summer lovin 2010

its been a while since i've written here. i haven't forgotten about you, dear blog. i think i will force myself to write creatively every day, in order to prepare myself for writing a play. so...

my grandmother's hands are rough and leathery, from years of hard labor. she keeps her broad nails short, and cut straight across, rather than an effeminate arch. there are two heavy rings, one on each forefinger. the ring on her right hand is a silver and gold lion with diamond eyes. she took it off her son's limp hand herself, before they buried his body in the cold, hard ground. these are not a typical woman's hands. i study all of the details of my grandmother's right hand, suspended in the air, seconds away from crashing down on my ten year old head. i look from my grandmother's hand, to her small, slanted eyes, to the eager eyes of my older cousins across the room. the two of them are trying hard not to laugh. i turn back to my grandmother, who by now has left the room, as quickly and silently as she came. i sit up from the couch, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, and ask no one in particular: why? because, my cousins answer. it's not proper for little girls to sleep in the same room with boys. go to bed. but instead, i defiantly keep myself awake, trying my hardest to be a part of their conversation. the oldest one talks about the women he's fucked. the oldest one was almost twice my age, he brags. no way! the younger cousin is impressed, but tries not to show it. you liar. it's true, he continues to brag. but what would you know of women, he chides the younger one. i bet the only pussy you've seen has been on a television screen. they soon get into a heated discussion about why women watch porn. maybe, the younger one suggests, just seeing a penis excites them. i try to chime in too. or maybe- they remember that i'm in the room and quickly change the subject. lauryn hill is crazy, huh? what's up with her new cd? i like her, i say quickly. her new cd is good. of course you would, the older one drawls. you are a woman. you all love that emotional bullshit. the younger one snickers. she is just trying to find herself, i say. as an artist. my cousin looks me straight in the eye for the first time tonight. how can she find something that is not lost? look at me, he says. if you ever think you have lost yourself, come talk to me. you are damali ayida jackson, my cousin. and you always will be. don't you ever forget it.

baby bird.

dear mommy:

do you regret that yr daughter is a fat genderqueer hipster dyke artist?

i think these are things that i am starting to like abt myself, but maybe they dont translate the way i want them to in a place like this.

for my grandmother (w.i.p)

to ms. b

this is for my grandmother,
who, as a little mixedgrrl, would
throw bricks
at the other children who
would make fun of her
chiney eyes
and coolie hair.

this is for my grandmother
whose white mother
had a colonizer's tongue and
sexual appetite, and
had to taste every
continent.

this is for my grandmother
whose own siblings
spat at her, the possibility
of her having any black blood
so unappealing to them
that they shunned and
disowned her.

this is for my grandmother
a strong jamaican woman,
who buried her first two children, and
made sure that all 6 of her remaining sons
were born black.

this is for my grandmother,
who my mother swears i resemble.
she says it is in the hunched, broad shoulders, the
wideness of my foot,
the heavy hands that often find themselves
cradling the lower part of my back.
it is in my taste for spicy foods and chilled beer,
in the shape of my mouth, and the
protective look in my eyes.

this is for my grandmother,
whose firm hands caught me
the moment i plopped out of my mother's womb,
who looked down on me, a newborn,
smiled and said, "mine."