relationships: I’m currently in one, so this season’s pieces might be more-so pro love/men this year. *fingers crossed*

B.W.T.A.: Bloggers/Writers Worth Talking About. Once a month you’ll find interviews, book reviews or biographies of some of the writers/bloggers I admire.

These are just some of the categories. There’ll of course be poetry, vents, ramble and random pictures of new journals. Don’t judge me; I’m still fighting the disease. They haven’t found a cure yet.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to sharing with you guys.

the dare project.

2011-07-21T12:07:00.005-04:00

I owe my unborn daughter these stories. I want to write the vulnerable things. I want to be able to cry in front of a paper and a pen. Let’s write that quiet, the quiet that breaks bonds and echoes through the ears of the children yet to come. I owe my unborn daughter these stories. Dare me.

Saddened that I’ve rarely updated my blog or written anything I’m passionate about in the past few weeks, I turned to a friend for help. She snickered at my despair. Eventually she said something I should’ve realized a long time ago, “Of course you don’t have the zest to write! It’s your job. You write poetry, novels, articles, blog posts and you teach writing at the same time. Writing has probably become a chore for you.” I had my chest all puffed up, ready to spout denial and an undying love for my craft when I realized she was absolutely right. Writing had become a chore for me.

Today on my lunch break, I glanced over my free writes from my VONA experience. I found a few pieces where I was almost successful in being completely vulnerable. These works were completely out of my usual literary parameters. Taking a quick glance at a multitude of things that I wouldn’t have dared publish or say out loud, I felt the passion for the written word suddenly flood me.

& then it came to me….
What if writers, of all kinds, broke their style/regimen/genre for a few days a year?
Things that I’ve never dared/cared to take a crack at:
-Humourous Fiction
-Extremely vulnerable literature
-Monologues
-Scripts
-Folktale/Legend/Myth
-Science Fiction
…and so much more.

For ten straight days, I’m going to write something that I wouldn’t have dared before. I challenge all writers that read this blog to do the same. I'll also post all ten pieces here. Let’s step outside of our realm. I’m looking forward to telling my daughter these stories. I will save them for the questions that will sprout from her lips. I hope they will prompt stemmed thoughts and a garden of a mind.

I ask all of you to bloom. I dare you.

-riv-

new.

2011-07-18T18:03:00.002-04:00

he should be sleeping
I, working

yet somehow
we cling to each other's voices
as if we won't see one another tomorrow

i'm afraid
that you will be too hard to let go
if the hour ever comes
bleeding hands
grasping cement blocks

we do other things though...
time with people from our past lives
placing guilty arms around others
counting the hours
between what once was
and what is

i'll have to learn to curb my jealousy
sit it somewhere far from the trust we're building

i'm wishing
and praying (even though you don't believe in God)
that our foundation
is more solidified
than the rest

if you are a prayer,
I've been on my knees
for the duration of us

i hope someone
up there
keeps us in sync.

-riv-

Good Reads: E-Books

2011-07-15T13:38:00.006-04:00

I've been anti e-books since the day they came out. As an English/Literary buff, I've prided myself on the ability to annotate, bookmark and flip the pages of my most prized possessions. I'm also a frequent spectator at book signings and literary readings. Can Tayari Jones sign her precious "Silver Sparrow" if I only have the e-copy? Ugh.

Well, I'm sorry to say, they got me. On a hunt for Kathryn Stockett's "The Help", I encountered a ton of "sold-out" at my local bookstores. Frustrated and having no patience to wait the three days it takes to ship from the warehouse, I downloaded the iBook app.

Voila! "The Help" sat on my iPhone screen, after a payment of $9.99, courtesy of the Barnes and Noble free wifi. (Irony eh?)

Having to carry a cooler/laptop bag to work, it has been an awesome feeling knowing that I've lightened my load b/c of one less piece of literature. You can find me flipping through the "pages" with the slide of my finger on the 2 train every morning on my way to the university. (Btw, I'm teaching college prep writing with Harlem Children Zone at Columbia University for the summer. The students call me Professor Buddington, but you can still call me Riv.)

"The Help" is littered with distinct southern dialect and all the flaws of the era its set in. Here's the synopsis from Kathryn Stockett's website:

Three ordinary women are about to take one extraordinary step.

Twenty-two-year-old Skeeter has just returned home after graduating from Ole Miss. She may have a degree, but it is 1962, Mississippi, and her mother will not be happy till Skeeter has a ring on her finger. Skeeter would normally find solace with her beloved maid Constantine, the woman who raised her, but Constantine has disappeared and no one will tell Skeeter where she has gone.

Aibileen is a black maid, a wise, regal woman raising her seventeenth white child. Something has shifted inside her after the loss of her own son, who died while his bosses looked the other way. She is devoted to the little girl she looks after, though she knows both their hearts may be broken.

Minny, Aibileen's best friend, is short, fat, and perhaps the sassiest woman in Mississippi. She can cook like nobody's business, but she can't mind her tongue, so she's lost yet another job. Minny finally finds a position working for someone too new to town to know her reputation. But her new boss has secrets of her own.

Seemingly as different from one another as can be, these women will nonetheless come together for a clandestine project that will put them all at risk. And why? Because they are suffocating within the lines that define their town and their times. And sometimes lines are made to be crossed.

In pitch-perfect voices, Kathryn Stockett creates three extraordinary women whose determination to start a movement of their own forever changes a town, and the way women--mothers, daughters, caregivers, friends--view one another. A deeply moving novel filled with poignancy, humor, and hope, The Help is a timeless and universal story about the lines we abide by, and the ones we don't.

The movie comes out August 11th of this year. Catch the preview here.

-riv-

walking.

2011-07-14T12:09:00.004-04:00

There was a time when teenagers roamed the Earth, desperately seeking adventure or perhaps just one another. Their burdened feet tapped the pavement, in a rush to get anywhere and everywhere.

Sharon and Desi are looking for love, lust or something like it. Desi runs her long pink and white acrylics along the metal fences nearby, creating an annoying tapping sound.

“It’s too hot for all that Dee.” Sharon hissed at her best friend.

She rolled her eyes, “You’re just upset we haven’t seen any cuties.”

It was true. For eleven blocks, they’d had one false oasis on their hunt for a pubescent summer fling. On the fourth block, they’d spotted fitted hats peering from a house step. The two quickened their steps, gazelles on the hunt, pulled their booty shorts down all respectable-like and patted their fraying tresses simultaneously. Upon reaching the yard, they were confronted by three old-timers clearly wearing their grandson’s “cool gear.”

Desi and Sharon cloaked their embarrassment in an even faster walk. Yet even this didn’t stop the wrinkled perverts from staring and yelling after them.

“I see you fine thang!”

“Don’t run from me!”

“We don’t bite!”

Like typical sixteen year old girls, Sharon and Desi were inseparable BFF’s. Unless of course there was a boy involved. Which there never was. Until now.

Desi spotted him first. He leaned against the counter, as she peered through the oatmeal crèmes and Twinkies, clinging the neck of his shirt and separating the sweaty material from his skin. He smiled.

She suddenly felt a palm wringing the back of her arm, a whisper slung in her air, “Dee you seeeeee him!?”

No response. Desi had connected eyes with the young cub, now pawing change to the local mailman effortlessly.

“Desi!!!”

The utterance had broken her trance, “What Sharon?”

“I saw him first.”

This made her spin around quickly on her heels, her hands clutching a now smushed pastry, “You’ve got to be kidding me! You were all the way in the back of the store by the drinks. No way.”

Sharon folded her arms in protest, “Listen here light skin, you always get what you want. It’s my turn.”

“I can’t help my complexion Desi, besides I don’t want none of those stupid boys at school who put their hands all in my hair when they pass by.”

Her was Puerto rican and paint, as Sharon liked to call her. She was a golden brown with long and flowing naturally blonde hair that mimicked gold paint in the right sunlight. Sharon considered herself an ordinary brown with kinky natural twists sprouting from atop her perfect pear shaped head.

“Still though, they want you.” Sharon pouted.

Desi rolled her eyes and ignored the wining of her best friend. She strutted straight to the counter and handed her now hazardous and melted snack to the dream lad behind the bulletproof shelves. He never spoke, just pointed to the price and smiled that smile of his.

$0.75

She pulled the change from her pocket and placed the three quarters individually in the center of his palm all seductive-like. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sharon storm out of the store. The boy put the change in the register and disappeared to a nook behind the tower of goodies, with a TV and a stack of magazines.

Sharon and Desi weren’t speaking. They’d only seen each other twice since they’d passed each other the following Sunday after mass with the utterance of a mumbled and equal “bitch.” Desi saw Sharon with Quana, a nerdy and annoying girl they’d sworn off since the second grade, licking red Marino’s ices from their small wooden spatulas. Sharon witnessed Desi dancing through the sprinklers with her cousins one Saturday morning.

Desi put on five pounds that summer, devouring Twinkies and neglecting her walks now that she had to do them alone. She stood beside the snack rack and peered at the beautiful male who idly stared at a nearby wall. She was on the way to the counter to purchase her seventeenth crème filled cake when Sharon walked in.

Shit.

Sharon decided she would make her move today. She spoke out loud for no one in particular to hear, “I can’t wait to take these twists out and get my curly fro on. I’m gonna look so good for whomever wants to take me out this weekend.”

The boy’s eyes didn’t budge from his beloved wall as Desi bum rushed the counter with ample Twinkies. She figured ten would give her at least thirty seconds more eye contact.
Sharon, almost a foot taller than her, loomed over the occasion.

“I’ll take some Nowandlaters, the blue pack.” She crooned.

As the quiet boy stretched his arm above them to retrieve the snack, the two girls glared at one another relentlessly. In that sparse moment Sharon and Desi had enough time to elbow one another, switch positions, and step on one another’s feet.

The Nowandlater pack sat on the counter between them as the boy put his palm forward requesting the change. Suddenly he drew his hand back, placed it on his hip, spun his neck towards the both of them and spoke, “Girl! Where do you get your hair done? It is oh so spectacular! My homeboy wanted to…”

Desi and Sharon grasped hands, eyes flung open in awe and made for the door. They finally found themselves out of breath, at the gate of the neighborhood park and fighting laughter that seemed to burst from everywhere but their throats.

Sharon suddenly paused, gazed towards the pathway scattered with shade and smiled, “Let’s go walking.”

I'm Baaacccckkkkk.

2011-07-06T12:45:00.011-04:00

As you can see, I’ve been quite the busy bee. Buzz.

I’ve been using all my creative powers in other venues, so I can solidify a full project for you. In the month of May, a blitz of opportunity came plummeting towards my email inbox and I’ve had to make some serious/not-so-serious decisions. Anyway, I’ve decided to share them with you, journal entry style, because I know some (if not most) of you are writers and can benefit from the information in the future.
Junot Diaz and Diem Jones co-founded a one-week intensive creative writing workshop that covers all genres in California. The workshops include memoir, ficition, poetry, political content, etc. The workshop teachers included Willie Perdomo, Stacey-Ann Chin, Junot, El Maz, David Mura, Faith Adele, and ZZ Packer. All writers I admire. While these types of classes are usually structure based and BORING, I found VONA (Voices of our Nation’s Art Foundation) to be completely unique.

Throughout a whirlwind of gluten free/vegan meals, the crisp UC Berkeley air smell, eyes tearing during turbulence and a theft of suitcases; I embarked on an amazing journey with my workshop teacher Stacey-Ann Chin and all the other spectacular staff members. Having had seven different workshop/show experiences with her, she still never negates to tell me that “my work ain’t shit” and that I still have got much editing/rewriting to do. Yet and still, I love her.
Always at the top of the alphabetical list, my memoirs were the first to be pulled apart and plummeted with the same comment in variations, “Where are you in this? Isn’t this supposed to be a memoir?”

I’ve shared some of this work with you.

Sweet Sixteens
Evolution of the Crush
Growing Apart

My memoir is a predominately sad one. It’s comprised of heartbreak, lost loves and starting anew. However, I failed to fully introduce myself in the work. I gave full attributes to the male protagonists, who barely deserved the notion, and severed my own emotion/being from the pieces.

Shame on me.

VONA’s dynamic program helped me to get to the heart of the matter. There was no banter of punctuation and formatting. There was no negative criticism and shouting matches. (Okay, maybe one. But I wasn’t involved. I promise!) There was a room filled with women on the same journey as I. Women trying to delve deep into their selves and pull their most silenced tales from a womb that already gives entirely too much.

As I danced through the prose of the ten other woman I shared the room with, I promised myself I wouldn’t break. Tons of others had already, splintering their tears on freshly printed manuscripts. Not I. I’ve always been the tough cookie, the strong shoulder, the designated driver and the friend who always seems to cross your mind when something goes wrong. I’m not allowed to be vulnerable in my world.

During our last session, Stacey-Ann broke me. Perhaps she saw me as some china doll or Barbie, easily shattered or dismembered. She toyed with me and pressed questions into my spine like an anatomical literary buff. Damn her.

It seems as though you think everyone leaves you. Is that it?
Yes, sometimes.
You’re young. Right now it’s only the lovers that leave.
I guess.
Perhaps this is why you can’t be vulnerable in your work. This is probably why you can’t share yourself with your readers. Who are you vulnerable with?
My journals.
Not a lover, a friend, a relative? Just your journal?
Yes.
Why?
Because journals can’t leave you. They can’t lie, steal, betray or hurt you. They’re here to stay.
But they can’t hold you. They can’t keep you warm. They can’t….

BREAK.

Shatter me, she did. I’d never felt so happy to be broken.

My life did a complete 180 in the last few weeks. I’ve started a new and promising job, I am head over heels with the Yin to my Yang, looking at my work from an entirely different spectrum and gained security in ways I never thought possible.

I will admit, I’m a tad bit behind on my freelancing and catch myself unproductively daydreaming quite often. However, these are small sacrifices I’ll stomach in order to keep this upward curve on my lips.

Currently, I’m crafting blog entries for the week. I’ve put crazy glue on my fingers and pressed my eyes to the screen indefinitely. Wait…that might have not been the best idea.

Sakjjaslkdj skksdlpwm ksdmfkmdsf. WTF?!

Never mind, I fixed it.

Well, I’m glad to see you haven’t given up on me, because I’ve got so much more to give to you. Flaws, vulnerability and all.

love.

riv

Warrior Women.

2011-06-01T00:19:00.003-04:00

Professor Williams wears her degrees on her office wall like armor and a shield. She is a writing warrior; two published books, editor of an anthology or two and on her third professorship. A soldier in her war, I am ecstatic at hearing that my combat is somehow equivalent. She says I remind her of her at this age.

Twenty-three, journal in tow, story on the mind and prose on my heart. I smile.

I’m remembering every female professor’s office in pieces. Professor Brown with her collection of plays and Broadway smile. Professor Guzman and a pantheon of bindings that would make Greek philosophers tremble. Dr. Mitchell, tri-lingual and cobweb locks. She jokes and says there’s a story in every one of her grays. I’ve only got three grays.

Story One.

Vinny wore a poem on his tongue and malice in his palm. Touched me where it hurt. Traded his words and his pedophile nature for fifteen years in a cell and a son he’ll never see. Rashaad held me near the LIRR train tracks, over the yellow line, as the train was coming; shaking me. He said if I ever left him he would die. He kept that promise.

Gunfight.

Warren, Ivy League and drag racer, gave 2am phone conversations—collision of the minds. He left my heart wrapped around a tree. Sometimes my dreams still convince me he’ll be on the other end of the phone under my pillow in the morning. Breathing. “Wake up Erica, you’ve got to get to class.” Instead of a phone call that he’s gone.

Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that love is a scar. These scars. If you catch me doing it, love, stifle me.

Story Two.

Erica discovers that lattes are better than sex: A good latte, the buzz of a café or bookstore and the notion that you are above everything outside.

Enamored with children who look to me for metaphors, simile and smile. I pass out journals like candy. Explain the difference of the roll of a BIC and a Pentel. Say the prose is that much sweeter when you’re writing with something your notebook will thank you for.

Blue line avenger, margin crosser, crazy or neat handwriting; I’ve discovered that writing almost takes everything away. Almost prepares for its departure. Almost convinces me that I can do this alone. Forever. Almost.

Story Three.

I am great.

Got corazon for a soul and Meringue for a step. Beatbox lunchroom ciphers with seventh graders, noveling with a friend at the beach, walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with Justin; showing his nine year old palm how to touch the constellations.

I’ve started framing these moments. Started to Dewey decimalize my books, placing my degrees on my office wall and showcase that I’m someone worth knowing. Blue says I’m nesting. I tell her I ain’t no bird. We laugh. Frame that too.

Now I’m sitting at this desk, surrounded by all the good in my life and I’m wondering how all this shield and armor got on my wall. I’m in the same war as my professor’s, slaying keyboards with Spalding fingers. I’m avenging every little girl who’s ever had to grow up too fast, every pen that’s run out of ink and every eclipse never witnessed.

I’m avenging my godchildren.

Godchildren who run up to me and hug my legs because they’re convinced that’s all of me they can reach. They are wrong. There’s this stirring and churning that my bowl of a heart does when they’re near. Somehow my book holding arms turn to cradles unconsciously. I know all the right things to say to get them to laugh. I am run, play and can-I-stay-by-Auntie.

Suddenly I realize what is missing from our fight. There are no wedding rings, no pictures of laughing children and no time to get home. Reading and writing have become our children. Alice Walker decided women better suited her. Nikki Giovanni told me that love used to be a song. That’s why she’s a poet.

I am afraid that I will never have the courage to leave this war. I am afraid that this shield and armor will become too heavy to bear. I am afraid of being a Knight. No shining. No stars. No moon. No sunrise.

A chance to start over again.

-riv-

Good Reads: Strange Fruit

2011-05-24T22:42:00.002-04:00

About six years back, a few Hamptonians started something epic at Hampton University. It was a multicultural/multifaceted event that only happened one day a year, in February. Black History Month, for four out of those six years, has been riddled with practices, memorization and most importantly companionship.

On the one year my class load was too heavy to bear, I dropped the event. It was during this year that the key poetic players of the university bonded and formed "The Left Side Poets." (They all sat on the left side of Ogden Hall's auditorium during practice.) Having known most of these poets during their tenure at Hampton, I didn't feel as though I missed a beat.

Boy was I wrong.

Upon attending the event, I noticed a powerful chemistry radiating from the stage and was in awe at pieces I'd never heard before. I was immediately vexed at myself for not partaking that year, however all that has come to pass with the milestone the group has recently encountered.

The group is releasing a book entitled "Strange Fruit." With monopoly like art that correlates to each author, the book takes you through a mini-journey of each poet's work. Covering everything from not-dating-barbies, revolution, Virginia trees and group pieces that pay homage to the group; it's definitely worth the gander.

The official launch party is on July 9th in DC at the Tabaq Lounge, where I'll be FINALLY performing alongside the authors and giving away some free work!

I will provide more information on how to purchase the book/attend the event, when the time comes. In the meantime, grab your updates here.

-riv-

Melrah.

2011-05-23T23:51:00.009-04:00

“Picture perfect poem
Is just fragmented soul
And knowing eyes

I’m just a flawed resemblance
Of someone you once loved.”
-Lola’s Poem, First Writing Meeting

She had tongues for heels. The men along her path said her walk clung to them like unrequited speech. It was love at first switch.

It was a musky summer, 1927 was drenched with sticky and sweat. Thin linens clung to the bodies of unaware targets. They’d sashay down 125th as the brows of hats and beady eyes of men followed them. Vendors licked the salt from their lips, annoyed customers wouldn’t make the short treks for purchases because of the blaring sun. A man-boy with an angry tongue barked at a blue dress and brown legs nearby, “It’s too hot for you to be so damn cold!”

Lola smiled. The young man was right, she was cool. A smug look cascaded down her brown face and landed across her pouty and perfect lips.

Nothing could get to her on Thursdays.

It was “Gather Night” at James’ house on Fifth Avenue, the weekly circle of writers and gossip. She was the only female in the group, but that didn’t bother her. The brownstone basement reeked of testosterone and musk, beer dancing down eager throats and attraction lingering in every room. Attraction had a name, Bert.

For the first few weeks of their group, Lola prayed for a miracle. She gnawed at the visuals of Edgar, Develin, and James; two of whom liked one another and the last old enough to be her father. She figured joining an all male writing group would land her a wedding ring with common interest. On a cold Tuesday, sometime during February, James walked in with a tall, chocolate-in-a-suit, intellectual blessing.

Bert was a factory worker turned sponsored poet a year ago. He and James met while he was writing prose in a neighborhood park. Chiseled and darkened by the toil he was once subjected to everyday, he exfoliated his surface on any and every blank space. Lola called men like him “napkin poets.”
For the next five months Lola leaned in every direction imaginable, trying to catch his gaze. The most she’d get from him was a nod or smile, but never anything else. She was fascinated by the first man to ever ignore her.
The meeting just before this one was the first time he’d spoke.

“Who are you sponsored by?”

Lola flung her body around from the fridge she was knee deep in, trying to find a beverage that wasn’t alcoholic.

“You talking to me?”

He laughed, “Who else would I be talking to? Ain’t no one else in this here kitchen.”

She sashayed her best walk to the counter and pulled herself up on it, opening her soda with just her teeth.

“You haven’t said but a word to me since I’ve been here. But no I’m not sponsored.”

“Oh really? Why does a pretty thing like you want to write? You could be…”

“Home having someone’s babies? I’ll pass. This is what I’m good at. Any man that wants me is going to have to accept that.”

“You saying I’d have to accept that?”

“You saying you want me?”

He laughed, took her drink from her hand and stared into it. “Nah, it doesn’t look like you can handle anything strong anyway.”

Lola was in love.

Bert was the first man who hadn’t flinched at her aspirations. He was also the first man whose tongue didn’t hang from his mouth upon introduction. Most women writers she knew, kept their crafts secret for this reason. The one’s that didn’t, had sponsors who demanded love poems and fluff that she refused to write. Or sponsors who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—men and women alike.

Lola wrote stories--shards of broken memory--of her south:

Alabama
the mother who’d fled her hometown,
abandoned her with a next door neighbor
here in this half-hell/sunshine of a city.

The old hag from downstairs—who once lived below she and her mother—died and left her nothing. Her stories were how she survived. She cleaned and cooked in her surrogate mother’s home until her death, secretly compensating herself with the priceless literature scattered about the house. Until age 21, she slept in the backroom of a bookstore she worked in and devoured its contents in three years. She spent the quiet, less-customer evenings in a quiet nook writing--memoir-like tales--in a three-of-her-paychecks leather journal.

Written. Writing. Writer.

James, her kind-of-mentor, met her there amongst the shelves. He was a winter gray gentleman, with the strongest Yankee accent she'd ever heard, who'd taken up the task of raising young black writers to their fullest potential. It was here he discovered she could string words together in a perfect harmony. He put her up with some friends of his, while she continued her work at the store, and she promised she would cultivate her craft with his group every Tuesday.

Now here she was; in her best bright blue dress, heart beating a mile a minute and three footsteps from James’ basement door. She could hear the raspy voices of three small men and one big one bouncing through the windows. After she’d been knocking for some time, Bert came to the door. He looked her up and down and finally surrendered his eyes on her own, “Somebody looks good.”

She chuckled, pushed past him and walked into the living room taking her favorite seat on the sofa.

For the next hour, the group gossiped about other pen lovers, fiddled with their journals and finally began to read the projects they were working on. Somewhere between getting up for snacks and sharing, Bert found himself a seat next to Lola. She moved uncomfortably in her space, trying to ignore the brush of his leg on her own. The electricity resonated through her fingertips even as she shared her new splinter of a poem. Bert smiled at her uneasiness.
When she couldn’t control her nervousness, she flipped open her journal praying it would help her focus. She wrote:

I am no longer afraid
Of whom I am
Hope you don’t fear me either

A strong hand with a pencil contrasted the white of her notebook and invaded her writing space. She watched him scrawl next her neat writing:

I don’t fear you.

Lola smacked her book close and rolled her eyes at Bert’s audacity.

After the meeting was over, they all lingered outside and threw around talk with those on neighboring stoops. Lola sat at the bottom of the step, trying to decide when she’d be tired enough to go home. She heard a familiar voice brush her ear,

“You still angry?” Bert asked.

“You still here?”

“As long as you’re here.”

Lola snickered, “You didn’t even know I existed till last week.”

Bert jumped down from the top step and positioned himself right behind her. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and traced the words with his pointer finger as he said them,

“Picture perfect poem
Is just fragmented soul
And knowing eyes

I’m just a flawed resemblance
Of someone you once loved.”

Lola was all melt and tremble and shake. She stuttered, “My f-f-f-f-first poem.”

Bert smiled, “You’re fragmented and flawed, but I know you exist. Every piece of you. Every piece.”

-riv-

Good Reads: Woman Fiction Authors That Blew My Mind.

2011-04-27T21:31:00.006-04:00

I've been falling in and out of love with my manuscript. When this happens, I usually turn to some fictional near/close to the realm I'm writing about. I'd been hearing quite the buzz about these two books & decided to give them a try.

A-MAZ-ING!

Heidi Durrow blew me away with her perfect prose/varied perspective in "The Girl That Fell From The Sky." Ernessa T. Carter's "32 Candles" trumped Dana Davidson's "Jason & Kyra" on my top love story list. Carter twists a tale in three parts, a blissful simplicity gone mad.

I give both books a FULL OUT FIVE STARS.

Book 1

Book 2

-riv-

Cracked Crown.

2011-04-23T11:06:00.005-04:00

Dear Jean-Michel,

I've had three Haitian babysitters
accents thick like porridge
hands like revolution
entranced by fists gripping ladles
stirring love
sorrow

Maggie made tea with lettuce
snatched me up when I'd explored the college campus nearby
told me men were for tomorrows

Edwin only spoke creole when his mother
demanded he get off the phone
I'd call back hours later
asking him to speak it again
tell me what it means
show me more than the box I'm forced to live in

Edwidge sat at a book fair
unaware that I'd always created dangerously
hair platted with stories
I'd have offered to grease her scalp
Just to linger in her homeland one more time
of three day journeys
mountains
pitter-patter of child-like feet
tendencies
and blackened innocence
placed somewhere discreet like you

I hope you aren't perplexed by
why I'm telling you this, Jean.

I mean it's only fair,
since your ineligible scrawl
has divulged so much
you wear your crown so well
dreaded the day they deemed you royalty
a game of Jenga
soul of broken angles
they pulled your limbs
praying you'd never fall

but you were always falling...

descending slowly
with altitude in your veins
caught a fire
like burning canvass

Isn't it funny that you've become a medium?
the blood of your existence
dripping from a pen instead of a paintbrush
a smear on my already jaded heart

just in case they forgot to tell you
you are brown
port au' prince and san juan sand brown
sift like it too
an under appreciated erosion

I told Blue I wanted to put roses on your grave
demand they landmark your loft
perhaps they already have
with all those high boys walking around Soho
high & mighty
high in class
high off life and that other stuff

for a week and half I've been high off you
trudging my tormented existence with a book
that spoke nothing of your blackness
but your madness
rests heavy on my heart
ghost winds pushing my thoughts a muck

you sit on my wall of fame
everlast gloves pointing toward your beloved sky
surrounded by Frida
someone asked how the most prolific sorrow
and the addict of Burroughs
deserved a prevalence in the same white wall space

they could only understand
if they finger painted their lives with sorrow
not one-poem-grief sorrow
eulogy-for-a-lost-one sorrow
I-don't-want-love-that-is sorrow
I'm talking bout'
the-reason-for-everything-artistic-I-do sorrow
twelve year old punching bag sorrow
running home from school
after missing the first bus
evil on your heels sorrow
busted lip and swollen face sorrow
love-don't-live-here-no-more-it-resides-with-another-woman/man sorrow

my medium was/still is hurt
Frida's her spine
Basquiat his everything
father
mother
sisters
women
dealers
Heroin and Art

(SAME) SAMO THING.

I know what it's like to recall an aborted fetus
purge something you wanted on the lips of a lover
In fact, mine was a poem
ejected from a journal womb
with perforated edges
it was about a girl
who once wanted love like Zora,
little Langston's,
a library,
somewhere to write,
somewhere to paint,
or somewhere other than reality to live

just...
give me a fantasy
too young to perish and too old to live
a rhythmic disaster

like a Jack called Jean
with a cracked crown
and no jill
whom we all seem to be tumbling after.

-riv-

Blinded. (Short Story)

2011-04-12T22:21:00.004-04:00

The fiends in the neighborhood were family.

Someone’s aunt who lost faith after unemployment stopped lending.

A teenage girl with a drug dealer boyfriend who suggested they just “try it.”

A mother of two boys who lost hopes that their father was coming home.

Jeffrey opened every cabinet in the kitchen, praying he’d come upon something edible in its crevices. His younger brother Jamal sat in the living room and completed his last bit of homework Indian-style on the carpet. Jeffrey leaned against the door between he and his little brother and sighed in anxious preparation to tell him what they’d avoided for almost two weeks. He pulled his burdened back from the hard surface and started a slow pace towards his always obedient sibling. He sat next to Jamal and draped his arm over his shoulder.

“We don’t have anything for dinner tonight, but I promise you there will be food in this house tomorrow.”

Jamal looked up at him with a glimmer in his thirteen year old eyes “Why, is mom coming back? She always brings groceries home on Fridays!”

“I don’t know. I’ve got no clue when she’ll be back. But I’m going to handle the groceries this week and I’ll check your homework everyday. Okay?”

Jamal pressed his face between his book and shooed Jeffrey away with his hand. Jeffrey got up and walked to his room, knowing his baby brother would be okay by morning. Jah, what they called Jamal for short, always had serious pride. When their mom brought him home from the hospital he scarcely cried. Jeffrey snuck into his room at night and would poke his fingers between the bars of the crib, “Cry silly! What’s wrong with you stupid?” He was convinced Jah was sick. Billy, the only other older brother in Kindergarten, said that babies cried all night. Jah never did and to this day when you thought he just might he’d disappear, even in plain sight.

The next day while Jah was away at school, Jeffrey went in search of a part-time job and a glimpse of his mother. He was a senior in high school with an amazing GPA and only one cut on his record for the Junior Beach Romp. Today he’d had a friend call in and excuse him, posing as a parent. She’d told the attendance office that it was a family emergency. Technically, it was not a lie.

Jeffrey watched his brown boots pound the pavement as he approached the local bodega. If you made eye contact with the fiends the sorrow in their eyes would pry the guilt from your skin. If that didn’t work, they would chew you out or tell you about yourself, like family does sometimes.

He made it to the door without harassment and filled out an application. The owner looked at him suspiciously as he handed it back, academic references were rare in this neighborhood.

The owner spoke, “Impressive. I’ve offered you a job here before, haven’t I? You’ve always had great rapport with the customers.”

Jeffrey smiled remembering the women with peach and brown wrinkled arms that he’d taken bags from and helped all the way to their warm and loving kitchenettes.

He left the grocery store with a smile, hope, and most importantly a job. He passed the small houses known for hoarding drug users and lingered in front, too afraid to go inside. He walked quickly past the rehab center and church, having lost faith that his mother would ever seek help for her habit. Eventually he took the ten block walk home and prepared a small dinner he’d purchased with their last five dollars.

Jeffrey sat at the kitchen table and concocted a plan for the next few months. He would work hard, get a small promotion, and move them to a nicer area when he turned eighteen. “I can do this,” he whispered to himself. By 5pm Jeffrey grew nervous, Jah was nowhere to be found and school let out at three. It wasn’t like him to be late. Jeffrey paced the living room thinking of all the things that halted his arrival home at that age.

Bullies.
Girls.
Gangs.
Fiends trying to sell you something.

But he would never stop for any, Jeffrey taught Jah better:

1) Never stop and speak to the recruiters (gang bangers). Keep your head down, no predominate colors, and never look scared.

2) There’s so much time for girls. School, goals, and vision first.

3) Fiends are easily dismissed. Just tell them you’re broke, they’ll move on to the next victim.

4) As for bullies, you just tell me who they are, I’ll whoop their ass.

After another hour Jeff slung his coat over his shoulder and headed for the door, just as there was a knock on it. He grabbed the knob and began to yell, “Jah, where the hell…”

Jeffrey was confronted by two NYPD officers in their navy blue and solemn faces. His knees started to buckle as he grabbed the pit of his stomach trying to bring his descending heart back to the top of his chest.

“Son, is your brother Jamal Wright? We found him in an alley…..we think the fiends got to him…..stabbed…..loss of blood……wallet stolen……anyone we can call? Son? Son?”

Jeffrey watched himself from an outside perspective for the next few weeks.

He viewed his feet dragging to the morgue and saw his insides fly through his throat on the concrete floor next to a small brown boy. He watched the cameras, listened to pervasive questions, and witnessed no answers to the flashing lights. There was a lawyer, a suspect, a quiet room. However, the only thing Jeffrey could picture was the bit smaller than usual casket, the non-existent family, and the social workers obligation lingering nearby.

During the trial he refused to look at the defense. He shuddered when they called his name, placed his hand on a bible he no longer believed in, and cringed at the audacity of it all. The lawyer asked questions, questions which he refused to answer. He stood up, let tears embrace his eyes, and ignored the roar of the judge,

“Mr. Wright, answer the question!”

Jeffrey finally looked towards the suspect, opened his lips for the first time and spoke,

“Before I answer anything, I’ve got to ask. How can you break a trance from something so beautiful? How could you break it long enough to harm it? How do you manage to perish that which is not perishable?

Tell me, how could you mom? Tell me.”

-riv-

Good Reads: Anecdotes Galore.

2011-03-31T16:25:00.003-04:00

I've been indulging in short fiction/essays/memoirs recently. I hate leaving in the middle of a novel, especially when my life gets hectic. Now that National Poetry Month is upon us, my schedule is jam packed. (It's a shame that most institutions only enlighten their students once a year on this amazing craft.) So to compliment my discombobulated schedule I've been falling in love with these two delectable pieces:

"Drinking Coffee Elsewhere" ZZ Packer

"The Opposite of Fate" by Amy Tan

-riv-

Coming Apart.

2011-03-29T21:50:00.002-04:00

We were once clay
Under all this brown
And gray
And peach
And blue
Sheet rock
And easily broken bone

We used to bend
Mold
And conform

So why not now?

Little white lies
Turn the epitome of dust

On our lips
Speak and

Blind the onlookers
With sand in their eyes

Little girls
Ask their fathers
Twirling in dresses
Pretty am I?

But invisible patriarchs don’t speak
Regretful mothers don’t either

Silence just a synonym for falsehood

Now she looks for untruths
In the eyes and tone
On the corner of he-ain’t-shits
And
He-could-have-been-shit

Or something

But teachers tell white lies too
No pun intended on their color
Got Community College flags
On their walls
Army posters on bulletin boards
Asking our boys if they’ve heard the call

And when the whisper of his demise
Cascades around his throat
And chokes his future
He will go looking for it
With a gun and camouflage
A fitted cap in a crowded half-ass classroom
Powdered pockets and fiend hands

They are liars too
Can’t get clean
Won’t get clean
Tried to get clean

They aren’t looking for their next hit
They’re scratching the fallacy off their skin

And I’m collecting dust
Adding my tears
Pressing
Bending
Molding
Drying
Clay
Into Hardened perfection

That understands
To
Shatter and break
Is to live.

-riv-

Rift.

2011-03-25T00:32:00.004-04:00

Chris was honey. A golden melanin drizzled over a perfect frame, a picture worth 1,000 words. His lips pressed together quickly, letters sifting from between them. If you asked what the words were, I’d fail to give you an answer. A sucker for intelligence and a smile I leaned into him awestruck. He asked, “What makes you so different?”

We’d sat for hours, at his dining room table, working on a class project and stringing our lives into conversation. He told me he was a bit of a playboy. His tan lips pressed stories into my ears. He brought youthful girls home, fooling them with his cloak of pharmacy major and loosely portrayed flaws.

“I’m pieces of someone’s broken past.”

He then gestured his pointer finger around the room, “This apartment, this education, and this whole get up. It’s all glue. If my past was to do a three-sixty into my future, he’d guffaw in amazement.”

Chris was born to a seventeen year old mother with a full scholarship to anywhere-but-here. She was prone to parting legs under the bleachers for boys who didn’t treat her like the golden child. In her letter, intended for Chris when he was of “understanding age”, said, “Your father kept me grounded. He didn’t leave me sifting high in the aspirations of your grandparents. He left me….grounded. I liked it down there.” The truth was she’d done some leaving herself. She left a hoping mother and father with her new child in their waving arms. She was coming back.

Soon.

Chris was raised by his grandmother and grandfather. The two were separated, but still lived in the same house for religious reasons.

“I was raised in a home of silence and tears.”

Silence.

His abuelo, a Puerto Rican man with mustard seed for skin and gray skies for eyes, never spoke to him. A “good morning” and “good night” were the only utterances to the brightly smiling resemblance that roamed his hallways. Chris was a reminder of his daughter’s pretend perfection.

Tears.

There were no phone calls, no holiday visits and no postcards. Just she’ll-be-back-one-days evolved to she’s-never-coming-back. Chris’ mother became a blur, an evaporated notion that would scarcely condense on their tongues. Abuela, peppered hair and maps for palms, cried most on Christmas. Her tears blinded the visual of a little boy on a stepping stool, adding the star to the blinking mountain he created alone.

He placed his trembling hand on my own and asked again, “What makes you so different?” I shrugged my freshman shoulders with a renewed awareness. He was hitting on me. I finally spoke, “I listen to stories. I rarely become a part of them.” He laughed.

He was right. In the very moment he’d begun to place his tale on my cerebrum, we’d tied the first knot. Here I am, trying to untangle a web you might or might not understand. However, one thing is certain: You will be stuck. Like a spider and his prey, you will sit as I did in that dining room and wait to be devoured whole by his story.

You must understand that Chris and I were just friends. He left his “playboy” behind the threshold of the apartment before we collided into our four hour dialogue. Because of that I promised to listen. Much like the cracks in his history, his story comes in fragments: Bitter, broken, and beautiful.

Inception.

He decided somewhere on the border of junior and senior that he needed a year off. At this point, I was accustomed to his randomness and wished him nothing but a temporary farewell. The first week back home he stumbled into a party to celebrate his new freedom. The playboy buried inside him turned inside out, grabbed the nearest naiveté in a skirt and headed to the closest bathroom. A few twist and turns and they stumbled back on to the crowded dance floor musky and flustered. They didn’t even exchange names.

Initiation.

A year passed. Chris was working at a local pharmacy, falling in love with a regular that visited his counter, and playing Russian roulette with his education. He called to tell me that he didn’t want to come back. I posed no rebuttal, for fear he’d damn my judgment. I am still angry at myself for that moment.

She showed up at his grandmother’s doorstep. A pair of familiar long legs and gorgeous skirt to match stepped from an unfamiliar car. He peered at the girl from his window. She walked to the back door, opened it and emerged with a small child in her arms. Chris sneered, “It’s always the sexy ones.” She stared up at the window, nodded her head in a decisive way, and headed straight for his doorstep. He answered the door with a confused face, trying to place the caramel legs he scarcely remembered.

“It’s me, Kayla. You know? From the club?”

It took her about four more tries to jolt his memory. It took two shakes to break his amazement when she said the child was his. It took another fifty tries of “please” and “sorry” to gain entrance into his home.

His grandmother was crying again. His grandfather, having passed two years prior, rolled in his grave. They all agreed on a paternity test for Alexan, their “maybe” three month old daughter.
.
Ignorance

It would take a month for the results to come from the lab. In the mean time, Chris and his grandmother had advised Kayla that it would be best to keep her distance. Despite the warning, the long legged girl slurred her way back to his doorstep again. She was baby-less, drunk, and desperate.

“There was a party out here. I can’t go home. I can’t make it there.”

Before he let her in, he made her assure him that the baby was somewhere safe. She agreed. In the middle of the night she tossed and turned, making loud and angry noises in her sleep. He came down to the couch she slept on to ask if she was alright. Her words sputtered and choked, her drunken breath dangling in the air like a fallen star.

“I don’t understand why I got to stay away. Why can’t we be a family? You don’t want me?”

Chris didn’t know her. He tried to jog his mind. Where was she from? Where did she live? What nationality was she? Nothing. He pulled himself away from her, “It’s time for you to leave.”

He watched her wobbling long legs and stilettos walk to the subway and went back to his bedroom filled with nightmares. The mere thought of night frightened him now. What could be darker than the place he was in?

Impudence.

A doctor from a boarding home for unwed and single mothers called the next day. “Are you the father of Alexan Williams?”

Chris answered, “Who? Um, I mean yes. What is this concerning?”

His soul shook. A world and a universe crushed somewhere alongside his spine. He lay effortlessly on the ground. Dead. His maybe-child was dead.

Kayla had wobbled her way back home, a home Chris was never told of. She took her wailing baby from the arms of a responsible roommate and placed the child in bed with her, forgetting that Alexan had a crib with her own embroidered blankets nearby. Throughout the night she ran back and forth to the bathroom releasing her anger to a porcelain goddess. Eventually she brought a wash bucket to her bedside to contain the vile that left her orifice.

Between that moment and the sun rise, God wept. Angels cascaded from the heavens bearing embroidered blankets and “A” rattles. They removed the wings from their backs and quilted a flying cradle for baby Alexan to dream in. This is how I must imagine it.

The truth is too hard to bear: The baby rolled off the bed in the middle of the night and drowned in her mother’s vomit.

Impossibility.

Chris called me from an unknown number.

There was a crack, then a beep and a mutter in a robotic voice: “You’ve got a call from a correctional facility.”

“Accept.”

His voice regurgitated a sea into my ears, “Erica, the funeral was today. The paternity test also came today. Everything was today. She was mine. She was mine. Alexan was mine. I couldn’t go. I couldn’t face her family. They all think I’m some kind of…. I didn’t know what to do. I drank. I drank. I was on the bridge and I tried to drive off. I tried. I tried. The cops came. I have a DUI. They’ve got me locked up. Here. Locked Up. Here.”

He may have been in actual lock up, but I knew Chris was referring to his heart. A blemished and tarnished muscle drained of its capability to hope and believe was lying on that bridge. I went there to find it the next morning. I watched the joggers and cyclists pedal and run over it as if it didn’t exist. I prayed they would pause for a moment so that I could lift it and carry it on the angels’ leftover wings to a better place.

A better place.

This apartment, this education, this whole get up; it’s all glue.

This baby, this girl, this accident; it’s all shatter.

I told you you’d be stuck. Stuck like my fingers to this keyboard, stubborn tears to my cheeks, and his narrative on my conscious.

The purpose of a story is to be a crowbar that slides under your skin and, with luck, cracks your mind wide open. -Jodi Picoult

Crack.

-riv-

Diatribe.

2011-03-22T21:51:00.006-04:00

Handing him the crossword

coinciding with today's lesson,

11 year old Daniel asked in his best rushed & whispered cadence,

"Ms. B, I'm interested in speaking a foreign language are you?//

Preferably Mandarin// I want Rosetta Stone, I learn better visually.//

I got that idea from "My Life as a Teenage Robot"//

On Nickelodeon// Which you probably aren't aware of//

But I thought you'd like to know"

Before I had the chance

to tell him that I was only 23 not 40,

still watched Nick on Saturdays,

and bilingual

I had to break my awe...

Daniel is an 8th grader

Honor Roll Student

Small and Fragile

With a permanently raised hand

and answer stuck to his lips

A math teacher and

computer nerd for parents

Said they drove

thirty minutes outside of town

to find Rosetta sitting

on a stone shelf waiting for

illumination to open her

Daniel is corner pocket

eight ball

Knowing he'll lose if he falls too soon

slow and steadily winning the race

Hands his paper in last

Always scores perfect

An abundant silence

Sits like he's got SOMETHING to prove

I'm sure....

only his mother knows the color of his underwear

despite the roll of faculty eyes cascading

down Elmo,

Stripes,

and Spongebob

over frowning jeans

Wanna-be grown man Pedro says,

"But Ms. B., this the the STYLE."

Pedro's got a rosary for a chest

beaded and brave

bangs it and says he got corazon

throwing american gang signs clearly,

while the pledge of allegiance

between the cracks of his native tongue

Miles is

thirteen,

daddy of two,

protector of NONE

divides legs but fails

to surrender solutions to his algebra

and Marcus has stopped counting

period.

Stopped labeling sheep

pretend daydreaming

never again drifting

from the reality of a fist

and goodbye in the mornings

nights

afternoons

There are no thugs in my classroom

only boys who will bloom into men

shake the dew from their eyes

and open their arms to the sun

Son, stem, root, brother, little man

DANIEL

To answer your question,

YES

I would like to speak a foreign language

Your language...

A discourse lost to us in the trend of absence.

teach me

so I can carve prose within

the larynx of

beat box

bar loving

lunchroom ciphers

show me

so I can put gust

to the wings of lip glossed

and acrylic angels

school me

so I can roar

at the back-talkers

with voices too BIG

for their bodies

Daniel,

you are not solace

nor tremble

and wavering tongue

You are sonic boom.

Let us deafen the nonbelievers.

-riv-

The Muse's Mishap

2011-03-15T19:04:00.004-04:00

Disclaimer: I know this might offend someone, but in the words of George Eliot, “Excessive literary production is a social offense.” C’est la vie.

I have a bunch of male friends.

Yes, you heard me right; friends WITHOUT benefits, drama, and/or negative intentions. Most, if not all, of them are married, committed, or in some sort of relationship. In the world of “the arts” it is easy to form comradeship with a being much like yourself pre or post their other relationships. Usually the outside woman, also known as significant other, has a SIGNIFICANT problem with this, although the art-fueled-relationship is highly platonic.

Women that land creative men, who aren’t particularly creative themselves, don’t always count when it comes to the perfection of the opposites attract rule. Although the two might be a great fit, jigsaw wise, there will always be a piece of him she will never be able to fully comprehend. Artistically inclined men tend to gravitate towards women in their field OR one dangerously close to it. I.e. A painter and a poet.

That gravitation could be friendly or romantic. Most times, it is NOT the latter. (This is considering we are very stubborn and emotional individuals. I’ve been to a slam where ex-lovers/poets slung prose about their relationships back & forth in each round. Very scary.) If it is the latter, refer to my piece on emotional cheaters.

The non-creative feline recognizes this missing piece and knows that even if she tries to tap into that side, she’ll never be able to fully comprehend it. Thus, his “artistic friend” becomes an immediate threat.

This week, I had a few of my poetry/emcee/writer/etc buddies visit NYC for their spring break. Interested in events that would heighten their craft; they called me for suggestions on where to go. I gave quite a few tours to slams, gatherings, television recordings, and even a fashion show. At the end of the week, I noticed my Facebook was flooded with friend requests. I was quick to press accept, used to new found friends after performances, until I realized that ninety percent of the requests were from the women my visiting friends were dating. I’ve had this happen once or twice, but having nine snoopers come knocking at my door at once was ridiculous!

I am fully aware of the silent and unseen side-eye I receive from the artistic Adonis’ Aphrodite. I’m also aware that you don’t like me, probably never will, despite the fact that I spend very little to no time with the man you love. I’m lastly here to warn you.

You are the muse.

I am the motivator.

The motivator, with no alternative intentions, is there to morally support and lend valued criticism. Most motivators are more for creation than the ability of home wrecking. The muse serves as inspiration and confirmation of all things abundant with breathless beauty—well at least to the artist who admires you.

The sad part is, that the muse is unaware she is a muse. This is either because: a) she’s blinded and deafened by the things she thinks she lacks/doesn’t encompass. B) He hasn’t taken the time to tell her—assuming that she already knows.

She will act the fool, ravished by her pointless jealousy, and lessen his creativity and energy to produce. It is rare that an artist will sacrifice his craft for such a never ending plight. In the end, the easily ruffled muse usually becomes the sacrifice; a threat to herself.

Muses, we are all favored in our own endeavors. For the woman who feels as though she has a right to be threatened by the artistic acquaintance, you don’t. Well, most of the time. Besides, we female artists are most likely the muse of some other source of adoration. Poets/Writers/Musicians/Painters/etc need/have love too.

Word(s).

-riv-

Heroes.

2011-03-09T02:29:00.013-05:00

I’ve been hesitant in writing about these two entwined experiences for fear I might not do them justice. I believe I am ready now:

When we were young we put our faith into super heroes. Carved chests, spandex, and capes littered our schoolyard daydreams. Perhaps, your hero was not only on the one-hour-a-day television set: He was most likely the small olive Jesus, in a blue robe, clasping his palms together in a frame on abuela’s dresser. Sometimes he was the gaze of Malcolm Little peering down at us from our father’s office wall. He might have been a she, dressed in an apron and smile, placing a balanced breakfast before you, prior to school.

My heroes spread far and wide like a wildfire. The first, crippled by Kryptonite and Ms. Lane, scooped me from my nightmares and taught me how to fly. The second, I found in a book scattered somewhere between Nikki Giovanni and Robert Frost. The Third, fourth, and fifth: Members of a since evaporated union, who spit stanzas over instrumentals and had the audacity to call it R&B. The sixth, spread her wings far enough to soar and never took off. The seventh, but not least nor last, was a glimpse of me between the compilation of a hip-hop genius and jack of all trades. I’ve had temporary heroes slip in between the cracks of my forever, but never anyone as significant as you.

You: Superman. Langston. City High. Lauryn. M.K. Asante.

I am ashamed to admit this, but I’d never been to the Schomberg. After doing a project in the third grade on Mr. Hughes and finding out his ashes were beneath the medallion of the center, I made a promise to make a trip there. I also stated that I would visit his D.C. home in Dupont Circle. These two places were my poetry mecca. At 23, I am astonished by the fact that I’ve been everywhere but the very place that was in my backyard. I had no idea of the impact that this overdue trip would have on me.

M.K. Asante was sent to speak to a group of youth at the center who’d just finished viewing his film “500 Years Later” and were about to delve into his book, “It’s Bigger Than Hip-Hop.” Seeing as this was one of his very few New York shows, my friend Blue and I took the opportunity to watch him speak alongside the kids. I made a mad dash through the tolls to make it on time. A brisk walk in the cold, a few texts, and a jump later; I was there. As I made my way to the auditorium, I took notice of the small marble streams underneath my feet. I was soon distracted by Maya Angelou’s manuscript collection on display, until something occurred to me. The blue streams under my feet were rivers. As in, The Negro Speaks of Rivers by Langston Hughes. My heart skipped a beat as I realized the memory of one of the men I am forever indebted to, for my inspiration, was steps away from me.

The tears came.

A partial reason of my nickname and the person I am, lay underneath my very feet. The person I’d most admired and adored stood in the very next room. I was overwhelmed. The rivers cascading through the artful compilation on the floor were no match for the mosaic of wetness that decorated my face. My mother, who I brought along, sat across the room letting me have my moment. When I walked over to her, she too had puddles within her eyes. Only she, bearer of an eccentric, could fathom the fire that burned within me.

We listened in on the presentation.

We made our way to the book signing table.

M.K. was all laugh and smiles. Beautiful Smile.

We glanced at letters that Malcolm wrote Maya.

We watched the kids play and hold revolution between their fingertips.

Said goodbye to Langston.

Told him I’d be back.

We waited for M.K. and had lunch with an author.

The Author.

Unimaginable.

Talked fiction, HBCU’s, French-African Cuisine.

All that good stuff.

Took Pictures.

The waitress asked for an autograph.

We said goodbyes.

In our language.

But I speak hero.

A dialect long forgotten. A mother tongue that gave birth to Wright’s (Write(r)s) black boys like M.K. and Langston. I conversed with history reincarnated or underrated future. Contemporary or fallen, heroes still exist. If you’re looking for carved linguistics, spandex hardcover, and words with capes, I’ve got you. If you’re looking for Christ and the Holy Ghost sifting through black font, I’ve got you. If you’re looking for Mr. Little, black frames and famous smirk, I’ve got you.

Here’s a book (hero). Place it between the palms of your hands and clasp it like prayer. It always answers back. Always.

Word(s).

-riv-

Growing Apart

2011-03-01T20:38:00.014-05:00

He strutted into the lunchroom like a butterscotch sun-kissed god. A simultaneous pause of breath cascaded from the mouths of on looking prepubescent girls. A black crushed leather jacket draped over his shoulders and swung side to side as he made his way to the boys table.

A southern drawl slid from his lips as I watched them move effortlessly. “Hi, I’m Aaron.” His vowels were elongated and different from the shorter ones that left our own tongues. He reintroduced himself to the class while the boys jumped up and down exclaiming, “He’s back!” and placed fives on his palms. The whispers started around the room. He left the school two years ago when his mother’s job was transferred to Louisiana. It was apparent that he’d immersed himself in their culture, judging by his speech & movement.

I had come into the school about a year ago, a transfer from Brooklyn to the burbs, and wasn’t as familiar with him as the other kids seemed to be. His mother was transported again, and once more he was planted back into his hometown. My new world.

I was still staring at Aaron, bewildered by his quick assimilation, forgetting I was knee deep into a journal entry. I heard the familiar cackle of crows behind me and turned around. My archenemy aka Bully Supreme—who seemed 6’2 at the time—stood behind me with a few of her tag-a-longs.

“Southern boy, cute huh?” She asked.

I knew better than to give her a real answer. I shifted my eyes back to my journal and continued to write.

“I know you hear me freak. He’ll never like you, so don’t even think about it.”

I smirked, “I guess that means you like him then.”

Her eyes flew open, “No it doesn’t. I’m just making sure I bring you BACK to the real world.”

She and her cackling friends dispersed back to their table of evil. Aaron looked over at me for the first time since he walked into the lunch room. He smiled. I returned the favor and then concluded my entry. He’d made his way into the diary. It was official.

Two Months Later

We were both assigned Assistant Marshall positions during fire drills. My hands were moist with anxiety from standing next to the boy I’d been admiring for the last eight weeks. He stood across from me, helping to usher and direct the other children. He asked, after everyone was in their rightful place, “Why don’t you ever speak to me?”

I smiled, “Because you’ve got all those other girls offering up their good conversation.”

He laughed, “Not the one who always looks like she has something to talk about, Ms.-Face-In-A-Book.”

I now pass the place we formed our friendship on the way to work, now that I teach in our old district. I’ve envisioned the ghost of his butterscotch arms around my caramel neck, laughing and giggling about whatever ten year olds chuckle at.

Sidenote: Your heart always knows what’s about to happen. I remember having a flighty sort of relationship with a guy I was digging in high school. There was one night he called, which rarely ever happened, frustrated at something that affected his day. I listened intently while he rambled on and on about it. My heart told me that THIS was going to be the conversation. The back and forth that would define our future. As I started to parade my advice around his ear, my father stormed up the steps having heard me on the phone. I was fourteen and still had a bedtime. I hung up the phone quickly, pretended to be asleep, and text the guy to tell him that I would talk to him the next day. The following day, right after I was out of school, I called him as soon as the bus pulled up to my house. I was all ears and listened for his longing voice once more. But the vibe was different today, “I mean, I worked it out. I’m cool.”

“Our” moment had passed.

It’s within these moments, small definitive intervals, that we either gain an everlasting memory or one that shall haunt winds of regret forever. In my case, I missed out on four:

One.

Our 8th grade year, having separated into different middle schools, I happened upon a friendship with his stepsister. Our families soon started to mingle, sharing Christmas, Thanksgiving, and other occasions together. My heart grew wide watching his laughter erupt alongside my father’s and his own. At thirteen, I could envision them doing the same exact thing ten years later.

On one of those nights he peeked his head into the kitchen where my mother and I were washing plates, “Hey Mrs. B, can I ask you something about Erica?”

I shuddered, nervous as to what his mischievous behind was up to. I snatched his arm and pulled him into the other room, leaving my mother perplexed.

“What the heck are you about to do?” I asked him.

He stuck his tongue out and said, “Never mind, I’ll try the next time I’m around your mom and you’re not here.”

Two.

Our high school marching band coach often made us practice and perform in the rain. On the day of our sophomore pep rally, we’d decided we had enough. We sat in the instrument closet long after our band members had departed for the football field. Having never been on campus when it was so eerily silent, we set off exploring. Soon we found ourselves snuggled up in front of a heater in the ninth grade wing. We were twins; matching black and gold hoodies, the school name embossed on our chests, tenor saxophone straps dangling from our necks, and snickers lingering in our throats.
He pulled his knees to his chest and asked, “Are we best friends?”
I laughed and fidgeted with the strap around my neck, “Of course dummy.”

He placed his hand on my own and my heart sunk somewhere into the pit of my stomach. Placing his face close to mine, I could feel his words tickle the skin on my lips, “Remember that night when I came into the kitchen? The question I had to ask your mom?”

My heart did flips through the butterflies in my stomach, “Yeah, I remember.”

He moved his hand from the back of mine and placed it on the side of my face that was dangerously close to his butterscotch.

“I wanted to ask them because I know they’re strict, but they trust me. I wanted to know if….”

The thunder of our band coaches’ voice could be heard echoing through the hallways, “I’M MISSING SOME BAND MEMBERS!”

We grabbed our knapsacks and headed to the third floor. We were up to our usual shenanigans: Missing band practice, hanging out in the “no boy/girl zones” of our houses, and lying for one another, never missing a beat. Something was different this time. The visual, usually detailed by a fleeing boy and girl, steps apart, looking over their shoulders were now parallel and holding hands in their race.

Three.

It was the summer before college. I caught him taking the prom queen to Houston’s with white roses in one hand, her in the other. He found me filing through record stores with one of the emcees I adored. Passing each other, when we were alone, in school hallways was uneventful. We smiled, said hello, and caught up on one another’s life. However, when we were with our “significant others” a look of guilt spread across our faces, like we’d committed the worst of sins.

At graduation he ran over and congratulated me. “When are you leaving?” he asked. I told him that I was leaving two days after the ceremony. I’d just received notice that I’d been accepted into pre-college. He was shocked and I could see his sadness pool into his eyes, too much of a man to let them become waterfalls.

The next day, stuck in the madness of the moving boxes in my living room, there was a knock at the door. Aaron stood at full build, broad shoulders, a defined face, and his butterscotch skin peeking through his loose shirt. We spoke with our eyes as he helped me with a few things I had left to pack. While placing a frame with our picture in one of the boxes he turned and kissed me full on my lips. I ignored the stop of my heart, knowing that if I acknowledged his attempt I’d immerse myself into a situation that would never embrace reality.

As he left and I wrapped my arms around him for the last time, the circumference of his own arms made me feel extremely small and vulnerable at 5’11.

Four.

We instant messaged, threw a few texts here and there, and rarely called during the first year of school. The memory of his perfection spoke to me through quick glances at the old pages of my treasured journals.

He called one night, “I’m in Hampton, for a band trip. Come see me.” I dropped everything, packed a night bag, and took a cab to him. He answered the door, his glow less vibrant than the one I’d become accustomed to. I slipped into the hotel bathroom after embracing him to pull myself together. I was trembling with excitement. In the bathroom, I noticed a curling iron, a few items of makeup, and a pack of pads. He had a girl with him.

I walked out as he was settling down on the bed to watch a game. I asked, “Who did you come here with?”

He smirked, “Does it matter. They’re not here and I wanted to see you.”

I reassessed my best friend. The hometown boy next door with the slight hint of a faded deep southern accent had an unfamiliar slur in his words. His loose shirt, jeans, and keyboard/saxophone fingers were replaced by fresh kicks, a tight white beater, and a sinister smile I’d never seen cross his precious lips.

I pulled my things together and called a cab back to campus. The cab driver must’ve sensed my fury and rush to leave because he showed up within two minutes. I reenacted our ten year old conversation as I left the room, “Guess you let those “other” girls get to you.”

Present Day

I’m an eighth grade English/Language Arts teacher. He is a music teacher. He is a hip-hop producer. I am a hip-hop emcee. We both have a love of the tenor sax, art, and creativity alike. How can two flowers from the same bulb bloom a hybrid apart?

He could say that my anger was unprecedented, having no claim to him. We could both agree that our years of silence were pointless. The world could tell us that it was never meant to be.

But I swear, it’s those moments…

Those moments, small definitive intervals, that we either gain an everlasting memory or one that shall haunt winds of regret forever...

I’ve been a tumbleweed ever since.

Word(s).

-riv-

Recycling: The Ex Who Tries To Pretend "YOU" Never Were.

2011-02-28T23:21:00.004-05:00

They always call to reminisce
Ponder on the good ol’ days
Three hours and twenty two minutes
Of “us”
Again…

I sit between the cadences of your speech
Realizing,

I want to be in love again
And it has taken me four years of college
1,460 empty nights
to admit that,
so don’t judge me.

Vulnerability is a son of a b*tch
She, who taught him how to compress,
Independence into gentle submission.

I refuse to show you how broken I am.

Flipping through your manuscript:
Philosophy of ex-lovers and could-have-beens.
Is like sitting on a porous cloud nine,
Waiting to fall through.

We sit at café tables
Tracing talking lips
With wanting eyes
Only to be denied proper goodbyes
For fear your “real” future
Might be lingering nearby

Witness, a 23 year old
Committing emotional suicide
On the promises of a liar

Blade and wrists are for cowards.

Try shredding your heart;
Taping it back together
And calling it friendship.

-riv-

Writing: Make Love to Your Words

2011-02-25T19:46:00.007-05:00

That's me, about to make love to my words on the pier. :)

In the movie “Drumline”, Nick Cannon emphasizes to his classmate that in order to beat his competition, he must make love to his drum. I remember rolling off the couch at the visual image of skinny and bow legged Mr. Cannon pretend-gyrating against the huge percussion instrument. Yet, during an amazing three hour conversation with my younger counterparts, Kevin and Raven, I confessed doing the same thing when writing. Yes, I make LOVE to my words.

Kevin, a phenomenal and budding poet, frequently tags me to small pieces with metaphorical roar. Usually his work doesn’t surpass a minute, in spoken word time, and is condensed with literary elements galore. He said, “I just can’t get to that three minute point.” After being blown away by similes that force toothy smiles, while reading Kevin's work, I usually yearn for more of a story/background.

I advised Kevin to make love to his words. (Of course I did my sudden little gyrating movement like Nick.) After he and Raven looked at me like I’d lost my mind, I explained it to them a little something like this:

People have seen me take down notes, jot a memory, or pen a hope-I-don’t-forget-this line, but no one has ever really seen me WRITE. When I’m in almost complete silence, besides the swishing of a latte and stroke of an RSVP, I literally find myself in an unbreakable trance. A trance: In which I am listening intently to the plight of a worn confidant (mind and brain) and giving them soothing words of guidance (pen and paper). Writing should be treated like dialogue. It should never be a task or chore. Putting your pen to paper should feel as though you’re talking to a long lost friend.

Raven sighed, “I feel as though when I try to write poetry, I’m crafting something that I don’t really do. I’m not a poet.”

Raven is a southern belle. She is a philosophical and quirky woman on the verge of starting her own blog and becoming one with her creative side.

If you’re writing poetry Ravey, as I like to call her, you’re a poet. Your unwritten words are writhing in some corner, biting its nails, and calling you out of your name, because you haven’t called in a while. “No hello, no “how are you?” well forget her!” And she will do just that….forget you.

When I’m writing, I have this habit of pretending as though the words I am placing on my page are coming from the lips of a smooth-talking-slick-walking brother. Usually these dudes get the bird or my back. But if one were to ever catch my attention, he’d have to say the most amazing line drenched in double entendre and de ja vu. This is how I have to imagine my words, so I can be secure that my readers will swoon as I would’ve for a brother with the same diatribe. This imaginary man and I have a sort of “Mind Sex”, Dead Prez Style, until the piece I’m writing is over.

I’m never disappointed. It’s always good. No faking.

CLEARLY, this technique won’t work for everyone. You’ve got to find your own groove and motivation. Just make sure that when you’re done, you feel light and relaxed. Writing isn’t supposed to frustrate or submerge you into conundrum. You’re supposed to feel….well….how you feel after you’ve made love. *Does gyration dance.*

Word(s).

-riv-

PS- I gave Kevin a challenge that I felt would help him with his issue. It might just benefit you too. Write a letter to an ex/current loved one. Treat it like a conversation about your emotions for them. Don't edit as you go along. LET IT ALL OUT. Step away from your work and put it away until the next morning. Now, edit. & repeat. I'm 300% sure you'll have more than what you need for a three minute piece. ;) If not, you've never known love.

Good Reads: The Thrift Shop That's Going to Put B&N Out of Business

2011-02-25T17:50:00.007-05:00

The book section of Thrift Stores and I are kindred spirits. The one place where I must judge a book by its cover hence the madness in which the bindings are placed.

I've been on my old stomping grounds in VA for the last few days and I visited my favorite thrift/antique shops. When perusing through this section, I always have my Amazon app ready. The app allows me to flip through reviews/star ratings of the book titles I encounter. Here are a few that caught my eye and boasted great reviews:

When the Heart Waits By Sue Monk Kidd

American Woman By Susan Choi

am-BITCH-ous By Debra Condren, Ph. D.

Bailey's Cafe By Gloria Naylor

The Opposite of Fate By Amy Tan

The Year of Magical Thinking By Joan Didion

The Reading Group By Elizabeth Noble

Get Thrifty!

-riv-

Men are Not Clay and Women are Not Gods

2011-02-22T10:50:00.011-05:00

I wanta say just gotta say something
Bout those beautiful beautiful beautiful outasight black men
With they afros
Walking down the street
Is the same ol danger
But a brand new pleasure

Sitting in stoops, in cars, going to offices
Running numbers, watching for their whores
Preaching in churches, driving their hogs
Walking their dogs, winking at me
In their fire red, lime green, burnt orange...

-Nikki Giovanni

If the yellow brick road of love wasn’t paved with incomplete men, Dorothy would’ve found her way to Oz, “the brother who encompasses all”, a lot faster. It’s a twisted world when fantasy finds its way into reality. Dorothy takes walks on heartbreak lane; the heels of her red bottomed Louboutins become stuck between cracks, forcing her to meet stationary men along the way. The truth is, Dorothy will convince herself that she’s trapped and will try to make the best of her current situation, knowing that she can uproot herself at any time. Still she stays, hoping and praying the lump of clay (man) will turn into a sculpture (God). The Dorothy’s I know are convinced they are the ultimate molders.

Molders: Women/Men that try and use their qualities, skills, or opportunities to justify changing their significant other.

The problem is, men aren’t clay and women aren’t Gods nor celestial artists. Sometimes trying so hard to create the impossible, we lose the part of ourselves we so desperately tried to give to someone else:

The Tin Man

I’ve got a friend who loves her tough guys. He’s not even a pick if he isn’t over 6’2, an ex con of sorts, and has a stern face. We sat at Panera over Dutch apple bagels and she blurts out, “He’s not intimate. I just want him to be nicer, you know?” No sweetheart, I don’t know. I can’t get the image of you flexing your arms out of my head while telling me that you wanted a “rough neck.” I am still giggling at your bragging of how he’s so cut because he worked out in prison. I can still feel the shivers from the first time I met him and his proverbial cold stare. And you want him to be….sweet? To have a heart?

Every time she tried to kiss or hold hands with her lover, he’d cross his overtly tattooed arms and exclaim how REAL men didn’t announce their love publicly.

After a few months of this, a frustrated Bee, her nickname for this post, bought books on compassion and suggested counseling to him. His stern face suddenly erupted with a laughter she’d never seen before. He said, “We’re not married. Why would we need counseling?” When she explained to him that this was her eventual goal, he broke down into the usual, I-don’t-know-if-I’m-ready-for-all-that speech. Soon my phone line erupted with tears and screaming of, “I just don’t understand.” In the background, I could hear the hustling and bustling of his hurry to leave.

Bee is now a bad girl. Her new philosophy: “Men are not willing to compromise, so I’m out for self” or in her words, “Men ain’t sh*t.” She parades on the emotions of men who are willing to do anything for her, but are blind to the fact that she’s given up on men. In trying to give the “man of her dreams” a new heart, she froze her own.

The Lion

Mirah struggles with finding commitment. Pretending to be content with the men who only lie in her bed and to her face, she battles false hope.

But HE is different. This brown and fine thing who visits often, takes her out, and kisses her forehead; MUST love her. When posed with the question of commitment, he sputters, “What we have going on is good. Titles will ruin it.”

Although he’s told her CLEAR AS DAY that he’s not looking for a relationship, she is convinced that her “loving” will change his mind. So they continue to love, play house, and pretend. Eventually she’ll become annoyed and ask for more. I witnessed her persuade him of how easy it would be for them to be one. She cooked in heels, kept up appearances, and told the world about their “love.”

He didn’t show for their usual Thursday night romp. She called to no avail, slinging her angry words on his voicemail. He called back hours later, the sound of no remorse resounding heavier than a dial tone. “I told you, we’re just kicking it.”

Mirah is single and no longer available these days. Wrapped in feminists texts, throw blankets, and the warmth of her living room; she believes commitment is nonexistent. The man in the cubicle next to her, falling in love with her smile, will never see her courage grace the water cooler or staff’s lounge again.

The Scarecrow

Looks aren’t everything. Complete with a six pack, fresh line, and dimples; he is perfect. Until he opens his mouth. (That's if you count the pearly whites.) Genee is a sucker for a nice body and a mean walk, but she’s no straight-up sucker. She works for a top public relations firm, owns her own house, car and reads like a Rhodes scholar.

He’s one of those “models.”

Tight jeans, barely loose A&F shirt, with mush for brains. “Baby don’t you know how lucky you are to have me?” She cringes at his words. The modeling jobs are rare, her tired feet come home to him lying on her couch, and her friends start to wonder if she’s lost her mind.

She gathers applications from schools/jobs that she feels will suit his desires. Fashion major or merchandiser perhaps? He glares at the papers strewn in front of him. She buys two of the same book at Barnes & Noble, trying to encourage a club of sorts. Discovering that the book is a coaster for his Heineken, she throws her rage around the already too-crowded room. He slinks away, tells her he is sorry that he can’t be the man she wants, and leaves nothing but a water ring damp on the hardcover sitting upon the coffee table.

Afraid she might intimidate/scare off the men she’s seeing, Genee offers up little of her conversation these days. Her expectations have lowered after surmising that intellectual Adonis’ do not exist.

The BOTTOM LINE is.

YOU are not GOD. Nine times out of ten, men make woman fully aware of what she’s getting into, portrayed by action or speech. Even Oz was a fake. Perfection does not exist. A relationship is about deciding what flaws you’re willing to put up with or if they’re worth staying at all.

We women are contradictory songbirds with a melting pot of ego and emotion. We boil over believing that our love will have the power to change the plight of our men. In some rare cases, this is true. However, for most it is not. We’ve got to leave our prince charming in the bedside table in our parents’ home. Our princes cheat, lie, and hurt but, they also equate, feel, and resound. Give the man who is honing himself for you time to appear. I’m not saying you can’t have fun along the way. I’m just asking that you don’t stick yourself between the paper mache trying to glue your dream man with pieces of a broken one.

Even Dorothy made it home.

-riv-

(pic via polyclay.com)

Long Distance: A Balance Often Unbalanced.

2011-02-16T17:15:00.008-05:00

Equilibrium: The smooth-talking-street-smart-intellectual mirage we girls sometimes dream of. I met him on the corner of impossible; wrapped in a loose white shirt, almost sagging jeans, fresh kicks, and a Yankee fitted. The white iPod headphones slipped up and down his chest as he bopped his head ferociously. Chiseled face, a perfect brown, a goatee and mustache; connected around his full lips.

Usually, I avoided the type: Semi-angry man rapping through the subways and swiping their metro cards to the lyricism of a favorite emcee. I imagined if I broke their spell, they’d bark at me or send me flying off the tracks.

He was different.

His walk was slow unlike his peers that graced their native pavement alongside him. I followed him out of the bustling cave, littered with musicians and storytellers, up the steps to Union Square. An equestrian swagger and serious demeanor crossed the street in front of me, his broad shoulders flexing and arms tatted with bulging veins as he gripped his mp3 for safe keeping. I glanced down at his keychain that swung from his back pocket, its prevalent lanyard read….”New York University.” I smiled at my ignorance. I assumed he was some retail associate or customer headed towards an urban and trendy SOHO store.

In fact, he was a transfer from San Francisco State and taking a semester of classes at NYU to experience the city while getting a few credits out of the way. A psych major, epitome of hip-hop head, and one of the most intelligent brothers I’d ever met; crossed my path and I had to yet to fathom it.

After four blocks of walking behind him he asked, “Uh, are you following me?” I immediately recognized his west coast accent having fallen in love with a bay area species once before. I laughed, “I think we’re just headed to the same place.”

He smiled, “See, I knew you were stalking me.”

I pulled at his lanyard, motioning towards our simultaneous destination, and it was with this gesture that our closeness began.

I was headed to an open mic the school was hosting and he was headed to class. Since both ended around the same time, we bumped into each other once more. Convinced it was destiny we flung our legs over benches nearby and exchanged anecdotes until the sun drowned in the dark purple of the city’s summer sky.

The summer before my junior year and his senior year, we were drenched in love. We wrung ourselves in front of his dorms kissing, sipped mudslides at Applebee’s, and held hands like the spaces between our fingers were jigsaw.

He was raised by his mother, a reflection of goodbye-food-is-in-the-fridge in the morning’s mirror. He whispered something about growing up in the worst area of his city and bringing up a brother three years his junior, who was now addicted to cocaine and in and out of rehab.

“I wasn’t letting social services know we didn’t have it together. I couldn’t have us split apart.” He twiddled his thumbs while relaying this story three hours into our five-hour-first-in-depth conversation. I placed my hands on his shoulders, imagining I could soak up some of the pain that came with reminiscing on things better left forgotten.

The summer waved goodbye to us like a long gone friend. Our hearts floated above the heavy waters of our chests and swayed like buoys waiting to drown. We shook hands at farewell; a river and ocean promising to converge once again.

They say 3,000 miles is but a block for lovers. The advantage of technology on our side, we decided keeping in touch would be easy for us. There were the good times. A shared laugh though Skype on a computer screen, an i-miss-you text, and snail mail that placed withering concrete on our lack of physicality.

However the dark prevailed.

The silent space between texts grew frequent. The frenzies we called life whirled around us as we longed for clarity. I was blurred by men and buzzing friends who advocated that our relationship was pointless. He was swarmed with whispers from women who knew seduction could trump a distant fidelity any day. We were trapped. Between the white screens and black font, the IM boxes, and the voices that grew fainter.

His breath pervaded the receiver heavily that night. Lips pressed to the bottom of the phone, hoping his words would invade my ears like a reality we once knew. I knew it was time, it was well overdue. “I’ve come to accept the reality that we can’t be together. This conversation was supposed to happen some time ago. Even if we plan trips for this summer, it won’t be enough. It’s like; I can’t have you right when I need you. I want to be your solidity and your sanity when stress is heavy. Knowing that I can’t do that for you or be there kills me. You need that. I can’t provide it from this far.”

He was right. So right, that I clutched the side of the bedpost and listened quietly and intently while the blisters grew upon my palms. Blisters comprised of wanting to throw things, shake the world, and roar in anger. But we were adults now. Adults weren’t allowed to cry when they didn’t get their way, blame God for detachment, or believe in fairytales. We wiped the fairy dust from our eyes the moment we realized life wasn’t fair and would forever drag on as such.

There was a quiet in our already inaudible storm. With nothing else left to say we parted ways, split by our longing. He posted this on his status the next day:

“I had to set you free away from me to see clearly// The way that love can be when you are not with me. I had to leave, I had to live. –Maxwell”

The space between yesterday and today are littered with present(s). A closed fortune cookie, an unused lottery ticket, and a union never united. Long distance for me, were bullet wounds filled with glimmers of hope. Hope always fills the barrel with hollow tips. All it takes is one shot, one promise, and one prayer.

Word(s).

Writing Rules? Screw Them.

2011-02-10T23:58:00.007-05:00

I’m in the middle of my manuscript. My premiere “Ohh look at me, I’m a published author!” novel is set to be completed by mid summer.

I saw that. I saw you turn up your nose at me, roll your eyes, and think:

“She was coming out with a book a while ago. What’s taking her so long?”

“Everyone is a writer, but I never see the product.”

“Snore.”

You always hear writers saying their working on the “book.” The book you never actually see them writing. The book they refer to as, “I’m not sure of my title, synopsis, and theme, but it’s going to be good. I promise you.” The book that’s been writing itself for the last three years. Yeah, THAT book.

I’m here to tell you that, THAT book is real. It scowls at me from its hundred page mark on my night stand. It wakes me up during my sleep, riddling me with paper cuts and flimsy ideas. It even laughs at me from my briefcase as I instruct my students. By God, I hate THAT book.

I know a few posts ago I spoke of my writing resolutions and probably had a few “rules” in there, for myself. However, I’ve had a few emails crawl into my inbox asking for writing and scheduling advice. About those writing rules…yeah, screw them.

A few years back I consulted with my best friend, Google, on writer’s habits. After trudging through tons of articles, blogs, and bullet point lists on the net; I meticulously took notes and tried to apply them to my everyday life. IMPOSSIBLE. Between school, performing on the weekends, and the almighty “love”, it was hard to stick to a specific writing schedule with the mass of events that popped up. Knowing this, slowed my creativity for a while. I halted most of my writing endeavors, excluding poetry, until I left school or had more time on my hands. During my senior year, I had less classes and performances and pulled my notebook from its cave once again. I sat by a bright window, ready to begin a solid writing schedule, spring blooming from the park in view, and rescued my Pentel RSVP from the recesses of my desk. I was ready to go.

Nothing happened. Absolutely, NOTHING.

I wrestled with my anxiety.

Was I losing my touch?

Did I lose the zest for my manuscript?

Was I not cut out to be a great writer, after all?

No, no, and no. It wasn’t happening because I was forcing it. It was too prompt, I was too "ready", and I just was NOT in the mood. With that said, I’m here to tell you that there is only ONE rule in writing that you must absolutely, positively follow:

WRITE EVERYDAY.

While in a workshop with Stacey-Ann Chin, one of my favorite authors/poets, she told us that her writing mentor, Walter Mosley, told her that she HAD to write at least two hours a day. She said that even if she had nothing to write about, she would literally have to stare out of her apartment window and start, “There’s a tree outside, and it blows in the wind…” She used literal description to get her started and sometimes it developed into something, sometimes it didn’t. Either way, she’d fulfilled her two hour obligation for the day. Most of the “rules” I took from texts told me to write during the time of the day I felt comfortable (morning, noon, or night) and STICK TO IT. However, I noticed within Stacey’s advice she’d never given a specific time. I even stuck around to ask her a question that pestered me, “Do you really have to write two hours, EVERYDAY?”

She snickered and replied, “No, that’s what I do. You just make sure you write everyday. An hour, minute, or whatever. Just don’t let this writing sh*t get to your head.”

If you know Ms. Chin, you’ll know that’s just her style. Anyway, I shared that small anecdote to render that I took her advice. Writing with no rules, excluding those having to do with grammar and spelling, have benefited me tremendously within the last five years. So here goes:

1) You should write everyday at a specific time and schedule your writing for each week. Actually, I write when I find the time. If it’s right after I wake up, during my lunch in the teachers lounge, or after dinner; it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that I get at least an hour or so of writing in each day, no matter how broken up that time may be. Feel free to grab that pen when you feel motivated. Otherwise, you’ll start writing unmotivated crud. No one wants to read unmotivated crud.

2) Read books that cover the cultivation and honing of your craft. I’ll read whatever I damn well please, thank you. If you’re into how-to writing books, read them. However, I’ve been motivated by a quirky quote on the back of a shampoo bottle. Inspiration is everywhere. You don’t always need a prompt to direct your imagination.

3) Reward yourself when you’ve finished a task. Is a cookie going to magically push you to the next chapter? No. Honestly, I’d stay away from the kitchen. That way you won’t be inclined to catch the itis and fail to finish your goal for the day. Or have a cookie before you start, perhaps your descriptive writing will be facilitated by the yummy goodness in your mouth.

4) When writing a blog, schedule what you’ll write each day. Now, if you’re going to write something on the crisis in Egypt or any other article that needs research that might not be a bad idea. But if you have a personal blog like I do, WING IT! Sometimes I know what I’d like to write a week in advance. Sometimes I have no clue. Most times I schedule boring posts and some memory or annoying coworker slaps my cerebral and they end up becoming my topic for the day.

5) Choose a font & stick to it. Really? Reallllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyy? Microsoft Word has been trying to sway me towards Times New Roman all these years, but I’ve got a thing for Georgia. Just because your drop down menu can’t be permanently changed, DOESN’T MEAN THAT I WON’T CHANGE IT EVERYTIME! Hear me Bill Gates? Whew, now that that’s over, feel free to use whatever font you’d like. You can try a new one every hour for all I care.

Writing is a burdening task. A construction worker’s tool belt weighs him down while committing to a task just as our pen and pad stare at us from afar screaming at us to use them. Most are under the misconception that our day is not filled with anxiety and stress, just as the average worker. (Although most of us have other professions alongside writing.) A friend of mine, who is a full time writer, says his workaholic wife comes home and asks him what he’s done for the day. He says, “I got six great pages completed today.” She smiles, but the translation in her mind is: I sat on my behind and punched a keyboard while drinking coffee. But I KNOW that what we do is just as difficult. Knowing this, is what prompted me to show that you don’t have to add any other extremities to your already heavy load.

Those were just a few of the overtly reiterated writing rules that annoy me. The point of all this formatting, back linking, and blabber was to tell you to WRITE.

Or in the words of Ms. Chin, “…You just make sure you write everyday. An hour, minute, or whatever. Just don’t let this writing sh*t get to your head.”

-riv-

Good Reads: The Other Teachers in the Staff Lounge Think I’m Nuts

2011-02-10T23:51:00.007-05:00

So what? I sit with a different book through lunch everyday. The meddling T.A. from a table over asks, “Is that a new book? You were just starting another one yesterday! Did you even finish it?” I slowly peered over the pages of my newest treat and said, “I read books on a rotating basis. It helps me retain information better.” Instead of understanding, or pretending to, that everyone’s mind works differently, she shrugged and crammed her clam chowder into her too excited yappers.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this tactic before, and you may have noted it to be a bit odd then. However, I’m a bookaholic and I refuse to apologize for it. I cram a ton of texts in my noggin at one time; some fiction, some factual, and most memoir-like. Right now I’m on my essay and memoir kick and I wanted to share some of my constantly revolving picks with you:

-riv-

PS- I now write for Edge Magazine Online! Check out my Valentine's issue piece on chivalry here.

The Adaptive Dater

2011-02-08T14:46:00.010-05:00

There’s a tall light skin theatre brother that caught my eye, my freshman year of college, more than a few times. While auditioning for a play, he finally entered my personal space giving me the opportunity to stalk him. Wait, I mean say hello. We spoke at length during the audition and I discovered he was not single, boring as hell, and had a very awkward lisp. In no way am I superficial….much, but I decided we should just be friends.

After about a year of having weekly conversations with him and witnessing his slew of “girlfriends”, I realized he was a conformist.

Just in case you didn’t know: A conformist is a person who conforms, especially unquestioningly, to the usual practices or standards of a group, society, etc.

In this case, that “etc” was by almost every female he came across. During the spring he dated an earthy Rastafarian chick that was heavy into reggae music. The usually Ralph-Lauren-polo-boots-wearing brother started rocking Bob Marley tees, loading his Ipod with patois he didn’t understand, and growing his hair with intentions to lock it. When summer came he dated a model who was steadily building a portfolio. Suddenly his almost locked hair was cut all over again, his style became drastically fashionable, and he purchased a Nikon. The now photographer-almost dreaded-theatre dude was on a roll. By the fall/winter of that year he started a friends-with-benefits romp with a painter. Soon after, I caught his shadow lurking down the canvass aisle of Michael’s.

“Oh you’re here shopping for your girl? That’s sweet.”

He hesitated, “Actually, I thought I’d pick up a little painting myself. They do say I have a nice stroke.”

I rolled my eyes at his lame innuendo and kept it moving to the journal area. What I really wanted to ask this man while in that aisle was, “Who are you? Do YOU even know?”

Some of you may be thinking, “Wait Riv, maybe he’s just delving into his woman’s interests. That’s sweet, right?” WRONG. I like a brother that is confident and secure with his own hobbies and likes. If the man I dated started slowly and surely to add my interests to his already long Facebook profile, I’d be scared to death.

As you know I’m a performance poet and if Mr. Man started coming to slams and open mics to support.

GREAT.

If he was inspired by the shows and decided to pick up poetry.

AWESOME!

But if everything I did became his entire world, I’d run like HELL.

These men do exist, and after hanging with theatre-photographer-model-artist-reggae-loving brother, I realized I had come across or knew more than one type of conformist. If you happen to know one of these, call them out: Ask them what interests them, aside from their adapted pastimes, and if they don’t have any or many, encourage them to find themselves. The only thing worse than a boring man, is one who has no clue who he is. In the words of Malcolm King, I’m just saying.

-riv-

flow list: segmento quatro

2011-02-05T11:07:00.006-05:00

I haven't done a flow list in a while. The proof is my horrendous stack of Twitter favorites and bookmarks on my computer. I need to make some space, so here's some linkage that's been tickling my fancy within the last few weeks.

An amputee with a knack for swimming, now a full fledged mythological mermaid.
Twenty questions to ask yourself. I attempted this, and a few of them had me stumped.
One of my favorite authors speaks on his failed attempts at the craft.
Creating your own writing space. (Currently attempting this, wish me luck. 0_O)
A thirteen year old with RIDICULOUS writing skills.
Where's the diversity at the Oscars?
The secrets to writing funny.

-riv-

Sweet “Sixteens”: A Hip-Hop Love Story or Why I Don’t Date Emcees Anymore.

2011-02-03T16:23:00.010-05:00

They say I love too much. Cling to the renaissance inside of me like it's going somewhere. I hold tight to every artist endeavor that feels right and I never let go, never find a lane; instead I swerve on the black ice of creativity and dare to collide. A friend once told me that, everything you adore stems from some significant other; even if they weren’t all that significant. This is how I crashed into this world, far from accidentally:

I was fifteen and fascinated with hip-hop. It was circa 2004, and all my friends were shaking and grinding to the mainstream. Beyonce and Usher crooned from our hoopty car stereos and plagued the school dances, but I had two left feet. Used those same two appendages to walk to the library during lunch hour and slip into the shelves with Illmatic blaring in my ears. Not only was I in love with music, I was in love with love. A tomboy too afraid to let her too-cool friends know she’d snuggled with a novel that paraded a teenage affair gone right. I was in awe. Astounded that love like this could ever exist among the dramatics of high school, I pleaded with myself to remember that fiction was fiction. I kept my longing undercover, spent most of my hours pretending that I was this Nike-fiend-don’t-care-tough girl when in fact I was wishing and waiting for a brother identical to me.

Sharon called on a Thursday. She’d been talking to guys she’d met everywhere on the phone, all kinds of hours, and thought she was a player of sorts now. I laughed at her three-way attempts to boys that were avoiding her like the plague. We finally reached a friend of one of her “main” men.

“Aquarius, do you know where your friend Kevin is?” she asked.

He laughed, “Am I that man’s keeper? Come on Sharon, you’re interrupting our studio time.”

My ears perked up at the mention of a studio. I quickly jumped in, “Studio? Oh you rap? Pshhhhh. You’re not as nice as me though.”

I’d begun a war. He started freestyling two seconds after I made my remark and I was blown away. He was better than a lot of emcees I’d heard and that’s saying A LOT. I came back with my quickest sixteen and spit it as though life depended on it. Enveloped in a raspy tone and hand gestures that only I could see, I went in. He snickered when I was done, “You got bars shorty, but you still ain’t seeing me.”

After he excused himself from our conversation, I quizzed Sharon like a professor. She told me that he was from our area, about fifteen minutes away, in the eleventh grade headed for AP courses, and was a writer. She assured me Aquarius was fair play.

Fifteen.

I was a virgin, bereft of my first kiss, petrified at the weird feelings that grew in my stomach after our short conversation.

He and I connected. We slung rhymes and words through the telephone each day like we’d known each other for years. He taught me the importance of metas and puns. Showed me that there was more to hip-hop music than being a battle rapper, which was my forte at the time, and that musicianship was key.

“Your words have to fit the beat. They may sound good acapella, but they won’t just fit on any track.”

But we fit like jigsaw. He sent me his manuscript he was working on for his AP English course and I read him poetry. I laid back in the pitch black darkness of my room and listened to him flip pages through my receiver getting ready to read me his latest verse. We were in sync and we’d never even seen each other’s faces. I was ready.

Six months after our initial introduction, we agreed to meet at Macy’s in a nearby mall. Back then, I was cool with wing woman status, so I dragged Sharon with me. The Macy’s had three entrances when we arrived and we were confused as to which one we were supposed to be in front of. I called his cell phone twice and he didn’t answer. I looked at Sharon after thirty minutes and said, “He’s not coming is he?” She shrugged as my phone rang.

“I’ve been out here forever. Where are you?” It was Aquarius.

After realizing we’d been at the wrong entrances, I told him we were on our way to him and to stay on the phone. Slowly approaching the second entrance we saw a brother with his back against the wall, on his phone and not speaking. I quickly put my phone on mute as Sharon and I checked him out. The boy against the wall had on a huge black coat, stared in the distance with scary eyes, and his face was drenched in acne. He slouched in an incredibly unconfident way. Sharon said, “That’s all yours boo.”

I figured that even though Aquarius might not have been the most attractive guy, I owed him the courtesy of stepping to him and continuing our friendship. We marched towards the entrance, shivering from the cold, and I extended my hand to the young man in front of me, “Hey It’s me Riv and this is Sharon. What’s good?” The guy looked at us and asked, “Uh, do I know you?”

Just then a voice from behind us said, “Nah brother, but I do, I’ll take it from here.” Sharon and I turned to face a caramel complexion, with deep brown eyes, and aggressive waves swirling atop his head. He smiled the brightest smile we’d ever seen, “Are we going to just stand here or are we going in? It’s cold!” We laughed and followed him inside while Sharon and I elbowed the hell out of each other confessing how fine he was.

Before I knew it, almost a year passed.

We spent eleven months in and out of studios, arcades, and movies surrounded by his and my friends. He challenged me in a way I thought no one ever could. Finding someone who was interested in me taking my artistic level to its highest peak was new to me. Most of my friends and family were only interested in where my academia was going, no one had ever taken the time out to invest in what I truly loved. I spent hours battling the feelings that grew inside of me while he unleashed his penetrating smile, watching me blush in the booth. Aquarius had not made one romantic move within all the time that we spent in that year, so I took the fluster of emotion I felt for him and tucked it away in a song I secretly recorded. I put the song under a bunch of CD’s in my small basement studio and forgot that such a love ever existed.

Sweet Sixteens.

Everyone was having one that year. I bought so many dresses and received so many candles that I was feeling the pressure. My friends all pondered what I’d do for my birthday and since it was the latest one in the year, they were dying for an excuse to act the fool on a dance floor once more. So, I gave in.

I rounded up eight guys and eight girls that I was closest to. We begun Sunday rehearsals for what would be the choreography for our opening sequence. Those Sundays were filled with my mother’s fried chicken, laughter, rap battles, and friends from different boroughs of NYC getting to know one another. The girls who were closest to me were Sharon and Maria. Maria and I had known each other since grade school but just started to get really close that year. She tailed behind me during the festivities and asked a thousand questions:

“What color dress are you wearing?”
“Do you need help picking out the shoes for all the girls?”
“Can I sleepover the night before and help set up the next day?”

I was so excited that my new found best friend was so ecstatic about my party and wanted to help, so I obliged her. Sharon, who’d been my best friend way longer than she, was annoyed, “Why is she so interested in your life all of a sudden? Something is not right about that.” I reprimanded Sharon for being rude to someone that only seemed to care and never took heed to her banter.

A few practices later, my mother and big sister pointed something noticeable to everyone out. “Maria and Aquarius are getting mighty close,” my mother warned. I laughed it off as I watched the two in a corner of my living room laughing and giggling. I told them that we were all just getting close and there was nothing suspicious about it.

A few days before the actual party I took hiphop, I mean Aquarius, to the park near my house. We sat on the swings of my grade school playground and talked of how we wanted to change the direction of the industry. My stomach flipped at the sight of his hand reaching over to mine. I stared over at him and suddenly our lips were pressed together. The illest beat I’d never heard sifted through my conscious as he broke the spell and he stepped back, “I don’t even know where that came from. I’m sorry.”

The words and emotions started to sputter from my lips while he stared at the moving letters leaving the place he longed to kiss again. When I was finished, he smiled and beckoned for us to leave. We left the park that night, unsure where we were headed but knee deep in the daze of our new reality.

Symphony.

The day of the party, after most of the festivities were done, I spilled my happiness around my guests and said goodbye to those taking off. My court of friends came back from the dressing rooms looking like they’d seen a ghost. They quickly soothed my worries with an ushering in the car and the promise of an explanation later on. I dismissed the notion, content of how I’d spent my day dancing with my escort, Aquarius. Interesting enough, he’d disappeared before the party ended.

A couple of days later….

A call approached my receiver with regret dripping from its dial tone. Someone called to tell me that Maria and Aquarius were together. They’d hooked up at the party before it was over and they were too afraid to tell me themselves. The messenger raised her arrow like cupid and struck, “They both don’t want to speak to you anymore. They feel horrible about what they’ve done and they don’t want to be around you.”

I put my Windows Media Playlist on repeat that night. Drowned myself in the mainstream that I usually avoided, singing along with Usher’s “Confessions” and Beyonce’s “Signs”. Dead Prez’s “Mind Sex” suddenly infiltrated the air unexpectedly. It was the song he and I both knew by heart and had rapped together on several occasions. That was soon followed by a few songs we’d done together and I smiled through my tears.

A friend once told me that, everything you adore stems from some significant other; even if they weren’t all that significant.

His significance is an old love song hidden in a box somewhere in my parent’s basement. An empty swing still swaying in the wind, where some little boy or girl will encounter the nuisance of puppy love. It is the bane of my lyricism, the song in my heart, and the 808 under my chest.

"I could never leave hip-hop. It's more likely that hip-hop will leave me." -Toure X

True Story.

-riv-