Collisions at the intersection by Yaari

The Past Haunts.

I write because the past haunts me.  I am not sure why it started or how it started, but my hand found a pen and my thoughts were captured by history and all of the unanswered questions.

I wanted to answer women questions.  I was looking for a way to build my confidence, to claim my individuality, to find a path in my own agency that had as little to do with someone else’s expectations about who I should be depending on the particular lens by which they were viewing me.

I was bone weary of hearing “NO” and bone weary of all the various boxes I was suppose to fit into and bone weary of all the passive and aggressive punishments that were like shards of glass in every direction I treaded.

I was always unprepared for the double conscious behavior; I could never figure out how to be girl and independent; strong woman and subservient seductress…. And, I could never figure out how to dodge the barbs and survive the pain of ostracism and marginalization so I went hunting for any others who understood the destructive contradictions of what it meant to be woman and black.  Instinctively I knew they were out there buried in history and battling the day to day lives of those caught in the poisonous webs of gender, mental illness, sexuality, age and race discrimination.

Marginalizations:  gender

I love my womanhood; I live with anger; I twist and turn in the day-to-day battle with illogical behavior.  I swallow my disgust at the hypocrisy.

Yet, the struggle against invisibility and the daily struggle for respect has worked to give me a gaze of extraordinary intensity.

Mental Illness

Let’s talk about how mental illness marginalizes and how often it is used as a weapon: a weapon with multiple results.

It is a social embarrassment.  Like leprosy society itself is ashamed that it produced those who cannot “hold it together.”  Therefore, they opening ignore those who suffer and they bury them in deep, dark invisibility, but they do this in open sight.

The Caribbean is notorious for keeping secrets in the closet; they are notorious for “be but don’t tell.”  A person who is connected in any family way to someone who lives with the painful sadness of mental and emotional torture lives with the cast of suspicion in spite of any sense that others might have.

A Caribbean Tale by Yaari

A Bastard Was Born

Pretty girl was born the bastard child of a well to do black man and a poor but beautiful Portuguese woman.  He made it up from selling cows to owning a rice mill and she made it to town from a small farming village in the country area.

They met; they courted; they became engaged; and she let him…..    She got pregnant and he left her for a proper black woman of the upper class.  Without money she was nothing more than a pretty face.  That face wasn’t enough to hold a man on the way up the ladder.  He climbed while she fell further and further into shame.

The scarlet letter was engraved on her brow.  Shame on you woman.  Society put it there and she polished it.  Bitterness and shame took over and flowed into the atmosphere.

She gave birth – Pretty baby born the wrong color, at the wrong time, in the wrong place – skin as white as soursap flesh and face the splitting image of that man who went from cows to rice mills up to fancy house on the hill.  Nothing could hide Pretty baby from that Scarlett letter.

The pain inside as she looked at this child through the eyes of her dead dreams and shattered future erupted in anger at all things around her.  Yet, she continued to live propelled by the instinct to survive and love – yes love in spite of the childhood dreams of social status soured and curdled in the pit of her stomach – dream of protected wife into welcomed motherhood was dead dead dead, but she was alive and so was Pretty baby.

Poverty was the stagnant trench and she was caught in the depth of hard work and nowhere to go fast.  She washed clothes with hands angry with shame and rough with determination.  She cleaned other people dirt and held the pieces of her ego together by rending the air with her roars.

They lived between bits of wood that made up the tiny rooms that sheltered her mother and pretty baby.  She hated and loved them as she tried to breathe and felt their fragile beings clog her nostrils.  With every breath the pain seared her heart.  She blasted them with the hot words of despair and loss.  The wounded animal in her had no way to control the ripped ego and self hatred that battled to take over her heart.

Lonely without human warmth to nourish emotions she fought battles she kept losing.  The world outside no longer held clouds, dreams did not paint her future.  Her eyes closed from exhaustion and behind her lids danced her mocking nightmares of what she had become – an insect of society, unworthy of visibility.  She was a bad woman, a bad bad one, a good for nothing.

So, she let another one in.  He came with nothing but smiles and the knack of a snaring charm that caught them all.  In the midst of social ridicule what he offered came close to companionship and a semblance of love.  He came and offered conversation next to kitchen stove – a kind of family.  She needed him so shame looked the other way and she ignored the fire of the Scarlett letter.

She took him to bed and had another bastard.  Born, again, shame stood tall and she let go of all internal expectations and just looked ahead for the sun to rise and bare the day, the grind to come, and to let go of life in the night – the market, the scrub board, the buisin,’ the self hatin’ and in a little hole somewhere a flicker of lovin’ laughter struggled against the biting pain.

At times the tired hands washing other people’s sweat didn’t make enough to bring food to the table.  Friends with pity stretching their faces gave here and there even the left overs from hospital trays entered her door as scraps on plates.  Her spine barely withstood the tug to break and slowly she found a way up the alley away from the neighborhood full of other tired souls to settle on the border of visibility.

Pretty baby grew with this in her flesh.  Shame! Shame! Shame!  She watched and heard the vicious pain sear the air with its burning purpose.  Hell and damnation.  She learned to cringe behind a silent face.

Resistance came in school work.  She excelled. She did well – won academic awards and gathered a little envy to soothe her hidden wounds.  She yearned for love, the love of family, a home away from questioning stares, away from gossip surrounding but not confronting.  She longed for peace as she endured the constant waves of harsh social derision.

Instead the turmoil continued and half sister did it again with another abuser of women’s love and time and brought into the world and unsuspecting innocent bastard child.  This bomb shattered any facade and scattered family parts far and wide.

Poor bastard child brought another layer of shame.  Pretty girl swayed with the social burden; she staggered again and again; she called on prayer; she locked her jaws; she stifled the screams.  Instead of beating the walls she taught herself absolute control.  Father abandoned and reclaiming could go to hell.  She would make it on her own.

And she did.

Pretty as pretty could be she found pieces of love and affection and cautiously she accepted them from a safe distance.  Alongside those pieces of love she kept pace with the old and made others her responsibility.  To keep them safe, to make some pride became her purpose.  To live in spite of her history glowed in her for a time.

One day Pretty girl saw him and he saw her.  The commitment was made.  She saw the possibilities, the pieces coming together, a dream being made.  Probability of love hovered closer and closer.  She made a friend.

Little did she know that she had met…..

A Mad Man Was Born

The mother had given birth to all his children in private shame.  They did not know that their daddy hadn’t married her.  They were all bastards according to Caribbean society. She felt the anxiety and quelled it with the long ago story of the slave trade – life for family.  At least he stayed.  What could a woman in her circumstance do?   She had after all laid down with that man.  That Indian.

Indentured labor had brought his kind to the Caribbean.  They came with an intense Muslim culture and it had grown into their only claim against non-slaves.  At least they weren’t those blacks, the pitiful.  At least they had something – religion, a connection with India, a language.  They were something.

She found him after his first Indian wife had died and he needed warm flesh to remind him of life.  She got pregnant and his reputation in community made him stay and pretend a social commitment had transpired.

She loved him and fooled herself that he loved her.  And there the excuses started and abuse became love and stayed like a viper in her heart spewing a toxic venom.  Slowly it moved through what was once her inner self and became a personal poison.  It ate and ate and ate…..

Into this new well a mad man was born.  Baby boy a handsome mix of coolie and red – favorite thought twisters of colonial heritage.

————————————————————–

Here is a story.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Guyanese woman; she was golden in color and slight in built and of christian mind; inside her bubbled the african and amerindian spirits.  This beautiful woman met a handsome man; he was smooth chocolate in color and muslim in mind with senses harking back to India.  In the midst of this mixture of love and lust were the gods of racism, slavery and indentured labor, at war with each other as they conducted their historical colonial orchestra.  These gods banned the legal union of muslim and christian and manipulated these people – one beautiful woman and one handsome man – to participate in multiple forms of abuse.  The relationship of the gods eventually produced an offspring, gender suspicion and this godchild grew into sexism.  The love hated itself and the hate fed on the love.  He did not marry her and she allowed him.

Over time this woman gave birth to twelve children six of whom died – one of them in a tragic death of red hot flames.  The man, throughout these births and deaths stayed steadfast, to the gods and their godchild.  And, he collected their weapons for use.  The years made him expert with words as weapons; he used silence with the skill of isolation; his understanding of gender gave birth to demands beyond equality.  Eventually, shaped by the forming of child selves, the deaths of six, the burning of one all mixed with the expertise of the progenitors her mind caved in.  She went crazy.

There was this large house somewhere in the country made for those who went crazy.  He had money; he sent her there; he sent her to her own cottage.  For twelve years he kept her there; on a train from town to town he sent her favorite fare; he made special arrangements for her culinary pleasure.  The twisted gods of love continued to work their magic.  Eventually, he brought her home to manage another generation of offspring.

Into this holy mess a tall, beautiful and handsome he child was born.  He held all the traits of both his father and his mother and he was baptized in the springs of the muslim and christian baths and he became a child of the Caribbean.  He tried to satisfy all of these gods of mother and father.  He met and fell in love with another beautiful woman of golden color and christian mind and married her.  Over time they gave birth to seven brown girl children of the Caribbean.  But, throughout it all he was strapped onto this wrack of torture; his life was woven into the world of the colonizer.  They turned the wheels slowly and over time he broke and followed the path of his mother.

You wonder why I tell you this story of colonial order and you ask how in heavens name it could be of import to my selves as an educator and intellectual conductor.  And, I tell you it is … just listen and it will cross those borders and they will meet at the intersections.

The beautiful golden woman he met was also a child of the Caribbean.  Her mother was of Portuguese descent sprinkled with some african spice and she was a country girl in an urban city.  Poverty was her bedding and blanket.  Love and lust were her transgressors.  They led her down the aisle and she believed their lies.  They put a ring on her finger and she followed them to bed.  Instead of ring she bore a child on those bed of lies and became a woman scorned and a woman despised – a single mother.  The child of this unblessed union was the beautiful golden she child with dreams of her own.

When they met he was shy and she was bright.  He stopped his bike and followed her.  She noticed and from then on they shared moments in time.  They learned to love and trust.  They married and then came those seven girls.  The wrack on the wheel stole into their lives and wrecked that time.  He lost faith and they lost the connection of friendship.  They both felt betrayed; he by what had entered his head and she by the broken promise of dreams.  Time collided and folded into itself and sooner than they could comprehend in their senses lives were shattered.  Mental illness reached into the folds of flesh and imploded.  Society’s condemnation of such illnesses stained their everyday lives and sentenced them all to years of silent torment.  This social condemnation along with gender discrimination exposed all of these women to other human vultures.

The smell of blood drew them like jackals who sensed the wounded.

And, the tall beautiful golden woman was sentenced to a life of a struggle to save her girls.  She was left to do this alone.  Shaped by the gods of christianity and the colonizer’s social rules she held her tongue when the vultures walked in and fed on the lives of her young.  She watched as they took vows of subservience and she watched and listened as they laid down on beds of nails and gave up blood to the vultures.  At these crossroads stood irony.  The vultures fed on her young in the same way that the handsome grandfather fed on the blood of the beautiful grandmother.  They drew blood with words and smashed lives with fear of exposure.  “You will go just like your father.”

For years I lived with the fear that the man I loved would be used to abuse me.  For years I heard and watched realities that made that fear a nightmare.  For years the threat hung over my head.

This is the history into which I was born.  These experiences shaped me and these experiences are with me at the crossroads.  Mental illness stands with me at the intersection.  In the book Black Feminist Thought Patricia Hill Collins centers the importance of working from the intersections of our lives.  In this way, all “truth” is recognized and analyzed.

These are the experiences that tilt my world.  In Melissa Harris Perry’s book Sister Citizen: for Colored Girls Who’ve Considered Politics When Being Strong Isn’t Enough, these experiences found a lens to give them meaning.  Perry’s use of the analogy “tilted room” to describe gave sanity to what would otherwise be insane as women try to exist with a lack of logic in their day to day lives.

“When they confront race and gender stereotypes, black women are standing in a crooked room, and they have to figure out which way is up.  Bombarded with warped images of their humanity, some black women tilt and bend themselves to fit the distortion.  ……… To understand why black women’s public actions and political strategies sometimes seem tilted in ways that accommodate the degrading stereotypes about them, it is important to appreciate the structural constraints that influence their behavior.  It can be hard to stand up straight in a crooked room.”

Milissa V. Harris Perry in Sister citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in America

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The new clothes by Yaari

When they look back at our “culture” our “civilization” they will recognize the sickness.  Is it a human  thing this gladiator thirst for blood – some kind of blood or this vulgar need to dehumanize some other human being.  I sit here in the hotel and no glasses no work I decide to surf.  The TV has one after the other one after the other show of degradation and dehumanization.  But today I decide to really watch a show on prisoners.  I took my time and I allowed all the responses, the emotions, the feelings and I asked the questions.

The thing about computers and televisions is that I can write as I see; I can write as I feel; I can stay with the feelings and as I watch I think of years ago when mentally ill patients were the circus show for the British society.  I think of Hitler and the many human beings that used him as a reason for their deeply inhumane and psychotic brutality and that was in my lifetime.

I look at this TV show and I see and hear the connections, the bridges, between the NPR show where the man shared the deeply racist beliefs his family expressed at the Thankgiving dining table, THE THANKGIVING DINING TABLE –  the place where Americans eat hearty meals while celebrating their denial of how they actually stole the land that they declared God sent them to take.   And, in this case, a family sat to share how they really feel about the descendants of the black women and men that they raped, brutalized, sold.

I have a hard time seeing the good in this “transparency” of prison life.  I see a sick sick sick social movement in these reality shows.  I see a focus on religion as salvation – the new missionaries in a society of people of color and they win their souls for God.  I see a sick society that on one hand talks about the sickness of homosexuality as they house warm blooded humans in pens without any access to human need – they create the show and then sell it as a public performance for the world.  A trapped bunch of performers for their mastabatory  fetish type behavior.   The camera focus tells you that this is not a worthwhile or worthy path.  The camera like a peeping tom, the camera like the sick minds of those who performed the mutilation of the homosexuals, Gipsies, and Jews take us to the cuffs on the hands of the men, the camera takes us to the smears of blood, to the nakedness of the men.

The TV is being used to seduce us into the public rape of men – mostly men of color with enough white men to counteract the accusation that this is another lynching another enslavement another violent attack on the humanity of certain groups.  We watch as men must pee for tests, as they do push ups in their cells, who pace like animals in a zoo as they battle the forces of a tragically and dangerously schizophrenic culture.

I listen as a black man talks proudly of his duty to execute these men.  The society is being fed the idea that we should come to believe the story that started in their fields – black men are dangerous animals who prey on other humans especially white women.  I look at this man’s face and I listen as he details and describes how he goes about killing his victims.  American civilization?  I understand in a visceral way from my experiences in the white world how much the innocent white person is not even able to see and admit to themselves that they still live as if their black brothers and sisters (and I mean that literally when you think of the many white men who continuously raped black women in order to increase their slave trade) are not fully human; they practice an “innocence” that is as poisonous as the cobra.

One love affair blooms by Yaari

It was my first love affair and it consumed me.  He was tall dark and handsome.  I worshiped his style.  He drove the car of power.  I remember riding in it and thinking that I was the princess.  No one else around had such a car.  He was the power.  And, over time the desire to be around that power was intensified by the roar of the motorcycles that became his toys.  The roar of that big engine and the silver tank and the big black wheels coming around the corner made my heart beat jump and run.

Never a harsh word can I recall.  His hands; they were big, brown and warm.  My eyes were always looking up those chocolate brown arms that disappeared into cotton short sleeves to the soft collar and then to the underside of that brown brown chin.  Firm and soft, eyes a little distant, but his presense was always there in the squeeze of a hand.

I am fifty two now so that was a long time ago.  Like clothes in the big bubble window of the landrymat the memories tumble warm and soft and the colors change as they move forward and back colliding with my lazy gaze.  And, I realize that I am still in love.

Daddy, he has been no other name.  Dean came after love.  Gentle warms me still.  The feel of soft lips blowing bubbles into my tummy and the high pitched giggles of me and sisters.  His pulling on toes to crack them as the squeals poured out of my mouth.  There were tickles and chin ups, hand stands, and long walks.  I was tadpole often wriggling and squirming.  I was monkey jumping.  I was tree climbing and mango or guava grabbing.  Maybe five or six and the making of memories was too much for the littleness of me; it felt as if I had to puff out to take them all in.

It has to be more than genes.  He must have melted into me somehow; entered my soul, or maybe that is what makes soul, little pieces of love that linger forever.  Some say I am intense; maybe that’s where it came from.  We didn’t know it consciously, but we didn’t have much time.  Death was already knocking at his door.

tip of my tongue by Yaari

The issue of race is haunting.  It hovers.  Yet, it is terribly slippery to detect.  And, frighteningly I know there in lies the problem.  There lies the camouflaged monster.  Confrontation with the need to expose the enemy is challenging;  it pushes against the boundaries; it shoves unrelentingly at anything standing in the way.  Ideas and dreams are interrupted with its demand to be revealed, to be dealt with once and for all, but “for all” is never found.  Nothing moves forward easily. It is never innocuous and it continues to tear flesh apart.

Austin Clarke’s searing sarcasm in his book The Polished Hoe stirs the frustrated rage; a rage as old as the days of slavery.  It is the perpetual rage of rape; it is a rage that bubbles with the need to find and punish the laughing criminal.  The young girl, the narrator, makes clear the trap and the hate; at the same time she, herself, is caught in that snare of power, of wanting to taste it; of wanting to be it.

The Conference by Yaari

by Yaari

Sugar and spice,eh

an’ all dem nice puppy dog tails

dat’s what CSA is made of

Arriving in Barbados stirred all of my Caribbean memories. As the plane dipped toward the island and tiny lights blinked into view, my anticipation increased.

The touchdown excitement had nothing to do with the conference and all to do with the bitter sweet memories that come with the life of an immigrant. Memories, like thick bright colored paintings portraying vague images, lingered as the old me and the newer version collided. Childhood images and sensory memories crowded in and pushing on them were the memories of life in the US. The questions always intrude… Am I happier? Can I come back? Who am I in the US? In the midst of black and brown people, I became someone.

Leaving the plane, I stepped on to the slightly shaky metal stairs and welcomed the warm breezy kiss of the Caribbean. “Home” now is anywhere the accent sings, the people smile, and the colors vary from chocolate smooth black, mingled with caramel brown, repeatedly touched by golden sun kissed sugar, and creamy warm butterscotch.

Routine becomes reminiscing; I have patience in lines; it gives me time to eye mingle with the crowd. I watch shapes of faces, inclines of bodies; I wonder where they go. I recognize with casual acceptance the two customs officers at work and the seven or eight empty booths of promise. For a minute you stewups your teeth and ask yourself, “why dese people goffa do dis, eh. Dey does wait till deh got a big crowd den dey does disappear.” The anxiety creeps into my belly when the bags start to jump out of the hole. It’s the bags; will they arrive I wonder. I hold back and wait. Nervous tummy jumpin’ all over deh place. And, wuh yuh know, deh damn bag nah show up.

I walked over to the airline counter and started to fill out papers. In the meantime, the thought of being in Barbados without clothes did not excite me. (Even though, the heat waiting for me outside might have changed my mind.) Runnin’ tru meh min’ was nuff nuff money spendin’ again.

At the counter my mounting irritability was distracted by the pleasant smile and helpful attitude of the customer service officer. Sche look up at meh an’ smile – yuh kno’… dat eye crinkle way we West Indians does flirt wid friendly. She brought me back home immediately. A warm smile goes a long way to sustain the endurance needed for such matters. Then the forms came and threatened my calm. I managed to breathe in and finish all the blank lines.

Outside the airport my eyes skimmed the crowd and there she was – old friend and colleague from UCB – with a frantic look on her face. Eventually, after hugs and laughter we climbed in the SUV and hit the road. The blast of air through the open window brushed tired away for a while; I leaned back and emptied my mind.

Next morning we ate breakfast and each other’s experiences at the same time. We sat on the verandah with the cool breeze circling and the fowl cocks crowing. Dat didn’t last too long doh. Soon it was swimsuit, sandals and bodies answering the call of the sun and the crash of the waves. Ahh … the warm blue green ocean cradled my body and offered me to the sun. Then I knew that I was a member of the CSA cult – addict to my senses, an intellectual and sensual junkie – always hunting for that information high and selling my body to the sun goddess.

Next day seriousness stepped in and took over. Out the car I jumped; into the hotel lobby I moved among a bustling crowd of orange tagged academics rushing to and fro trying to register, check in and find panels – madness in the making. Keeping it all together was the nervous energy of greedy curiosity – who to see? What to hear? Where’s the bar.. maybe some food too and, don’t forget; ah wonder how meh presentation gon go? Five days jam packed with intellectual stimulation – all about violence. Crisscrossing tiled patios and grassy walkways people moved in all manner of walk and wear – hair up down and dreadlock long.

Violence centered subjects hit the airwaves – lectures, Powerpoint presentations, videos – dance, stage.. all engaging the audience and sending them rushing from one to the other. There was the constant surge of crowded conversations stretching across spaces over food and drink and in between emails to folk back home – other expectations and obligations.

What jumped out at me was the women focused conversations and presentations. The air was charged with necks stretched to see and the uuummm huummms of patient agreement and the hand clapping to control the frustrated excitement of the shared lived experiences of perpetual endurance and the longing for change. Pride straightened my back and stretched out my chest and made it worthwhile to have crossed ocean and the guilty spendin’ of lill’ plastic money. In my head I heard .. yeah yeah yeah, I am woman hear me roar.

Special to me is the chance that CSA gives me to explore and get to know the local folk and hear the lore of oral histories so often ignored. This time it was Mrs. R – 99 years old – born 1911. Laud, the woman could tell a story; she circled me with laughter and in the midst gave me understandings of how race was experienced and community used to heal and endure. She revealed to me lessons of life and secrets of survival that might be useful to us if we listened well and listened more.

Too was the chance to ride the island with a dreadlock man of serious contemplation. He raised for me more questions of CSA leanings. As we circled the island, he brought to my attention that more and more walls were going up and he could not longer, “see” in. Dat there were people buying up deh island and, for me there was a little confusion, is who buyin’ up deh island so? And if the buyers are foreigners what den will become of Bajan identity as people get squeezed into deh middle? The Rasta is a farmer and he let me know that he must sell to dem – is a relationship full a caution for him.

The CSA in me wondered about this “trade.” Is this the “free market” experience that is repeating itself in many a Caribbean place? If we are getting pushed to the center of the land; if we are being circled by others; if the dependency grows, what will that mean for the future?

Creative and stimulating associations are necessary. CSA in my pocket; CSA as my compass; CSA as lens; CSA explorations and explanations. I look forward to the opportunity to hear; like Trinidad, Brazil, San Andres, Jamaica, and Barbados, I look forward to going deeper into community, to opening myself again and again to knowing family in the Diaspora.

Goin’ tru a ting by Yaari

SHORT TEMPTATIONS: A RELATIONSHIP

TIME: MY TORMENTOR

Have you ever started over? I do, almost every day. Teaching allows multiple avenues of reality …. many roads to fictitious excitement; a place for unconditional love; an arena for healing; a venue for layers of unexposed emotions struggling to break free.

Broad shouldered and thick, he comes into my classroom and, immediately, I remember long ago days. I smile. I know immediately…. he is a baller. His body bulges under the t-shirt; the legs, thick and big, solidly encased in blue jeans, slide into the chair and settle in a wide open invitation. A smile cleaves a familiar path deep inside as I reach back into memories.

They come in numbers…, these boys oozing new sexual confidence… ouch.. the seductive gene, and questionable self assurance!

My first encounter with his species was over 20 years ago … I remember him; here again is another younger version just as precocious and dripping with sex.

I conduct the class .. the air rippling with vibrations …. the physical awareness of masculinity, my female listening; in minutes he has me in his hands … young wickedness etches itself into his face …. male boldness says to me … deep in debate …. directly into my eyes; “uuumm..” he says, “but I’m different; I’m nineteen going on forty!”

His grin widens and I thought, “my God, he makes me forget that I’m 48 and he’s just 20.”

I look at him; hunger stings my eyes and a tender caress stirs on my lips. Leaning forward in my chair, my hands reach toward him…

Suddenly, I think of you and how you killed me; a cold wind enters and no passion rips through me. I recall the start …..

Slowly you aim at tiny places; your barbs are pin like, stinging just a little. You don’t touch the nerves …. your aim gets better, the weapons grow sharper.

Fortunately, I am high on love; so high that the adrenaline pumping in my blood dulls the pain; I am not aware of reality …. of a slow manipulated kill – time wounds.

Pleasure keeps knowledge at bay; it allows me to shake off nagging needle points of worry ….. bubbles of liquid easy adoration heals fast the wounds nipping at my heart. Sensual sounds clear the air of any warnings …. of coming despair. It surrounds my ears with promise and keeps me distant from disappointment.

The wounds grow wider; they grow deeper; they start to fester and denial seeps in; it takes over; the years come and go.

I understand the cancer. I’ve found an ancient cure … when the nausea enters my belly; when it pushes against beauty; when it causes heart break… retreat gallops in on printed words.

I hurt, not because of ignorance, but because I know too well why it is that I flounder. It is bitter sweet. I keep up the clamor of caged words, the chaos… and I avoid… I avoid.

Confusion rushes in and plays painfully on heart …. tears well up with the smiles and, not knowing fully where from or what they mean, I find an inane something… a shallow book, a light movie, a physical non-intimacy … I get lost in other worlds.

I am bitter that there ever was… and then I am frightened there will not be.

For the life of me, for the first time with you, no not the first ….. but the first this way… I am weighed down with pleasure and pain of the heart; I try to stay with feelings.

I tumble into an abyss of lessons learned… the rollicking human pain of again falling into ordinariness, obligation, and disappointment … not just wanting… but fighting in panic to make something special …. a real thing.

Do you ever wonder about change? Change and people? Change and feelings? Change and time? Love’s inability … to work …. an enhancement… a blossoming… a rose garden always in bloom!

Words can be so damning.. so dangerous… so alienating… they can do damage; or they can lift and soar… to dizzying heights… never imagined or felt… awe inspiring …. it reaches in and stills your breath.

One word.. or two pushes me into spilling … across paper… into confrontation with my inner most self; my wailing wall; my painter’s brush and vibrant colors… pushes … me.. two balking identities.. rasping, stuttering intellect and the quaking heart.. the tremulous and humble human, the bleeding thinker…. trying …. like always, to find a modicum of understanding…of this human condition.

I reach out… again… for time.

RUNNING

TO

MEMORIES

I wake up deep in memories.

Fireworks in the darkness of night rivet me as the explosive beauty of colors hit deep blue sky and explode into tiny sparks… like words hit my mind and, again, I believe I have purpose… that there’s talent… they come to me as a way of finding treasure…. of some kind… or the chance for deep exploration.

I find the elements of grace.. again…. I find the niche of life… a way to breathe. Like the 4^th of July, I’m alone, on top of grassy hill, surrounded by warm summer air.. enthralled by the images high in the sky with their simmering images dancing on the ocean below. Pushed by a wave of possible sadness, memories hit the darkness of my mind… and explode; like fireworks they light me up with spectacular wonder.

My jaw drops.. my lips part.. a sigh escapes…. I am standing deep in the warmth of my coat, leaning forward against the wall of bridge Pont Neuf…. gazing at the dancing sparkles of lights on the Seine..

I am in Paris!.. again …. my eyes drink in the jagged angles of the Notre Dame…gargoyles snarl their smiles…. I hear the buzz of people… I shift my eyes slowly as I elongate my vision …. my eyes grasp the vision of strolling people along the quays ….. the lights jump at me from deep within the many cafes and restaurants.

I arrive on the magnificent hills in the heart of Hilos… in the air soft whiffs of salty ocean… the dew and dank of dark green grass….the soft stares of red Hibiscus, the sugary sweet scent of flowers fill my nose… and I lose myself …

Eyes linger on the light blue expanse of forever moving above my head and with a little fight they slide down to drink at the well of the never ending emerald green ocean…. Mother Nature is a gorgeous creature…..

An easy spiral and my heart is racing … I melt into a crowd of brown gendered beauty… the arms of Salvador de Bahia … Brazil wraps me up and walks with me into a park filled with smiles of recognition …. a willingness to share as fish jump in ponds and trees kiss each other as they reach to the sky.

Eyes blink …. letting lid kiss lid with a prayer for happiness enclosed in capsules of memories… I stand on the solid pavement of the Bond… China!

Cool breeze caresses my arms …. they wrap around my torso and squeeze themselves in wonder while I stand on a seawall looking at a snapshot of bright light….

In China I am thinking of my mother… she creeps into my vision as I capture the amazing structure rising in front of me.. a sample of Chinese brilliance and creativity. I want my mother with me and I reach out….

Nova Scotia beckons and I run… across the street into a botanical garden heavy with scents and colors, crisscrossed with white laced bridges over shallow ponds… Band stands rise up above the ground and I hear an echo of horns and trumpets… reminders of a long ago childhood guided by the warmth of a father’s hands.

the rant by Yaari

My verbal explosion after reading Hitler’s Black Victims: The Historical Experiences of Afro-Germans, European Blacks, Africans, and African Americans in the Nazi Era.

Control, control, control is around my neck like a choke hold. With every movement it tightens, but I cannot be still.

Every possible emotion pushes me away from this project and, with equal force, each one of these emotions drags me relentlessly toward this goal. Insomniac eyes dry out as they wait for calm to return and the mind to run headlong into the welcome darkness of myth. If I were religious, and at times I am, I would be inclined to believe that something spiritual is behind this need to plunder the depths of this madness; I would be inclined to believe that “the spirits of the dead” are asking for voices to be raised against this violence.

I would be inclined to surrender to this yearning and understand that it is essential to my freedom and my sanity. But I gave up on religion a long time ago when the curtains rose and the monster was revealed. Now, I stand with nothing to shield me from the brutal truth of my rape. I must face it or die.

As a child I was shaped by British colonialism. As that education made inroads, I was also being shaped by a Guyana of various forms of resistance. Creolese, Guyanese style, formed an identity and the lyrics of an audacious resistant calypso tongue reared a fighting spirit. The love of a black mother and father counteracted the battle of messages of lighter skinned superiority waging war on my mind. Love in the midst of diversity gave me enough “agency” to query the twisted consciousness of racism.

The project itself reeks of insanity and its sheer depravity causes me to shudder with revulsion at the thought of giving it room to grow. I live with the dread of becoming one of them. I am being asked to forgive, to let go, to start again as someone else, to understand that the rapist wants forgiveness. I want revenge!

At times, like a tortured ghost, I watch the carving of my body, the shaking of my knees; I feel my heart rocking, My flesh tears and I watch my body convulse with each gush of red hot blood. Quickly and carelessly the hot turns to cold as the blood is smeared by the unrepentant footprints of the perpetrators. The smell of vengeance seers my nose and with boiling blood I bare my teeth; the need to taste flesh fights its way up with surprising force. The animal in me strains at the leash and fear spikes as I recognize the delight. I relish the screams of terror. My humanity buckles and I run and hide.

As a teenage girl I collected memories. Sexual energy was a driving force and its amazing adventurous temptation was drenched with “bad girl” threats. Nevertheless, I took the risks of reputation and found pleasure a little clouded with fear. The memories were saturated with howlingly funny mistakes and colossal disappointments. At the same time, I walked in a world dominated by the “color problem.” Running like poison in the water of youth was an active racist ideology of whiter being brighter. Memories were clouded with denial. Color made humanity and chose friendships. A warped love spoke openly of prejudice – nice hair, pretty nose, and light skin – that bonded some and gave room for twisted pride. To go against this was to become the “other.”

Everything shrivels. I cannot write; I cannot think. I am bogged down with the guilt I collected daily in catholic school so long ago. I am not a good woman and I am an angry black one at that. I am poison. I have no rights to a voice. For a while, I go quiet for fear that it might be true. But, I can only be quiet for a while.

I am overwhelmed with the promise of crazy. I do not want to be an outsider. Why can’t I just “let the past go?” Why can’t I “do like others and move on?” People aren’t racist any more “how come you don’t know that?” It’s you black people who are the racists now. Oh please, “there’s no gender issue. How come you can’t see there are equal rights, and women have it better than men?” Women are “taking over the universities.”

Universities for me were places of fire and brimstone. I collected skewed knowledge and not enough of my own voice, but gratitude kept my mouth shut. After all education was freedom and I wanted it badly. The memories are full of rage and guilt. “Speak out, speak out” clamored in my head. “ Make a noise!” I didn’t. Frustration was the thread that held it all together. BA was all white classes of English literature with polite white instructors who made only one kind of voice heard. I wanted to scream, but didn’t. MA and Ph.d. left me reeling. Erasure gave way to exploitation. On many classroom tables the black and latino body was spread and dissected. Money exchanged hands for the sexiest publications and awards were given to those who could infiltrate neighborhoods using various forms of flim flam. Black professors spoke with forked tongues railing against racism with the pen and privileging it with actions. Lessons of internalized race hatred shattered black minds and gave the monster more reasons to gloat.

Control, control, control is around my neck like a choke hold. With every movement it tightens, but I cannot be still.

I am that strangle hold. I cannot seem to help myself. I am my worst enemy. There is a problem and I am a part of it. I must be vigilant; I must be a critical thinker; I must examine what is the “truth.” I must risk abandonment; I must accept the possibility of death. Awareness is agony and it surrounds me like an electric fence. I am watching as the monster devours all in its path. What will it take for me to scream? I know I am not alone.

I devour words written by men and women who strip away the lies and lay bare the stark naked truth as lived by so many being crushed in the jaws of tigers. Their words reflect my anger, my disbelief and my need to rail at injustice. At the same time, I feel their restraint and the confusion of “double consciousness” and Fanon’s “black face, white masks” is made more and more real and I witness us cannibalize each other. My anger spreads. It is not enough to simply name the enemy. It is not enough to lay bare his genocidal plan. It is simply not enough. I expect more; I want more. War is being waged. We must fight back.

On a grand scale Africa was carved by unrestrained and genocidal power. For hundreds of years wealth for the mighty has been blood money and the violence continues. Every possible crime was committed and every possible sin practiced on the men and women of Africa. The practice of man’s inhumanity to man was further inspired and celebrated by the creation of a racist ideology. The attack on the black body continues on every level and in every area of the world where black identity exists. This race hatred invades every dimension of society. For little black children the hot comb and the lye takes over before they have consciousness. Skin color informs marriage and the parentage of children.

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FORWARD MOTION

To lose love is to have a tiny explosion erupt in the core of your heart and stomach; the pieces of shrapnel blast into your flesh cutting it to ribbons. Nothing is the same! Clouds descend; expectations crack along the seams of your life. The schizophrenic inside speaks in multiple tongues, walks along parallel shores shouting across the chasm – provoking and prodding the lies from dreams, infiltrating them with reality, and defrocking the self… ishness of individualism. The pen cannot find the words to spill the pain onto the page; to express the unimaginable rage; the loss of control, and the finality of it all.

There is a scream inside, a scream for help… you’re drowning.. back to being insecure and in dire need of consolation. A burgeoning wail waits inside to cry until your chest feels hollow and judgment is suspended. You need permission to die in someone’s arms and be reassured that they will stay and resuscitate you.

A fever burns in your mind, tears sit in your jawbones, they settle in your breasts, they wait in the empty spaces behind eyes and they push; the pressure threatens to erupt and swallow everything that is sane. The memories roll and crash in the back of your mind. You keep them back with a wall of solid frivolity. It crumbles slowly. You are tired. you rock; they crash. you breathe; you stroke. Strength returns. There is forward motion.