when i grow up...

one day i'll learn how to write like a "writer" and i'll make everyone proud. i'll write something that makes everyone go, "oh!" and they'll want to laugh and cry at the same time. ill write something that makes people want to create something beautiful for themselves. one day i'll learn how to become an inspiration...


it's very strange, realizing the influence i have on my lil brother. to be honest, it kind of bothers me. sometime he looks at me with those big brown eyes and i know that he sees something brilliant. but there's not much there. i don't think i could bear to see the change in his eyes when he realizes that i'm just as human as everybody else. that's exactly why i gave up having heroes when i was younger, especially in my parents- i couldn't bear to be disappointed.

i realized the other day that i really admired my mother when i was younger. i still do, very much, but... it's not the same. but it's not supposed to be, right? she can't treat me like i'm 5 forever. i just kind of wish that she "got it". i know i don't really make an effort when it comes to letting her into my life so that we can strengthen our relationship, but it's only because that doesn't seem like the proper thing to do. the job of a child is to been seen and not heard, to listen and obey, to be respectful and polite and answer a parent's every beck and call. a parent-child relationship should be one of servitude, not one of friendship.

my parents did not raise me like this. so where did i learn that from, i wonder?

sometimes i get so angry that i want to burst. there is so much i want to tell my mother, especially when i am angry. i want to tell her off a lot, and it is so frustrating, not being able to do so. but it's not that she doesn't want to listen, it's that i'm not willing to talk. i tend to silence myself a lot. when it comes to me and my mother, my silence is my weapon. but it's a double-edged sword. because i have forgotten how to speak, and it effects my relationships with people, too.

i told someone that they reminded me of my mother once, and for that i am very sorry. she was a great person, but i didn't know how to verbalize my feelings towards her, or about her, or anything, really. i regret that.

i am so grateful for my friends, the true friends that listen to me. when i talk, i am always doubting myself, even talking online. i would very much like to erase the words "i don't know" from my vocabulary, but it's a habit that won't go away. it's funny- i am a very emotional person, but i can't express my emotions at all. it makes me very uncomfortable when people really want to know how i feel, what i think, want me to express my opinion. all that attention makes me feel like i'm under some sort of microscope, like i'm being examined and i'm afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.

i'd rather not burden people by verbalizing my emotions. there is nothing i hate more than being a bother. i just want to make sure that i am helpful and that other people are happy and satisfied. it is very strange for me to want to be this selfless, but i have always been like this. i am a very selfish person, though. i am very absorbed in myself, which i guess we all are as humans. we are put here for such a short amount of time and we want to figure our purpose in this world before we go. i feel that my selflessness has a lot to do with my selfishness. i guess taking care of people is my way of showing that i want to be cared for myself, and that i want to be acknowledged- by standing in the shadows. i can also claim that person for mine when i care for them. i put so much emotion into the people that i care for that it is unhealthy for me, mentally and physically, i know, but it's just the way i am. i know that this is dangerous, because i can be forgotten and taken advantage of in this way, and i usually am.

this all also has to do with why i can't be with anyone seriously, ever. that is too scary for me. i would hate to be the most important thing to someone, because it would mean that they are always focusing their attention on me, and that would bother me. but i am also very needy, and would feel the need to focus all of my mental and emotional attention on them all the time. i always say that i love hard. this person and i would become hermits, and i hate people who do that. and if we were ever to break up, i don't know what i would do. so i don't take relationships seriously, or people who are interested in me seriously. i have come to terms that my life is one destined to be lonely. regardless of how many people i am with, i will never let anyone romantically get close to me. i would only end up suffocating them to death. it is healthier for both of us that way.

so i live vicariously through my writing.

writing is like breathing for me. my breathing may not always be steady. sometimes it feels like the world is weighing down on my lungs and it gets harder to breathe, but in order to live, i need to breathe, and as long as i am alive, i will be breathing. that is how writing is for me. i will do it until i die. i may not be very good, but it is necessary for me. it is the one thing that i can truly count on.

phew.

musings in cambridge

not done, but here you go

...

today i tried to lose myself in the city.

it was hard, seeing as how cambridge
is really just one large suburb, so
i lost myself in a cloud of smoke instead.

i walked real fast, like my legs could outrun my brain, cuz
i got that feeling i sometimes do, you know
where my heart feels like its going to burst
out of my chest, and i get all excited and anxious.

i suck down smoke to make my heart stop beating.

some old woman approached me today.
she saw me smoking so she stopped me.

hey, you!

it was an abrupt call, and when i turned around,
there she was, hands shaking, like a junkie.

i'm sorry, but can i..?

her eyes darted towards my pack and she licked her lips.
i could relate to that feeling of helplessness
so out of pity, i gave her a cigarette
and then, as an afterthought, my lucky too,
and she blessed me and we each kept on moving
down our separate paths.

sometimes i feel lonely.

when i'm sad i run towards running water.
i guess its the cancer in me.
when i see moving water, i feel at home,
and besides, langston once told me that
my soul runs deep like the rivers.

over the charles there is a walking bridge
where i had my first date.
i sat down in the exact spot
where he and i talked about
the importance of kool-aid and
traded bad love songs while the sun set.
i wanted to kiss him then, but i didn't
and instead we pondered together why it is that
beautiful things always seem to be the most terrifying.

i am scared all of the time.

why is that?
i passed two construction workers today
standing on the roof of a three story house
and i was scared, and hurried past them
with my eyes glued to the sidewalk.
their bravery upset me.
they walked around freely
like gravity was an imaginary concept
and i was terrified that my eyes would betray them
and bring them crashing down back to earth.

i saw a little black boy running happily

past two cops, who were busy harassing a homeless man
in central square.
my breath caught in my throat
and i thought about the time that i had to teach my younger brother
that when he sees a blue uniform
it is best to walk, hands in pockets, eyes averted
because there is no difference to a bullet
between a guilty man running away from the scene
and an 8 yr old.

i passed a building that was stenciled with
happy black bodies in motion.

this was the same building that i passed with my mother
when she told me, smiling
about her nights out with my father.
they would come here to go dancing,
once upon a time,
when she still saw herself as
young and strong and beautiful
and he still loved her.

i was tempted to walk in
so that i look inside and see them dancing
but i kept on walking, because
i don't know what i would do
if those doors would not open for me.
so instead i sat and watched the waves
rolling in the charles river
and pretended they were my parents.
my mother was young and strong and beautiful
and my father was tall and dark and handsome
and they fell in love all over again
to the sound of the rolling river.

stuckstuckstuck

i've got nothin.

niggas and flies

so a poem was born after all! knew that was all good for somethin...

"n-bomb"

the word nigger seeped into my life,
unnoticed, until one day i looked down and
wham- there was nigger, encroaching on my space,
leaving a stain on my childhood-
you know, one a them stains that dont come off
ever
no matter how much soap and bleach you use,
no matter how long you let it soak.
it just gets bigger and uglier and
maybe a little faded but its still there.

so ever since i can remember,
its been me and nigger,
all big and brown and blatant
hanging on my sleeve for everyone to see.
it was one of those clingy friends
you know, the kind that no one likes,
but everyone's nice to anyway?
not me. i hated nigger-
this stain spreading from my sleeve to my shoulders,
dripping down my back, burning my skin.

in my bitterness, my young tongue began to curse nigger,
my throat gargling out the word to the world
like spit, like mucus, like vomit:
fuck you, nig-guh.
who's a nig-guh.
that dumb nig-guh.
each syllable like a punch in the stomach,
bringing me down, lower and lower
until one day a boy came up to me
and christened me a nigga.
what up, my nigga!

just like that, a friendly curse.

by then the stain had spread to my face
and made its way to my lips
and into my mouth,
and when i tried to respond
i choked on nigger, which was busy sliding down my throat
into the pit of my stomach.
i tried to breathe in and nigger filled up my lungs
and made them black and blue.
nigger was a parasite, and it had found a way to
work itself into my melanin.

my body don't like nigger very much.

it tried to kick nigger out way back when,
cough it back up
piss it back out,
get rid of it somehow.
but now its stuck with me for good.
we're together till i die, which shouldn't be too long.
nigger is killing me, choking the life out of this body,
squeezing the blood out of this pumping heart.

the people formerly known as "niggers"

niggas and flies...

so i got this word and this work all stuck in my head and something wants to come out... it started with the clip from Bamboozled with the guy at audition. you know, the "niggas is a beautiful thang" dude. i wanna write something... something about that line, something about that word.

i really wish i had a copy of "the nice colored man" by ted joans, too.... ah. inspiration for this blog, for my blog name. when i find it i will post it.

so this is some... let's call it, research, for a piece. something to give you guys to think about...

much love, stokes.

---

( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wD-UpHlB9no )

---

NIGGER

I AM the nigger.
Singer of songs,
Dancer. . .
Softer than fluff of cotton. . .
Harder than dark earth
Roads beaten in the sun
By the bare feet of slaves. . .
Foam of teeth. . . breaking crash of laughter. . .
Red love of the blood of woman,
White love of the tumbling pickaninnies. . .
Lazy love of the banjo thrum. . .
Sweated and driven for the harvest-wage,
Loud laughter with hands like hams,
Fists toughened on the handles,
Smiling the slumber dreams of old jungles,
Crazy as the sun and dew and dripping, heaving life
of the jungle,
Brooding and muttering with memories of shackles:
I am the nigger.
Look at me.
I am the nigger.
- Carl Sandburg

----

Ten little nigger boys went out to dine;

One choked his little self and then there were Nine.

Nine little nigger boys sat up very late;

One overslept himself and then there were Eight.

Eight little nigger boys travelling in Devon;

One said he'd stay there and then there were Seven.

Seven little nigger boys chopping up sticks;

One chopped himself in halves and then there were Six.

Six little nigger boys playing with a hive;

A bumble bee stung one and then there were Five.

Five little nigger boys going in for law;

One got into Chancery and then there were Four.

Four little nigger boys going out to sea;

A red herring swallowed one and then there were Three.

Three little nigger boys walking in the Zoo;

A big bear hugged one and then there were Two.

Two little nigger boys sitting in the sun;

One got frizzled up and then there was One.

One little nigger boy left all alone;

He went out and hanged himself and then there were None.

-Agatha Christie
---


Nigger, v. To wear out, spoil or destroy.
Niggerish, adj. Acting in an indolent and irresponsible manner.
Niggerlipping, v. Wetting the end of a cigarette while smoking it.
Niggerlover, n. Derogatory term aimed at whites lacking in the necessary loathing of blacks.
Nigger luck, n. Exceptionally good luck, emphasis on undeserved.
Nigger-flicker, n. A small knife or razor with one side heavily taped to preserve the user's fingers.
Nigger heaven, n. a designated place, usually the balcony, where blacks were forced to sit, for example, in an integrated movie theater or church.
Nigger knocker, n. axe handle or weapon made from an axe handle.
Nigger rich, adj, Deeply in debt but ostentatious.
Nigger shooter, n. A slingshot.
Nigger steak, n. a slice of liver or a cheap piece of meat.
Nigger stick, n. police officer's baton.
Nigger tip, n. leaving a small tip or no tip in a restaurant.
Nigger in the woodpile, n. a concealed motive or unknown factor affecting a situation in an adverse way.
Nigger work, n. Demeaning, menial tasks.5

( http://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/caricature/ )

---

" I was working on this piece,
'cause I was sitting there...
I realize that
when I was looking at it...
Niggas is a beautiful thing.
You know?

And so it came to me.
It just came to me, you know?

Waste away your life and linger
Sittin' at home
watchin' Jerry Springer
You do blackface
and a monkeyshine
And cut a "G" at the same time
'Cause niggas
is a beautiful thang
Niggas is a beautiful thang,
hit me
Niggas is a beautiful thang

Then the audience would be
gettin' in with that.

Then it get into a gospel thing.

Stand up
If you a nigga

'Cause, you know,
it's about keeping it real.

- from Spike Lee's "Bamboozled"

( http://www.script-o-rama.com/movie_scripts/b/bamboozled-script-transcript-spike-lee.html )
---

Nas- Be a Nigga Too

( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hhp3KWMEhJU&feature=related )

Nas- N.I.G.G.E.R. (The Slave & the Master)

( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PnhIUdEqvu4&feature=related )

---

if this blog wasn't actin STANK, i would post the links... so you're gonna have to do some ole-fashioned c & p.

enjoy.

...

niggas is a beautiful thing.

the (weekly) haiku challenge

my mom's boyfriend posted this challenge to me and some other people he knows:

write a haiku every week for a year.

i figured, why the hell not. it'll help me at least write SOMETHING every week. so here was this week's submission:

"today was sunny
it was real hot so i wore
a sundress to work."

i was feeling uninspired today, lol.

...besides. it's almost 10PM. I've been at work since 9:30AM. I have at least another hour to go. What. The. Fuck.

im tired. when im not so tired i;ll write an actual entry- like a poem or a short story or something. im gonna start doing another weekly thing called "that aint cure" where i get to rant about things that arent cute. fun times. will come soon. sooo tiiireed.

peace.

who the hell was i kidding??

of course im gonna put the poem i wrote on here... err... its really cute-sy but i like it. it sounds better read aloud, i think.

about no one in particular. here goes nothing....

"horoscopes n signs n whatnot"

on one hand this might be a bad idea.

you're spewin words about suns and stars and signs
venus and mars and moons and
compatibility.

but to be honest, i'm not really hearin your words cuz
im too busy thinkin about cheesy shit, like
the stars in your eyes
or
how all the signs point to me and you and us-
and well, im not one to be swayed so easily
over words, cuz im listenin to the words
yr not sayin, you know, those soft, sweet words
that don't need to be spoken.
wow.

so this is it, huh?

that feelin i was tryin so hard to avoid, you know-
not love, cuz i dont know you that well, but
maybe, somethin else, somethin sticky and sweet,
like an overripe banana, maybe
bruised a bit, brown spots on the outside from
where you dropped it, but
mama always said that those bruised spots
are where the fruit is its sweetest.

this feels like
somethin that makes your teeth rot, but
who needs teeth when you got lips and tongues and
those unspoken words, cuz you
are enough for me, for right now, and

you got me tryin to figure out how to rearrange the stars and
moon and sky cuz
mama also told me that
love can make you do crazy things, and
heck, this aint love, but i still feel like i can do
somethin crazy.

venus and mars were lovers too, now weren't they?
he was strong
and she was sweet
and their love makin was enough to make
the moon blush and
the stars go blind with jealousy.



annnnnddd here's something that im working on but ill post it anyways. its a late bday present to myself, i guess.

i asked my mother to tell me the story of my birth and she didn't remember. i was born in philadelphia, with a midwife, she said.

i asked my father to tell me the story of my birth and he didn't remember. i was born in the cool of a july morning, but the rest of the day was hot, he said.

i asked my grandmother to ask me the story of my birth and she leaned back and i leaned forward and she whispered to me the secrets of my birth. when you were born, she said.

when you were born the ground did not shake, the sky did not shatter. the birds did not cry, the world did not stay still. people kept moving, kept living. but, oh- when you were born my heart stopped short and my ears began to ring and my eyes flooded with water, and with you. i was the first thing you saw and you were the only thing i could see because when i looked at you i was looking at myself.

and i smiled with delight and asked her to tell me more.

when you were born both of your feet curled in on themselves, like two coiled leaves. and your mother cried that you would never walk and your father cried that you would never dance and i laughed at them both because i knew that, like a flower, your body would unfurl itself and you would be tall and strong, not like a flower, but like a beautiful weed. you would grow strong and choke out anything that got in your way.

annnnnd thats all i got. im realllly stuck on this one, i might scrap it but i dunno.

i wrote a poem today and it was good.

it came out of nowhere- i was looking at a blank screen, and then went, oh! and a poem was born. i don't wanna put it on in fear that someone might read it. so i wont.

maybe one day i will.

i decided that upper caps letters are too harsh and mean.
its true, its true. they hurt. so for now i wont use them.

i wonder if the poem means anything. i wonder why i can't write what i want- just what comes to me. does that make any sense? someone reminded me of selena the singer today and i remembered how good she was. so good. its a shame. the good ones die so young.

whaddya want?

oh, god.

get outta my head.
which one to choose? i should choose myself.
get out, get out.

you were good for a poem, so thanks for that.


i am the lion and the lamb.

gender. wtf.

i don' know if this will make sense at all but i will write it anyway.

i can't wrap my mind around this whole gender thing.

i can't.

i try very hard to be proper, i don't want to offend anyone or fuck up anyone's pronouns, because to me there is nothing more embarrassing. it is not that i don't understand someone's decisions about their gender. i just don't understand gender as a thing- what is it?

is this making any sense?

when i was in senior soc, my teacher told us that we do not actually have any recollection of our memories from when we were younger- that they are probably actually a creation of our imagination pieced from stories we have been told. i wanted to tell her that she was full of shit because no one ever told me about the first time i realized i was female and i am sure ive never told anyone about the time that i realized for sure that i wasnt female.

---

i was young and wild and in jamaica. a lot of my stories start off like that, me being young and wild and in jamaica. but this story was different. i was very young, maybe three, maybe four. my cousin shelly anne and i were swinging on the gate in the entrance of the house. i dont think i can describe this gate lookswise, because to be honest, i dont remember. now, it would probably be a little higher than my navel and it was a beautiful gate, all made of iron. back then, the gate had to be my height, most likely taller, and my cousin shelly anne and i would take turns swinging back and forth on the gate, in front of the entrance to the house. no one would pay us any mind, because what could they say to us? we were young and wild and we had to learn our lessons on our own. they could only pray that we didnt have to crack our heads open to learn our lesson.

so shelly anne and i were swinging away, like usual. we would stand on the bottom of the gate, and clutch our hands around the wrought iron designs in the gate as we swung. but stupidly, we decided to ride the gate. we wanted to ride it because we were wild and crazy and stupid, so we did. i wanted to go first and have stacy push me. she wanted to go first and so she obliged and pushed me. she pushed me right off that gate and on the way down i hurt that soft spot between my legs and the pain hurt so bad that i wanted to cry. but i didnt- not then. instead, i went to the bathroom and squatted down on the toilet and i peed and it hurt. as i inspected the damage i noticed a hole that was never there before- the hole that the pee was coming out of! so i began to cry because i was broken now, because there was a hole in me and it was shelly anne's fault. and i told my aunt and anyone else that would listen and they just laughed at me and called me a silly little girl and hoped that id learn my lesson, to not play on the gate. but no one ever told me what that hole was and how to fix it so ive been broken ever since because now theres a hole where there shouldnt be one.

---

i dont remember how old i was when i jacked off for the first time. i had masturbated before but this was different, jacking off was different. i would close my eyes and i would touch my thighs and run my fingers through my pubic hair, and grab my penis with one hand, sometimes two, depending. and i would pump up and down and if you saw me doing this you would think that i was crazy, pumping the air in front of me. but it worked- it was doing something for me, because i would arch my back and sigh, and i would close my eyes real tight and i could feel it. i cold feel myself getting hard, getting real hard from all the pumping. my breath would get all quick, and my back would be so far up off my mattress, i would begin pumping into my hand like i don't know what, like i couldn't get enough of this feeling. it was like this invisible limb. i couldn't see it but it was there because i could feel it in my hand. and right before i could climax it would go away like there was this barrier between me and the pleasure that i wanted.

i dont think there is anything more frustrating than not being able to jack off properly.

i think maybe it was the shame of what i was doing. i never thought of this as a fantasy, because it wasnt- to me it was real. i was really pumping something and getting a reaction. but i got earlier and realized that this is kind o silly because i am a girl and girls dont have invisible penises that they can jerk off whenever they want. thats not normal at all.

i would assume that this is because i was a man in a past life, that it was like body memory. or that being she meant being s/he, that you are both. because you are not human when you are woman, you are goddess. and god is both male and female because s/he is whole, s/he is both, just like i am or i was or i might be. but thats very cocky of me (no pun intended) because how dare i compare myself to god, that is silly, that is blasphemous, that is such a human thing to do.
---

i am neither butch nor femme. i am neither man nor woman. then what the hell am i? i remember i cried one night when i tried to think about it. and the night after that. and by the third night i was done crying because i was all dried out and confused. what the hell am i.

i remember when i was 14 my mother was very frightened because i had not bled yet for the first time. i could care less because it seemed like such hard work, being a woman, but i wanted to experience it at least. my mom complained to my family about it, why wasnt i bleeding? what was wrong with me?

that very night i bled for the first time and i had this feeling of satisfaction but i was so humiliated that i didnt say anything because i didnt want my mother to see how womanly and vulnerable i had just become. i took some tissue and stuck it in between my legs and i went to bed although i didnt sleep at all because i was so uncomfortable. and i woke up to a wet pool of red and shame because now i had to tell my mother- there was no way getting around it now. so i did, and she smiled in her awkward mother way and said congratulations and called my father all the way in philadelphia and told him that i was a woman now. and she handed me the phone and all he said was now you can get pregnant. i told him i wont and changed the subject. no one ever mentioned my bleeding again. thank god. i only bleed once a year, if even that. i dont think i can actually get pregnant.

---

sometimes i wonder what i would look like if i didnt have big breasts. if i had no breasts. i wonder if i would look better. my mother told me today that my breasts looked smaller and i felt uncomfortable. what was i supposed to say? should i be happy or sad? i envy girls with small breasts. they can hide them if they want. they can show them off if they want. my breasts are like a neon sign. they mark me so blatantly as something woman.

a man asked me for directions one day from his car and i leaned down by his passenger window and said that i couldnt help him because i did not know. and he said in response, damn, you got some big ass titties. yeah, i guess i do. i wonder if that should make me smile or make me cry. it depends on the day. i wonder if my breasts determine my gender. am i female because of them? does that mean i should wear makeup and skirts because i have big breasts? what if they were gone- would it be okay to wear baggy jeans and polos then? can i be a woman with pearls and polos and no breasts? can i be a man in a dress and sneakers and large breasts? i don't know.

i envy people who know. people who don't question that they are male or female. who have a clear(er) idea of what that means. i don't know. i'm so confused. but i'm trying to understand- i want to understand myself, my own gender, and the gender of those that i love and know. is there an inbetween place? not a confused place, just a... grey area. and if so, do some of those inbetween people look like me?are there breasts large or small? do they call themselves male or female? do they tell people how they feel or do they keep it to themselves? are they s/hes too, like god? are they complete? or are they empty vessels- neither he nor she, with nothingness trapped between their legs?