Fourth Thursday

We aren't the same.

You are another one
who wears her heart on her kneecaps
and squeezes it to her chest
when lonely.
Taught that you are a queen by birthright
and that your kingdom has yet to be established
they told you black was beautiful
but rarely said you were, too.
Your told to trade sports for success
and wear that as your tiara,
accessorize and prioritize,
let them fight for you,
you're worth it...

And sometimes, you wonder
what scale that worth is measured on.
You wonder if the rain washed away
the accessories or even that
night-kissed skin,
would that birthright be washed
away as well.
You learned to smile through doubts,
to believe that no one feels like you feel,
to hope that there's someone out there
who make your birth feel right.

and me,
well,

Sometimes, I wonder if boys are born
with papercuts on their hearts.
A lifetime knowing they're there,
a lifetime feeling that burn,
and a lifetime searching for the right bandage.
We pound our chests to say we fear no pain,
but we don't know what to do when it bursts
and drips all over our egos.
We're told to love last and race first,
to always fight,
and when pushed against a wall,
push back,
but we're never told what to do
when everything's calm.

When thirsty, we're told to swallow our tears
and spit the salts to the ground,
to never take the same step twice
and to see your birthright, not you.
We're not supposed to love you,
we're supposed to want you.
We love it when you're graceful,
when every step is just right.
It make it prettier
when you trip
and fall right into love,
or at least us.

We aren't the same
We're two entities,
one's waiting to grow into their birthright
and the other wants their heart to heal
or at least scab over.

A-yo, people! We have a special opinion today...part one in my "stupid ish" chronicles. Anytime I see or read something stupid, I'll talk about it in one of these.

Today's stupid ish is about the whole "I'm a nice guy/girl" argument. I'll be real, I'm sick of hearing it. I recently sat through a note someone wrote on facebook talking about how hard it is to be a nice girl. I couldn't help but laugh the entire way. A note that started out with an honest beginning and some good points instantly became corrupt. It failed on two levels:
1) It assumed that every girl is a nice girl at heart
2) It assumed that every guy only says they want a nice girl as a cop out.

While I won't try and say that there isn't a shred of truth to the second point, what had hopes of being an honest note quickly became another "Diary of a Mad Black Woman" entry.

Okay, I'll admit, there are a lot of ain't-shit dudes out there. Just like there are a lot of ain't-shit women out there. That's simple. If everyone was good, then there would be no thrill to the search. But to say that all guys or all girls is one thing defeats the purpose of you being what you are in hopes that you'll get something different. If you wait your entire life for someone to prove you wrong, then you'll die right.

Also, why is it easy to say that "just because I feel bad means I'm still nice..." That argument holds no water. If you live your life hurting others, that's what you are. You can't try to rationalize your way out of a reality. That's like saying "I know I killed someone...but I feel bad about it...so I'm not a murderer..." getthufuckouttahurr

Peaces
AD

Before I begin...I have a slight crush on Angela Yee. Don't judge me, lol



So, I really like Ghost as an artist. I've bumped his work on the regular. Also, on a certain level, I can see what he's talking about. I'm just a little disturbed that we're thinking that this line of thinking is okay. I understand that there's a double standard that has existed for hundreds of years. I just think that progress is about breaking down those standards, not adhering to them.

What Ghostface did was define a woman's role by a broken system. Even when confronted with the holes in that broken system, he continued to stand by that ineffective process. Although I admire his tenacity, there comes a point where you have to accept that fact that times are changing, and part of being wise is adapting to those changing times and changing ideals. In a way, I'm disappointed in Ghostface, but I'm even more disappointed by the environment that fosters these kinds of ideals.

I would get more into this...but I'm at work...one more week for free printing, ya'll. lol

I do wanna know, however: What do you think? Are men and women equal? If no, do you think it is possible to level the playing field? Do you think inequality is necessary? Let me know!

Peaces
~AD

What do you all think? Hot or not?

"It only hurts when I lean back"

She wears that defense closer than her bruises,
Clad in purple shirts
Because that color got her the first compliment
She would receive in years.
Her hands shake,
Probably because they're used
to pushing his chest away
As he closes in,
But they steady when caressing
The hair of her kids.
She baby-sits, and treats
Each one as if it were her own,
So when money runs out,
They drink Kool-aid while
she swallows her spit,
And pretends it's red,
And she carries my knife
Because she says
"It's too rough for your grip."

She loves everyone and adores few,
And hates when that love is returned
Because every hand that fed her
Has scratched her
And she wears those scars
As plaques,
Celebrating the gain of knowledge.
They are her diplomas,
And she knows they're worth more
Than the school she attended.
She hopes for little
And when she stares at the stars,
Their light burns too bright for her eyes.
She's always one laugh away from tears.

I swear,
Every time I see her bruises
And count her scars, I wonder
How things would be for her
If I could carry her across that bridge
And show her life behind the red brick
Walls of this university.
I wonder how it would look
To see her trade that knife
For a text book
And those scars for paper cuts
And I wonder if I would have
The courage to tell her
Everything if it was
Here instead of there.

Dear Carina,

I'm sorry that I can't love you.
I'm sorry that my hands are stained
With graphite and that my mind
Paints pictures in black and white.
And that I play with words
But don't toy with hearts
Because I'm afraid to not know.
I can't heal your wounds,
I can't dry your eyes
And make life more than
Today for you.

All I can do is listen,
And not just to your stories.
I'll listen to every movement
Of your eyes and follow your interests,
I'll listen to your body and know
How to embrace you
Without remind you of him,
I'll listen to the shakes of your hands,
Convert them to a Richter scale
And figure out the epicenter,
I'll listen to every word you say
And use the letters to draw a path
Away from your home
And into your next dream.

I can't love you,
But I can't abandon you.
This is me, bandaging the scars,
And having the faith
To know that the same girl
Who loves those kids
Can love herself
Enough to let herself
Heal.

Love,
Gerald

Normally, I can count on my students
to be late
and to come wearing their smiles
under their caps.
These are the kids rejected by St. Louis,
who learn to turn their eyes
from pavement to parchment,
to write their stories in sound waves
and send them to their handcuffs.
All they want is a chance
to write at top volume,
screaming from the bottom
of their lead-tipped pencils.

Today,
their smiles were left at home,
consoling their mothers
who mourn the King of Pop.
We all sit there, silent,
me a teacher, with no prompt
and wandering thoughts
of canceling class.

One of them asks:
"Gerald, what did you think of MJ?"
I smile:
"He was the best there ever was."
Another looks at me:
"Wasn't he born in Gary?"
I cock my eyebrow:
"Yea, why do you ask?"
His eyes slide from me to his desk:
"You wouldn't know by looking at him."
I chuckle:
"I guess you're right. Can't judge a book
by its cover."

A girl named Candice,
usually quite with fingers
that pick locks and pat
her little sister on the back
before school daily,
raises her hand for the first time
this summer.

"Isn't Gary mostly Black?"
I smile:
"Yea, it's pretty Black."
Her voice softens:
"Wasn't he Black?"
I can't resist:
"It was contested.
But he's definitely Black."
She turns towards the window,
staring at the setting sun,
dying us all amber:
"I only knew Michael Jackson
as that guy that was supposed
to touch children. The guy
with the messed up hair
who couldn't decide what sex
he was or what race
he would be that day,
but when I see my mother
crying for him,
I wonder what it must have been like
to see Thriller when it first came out."

I take a deep breath,
her words heavy in my lungs:
"When you're the best,
they will beat you down."
Their eyes widen.
I continue:
"This is what it looks like.
When you're down,
this world will try
to keep you down.
It's fingers will grip your ankles,
and every time you take a step
up, it will pull you back.
Everyday,
we fight to escape gravity
and float with stars,
to never look back at the Earth
that never smiled back."

Their completely silent.
I'm completely silent.

Candace raises her hand,
damp with sweat.
"What made him different, then?"

I walk to her desk,
her eyes avoid mine:

"He made it,
but instead of trying to abandon
this world,
he tried to heal it,
so that others
from Gary,
to Detroit,
to Moscow,
to London
and to this very classroom
can make that same journey."

The sun set fully,
but I can still see amber
in their irises.

"How do we make that journey?"

I laugh:
"That's a good question.
How do you think?"
Another student begins to raise his hand.
My hand beats his:
"Don't tell me, tell your notebooks."

40 minutes pass,
their hands searching their
pages for answers,
the stars becoming visible.
and a video playing on the projector
of Michael,
dancing with his white sparkling glove.
I watch the video
but I can hear them mumbling to each other
the culmination of their poems:

"My path was paved by my family,
and I'll walk it with you on my headphones..."
"I'm tired of looking at the man in the mirror,
but I have a lot to work on..."
"My friends play my instrumentals..."
"Our paths aren't the same,
none of ours are,
but you said that 'we are not alone...'"
"Thank you for showing me that I can live
off the wall..."

and in that moment,
on the screen,
Micheal's gloved hand
stopped before his face,
twinkling
like the jewels of his crown.

We're at a barbecue.

She just turned 20, I'm a little more seasoned,
it's our first time meeting
and we're awkwardly eyeballing the ketchup,
laughing uneasily.
She's laughing because i look puzzled.
I'm laughing because she says "Catsup."

She says "It's weird when you call it 'Ketchup.'"
I say "It's kind of a 'Tomato-Tomato' type thing."
She giggles and takes the ketchup,
we look away,
she staring at her toes
and I am staring at what i want to say next.

So i stare.

and I stare.


She stares.
I glance at her.
She stares.

and I puzzle piece her in elegance,
ballrooms and I was an accessory,
augmenting but never outshining,
diamonds wrapped gold
around her fingers

and she says
"I know this sounds random,
but rings are like tiny handcuffs."
and I say,
"I know this sounds random,
but there's no keyhole for rings."

She nods,
I cock my eyebrow,
she says
"Maybe because we're never
supposed to take them off,
even if it turns our fingers
purple."

And I'm awkward,
"You look good in purple."
And she's awkward,
"I'm wearing blue."

And I wonder where I saw
her in purple before
and she wonders the same
and I wonder if this is what it's like
to dream about someone when you're awake,

And we talk about Lupe Fiasco,
because i want to see if talking about daydreams
makes me act like I'm in the present,
but instead we talk about coolness,
because our food got cold and she's a little bitter,

And she asks,
"Do you want to take a walk?"
And I ask,
"Where to?"
And she says,
"Somewhere."

And we walk,
and I realize that I'm not comfortable
following and that she walks really fast
and I remember where we are,
that these sidewalks were rain-washed
of grass clippings and blood
and that a lot of these brick walls were
reinforced with bullets
and that this is where she's from,
and she walks like there are shackles on her feet
and every step breaks those rings
and I feel guilty that I was just thinking
that her legs were so nice

She looks over he shoulder.
"Are you tired?"
"No, but a little lost."
"How can you be lost when
you're following me?"
"Touche."

And we walk, further into her neighborhood,
to a park, and she sits at a bench,
and I stand next to her
and she looks at me like she has something to say
and she says it.

"I say really awkward things."
She's correct.
"I like awkward things."
She laughs.
"We have a lot in common."

And I have to be the more awkward one.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No, I have a problem."
"Which is?"
"That i can't love someone I trust."

And I see her,
fatherless,
mother who hates men,
and she, a woman hurt before
she knew what love was.
Who never knew
that you can be in pain and pleasure
at the same time,
Who thinks that men are afraid
to let their fingers turn purple,
and

and

she stands up and kisses me on the cheek.
I look at her confused.
She says,
"I don't really trust you just yet."
I smirk,
"Touche."

And we walk back to the barbecue,
she says
"It was fun getting to know you."
and I say,
"Are we done or something?"
and she says
"What, you think we'll see each other again?"
and she laughs
so hard that tears fall
from her closed eyes.