The words from the poets' mouths were entertaining. As a reader, as a writer, I've heard those words, thoughts before just in different combinations. It is the combination of the right words that makes a writer or a poet. The energy, the force, the gestures, the presence, the confidence and finally the nervous energy of the poets were all inspiring and enjoyable as I sat silently and took them in.
The words on the wall at Busboys and Poets were magnetic. Words in the air evaporate. Words on the page, in ink exist with strength in a way that spoken word lacks. But these writers share their words and themselves with an audience with reckless abandon and joy. They are saints.
The words of Dr. Mohammad Mossagegh on the writer-activist mural above my head as I watched the poets share their spirits, spoke to my soul: "If I sit silently, I have sinned."
I sit silently thinking about writing, thinking about teaching, thinking about beating some up with my wisdom, sharing my hard-earned lessons. I sit silently about friendships lost and gardens untended. I sit silently with words piling up, writing and rearranging themselves in my head. I sit silently processing, over-thinking, mourning, fearing, yearning, searching, weeping, loving...sinning.
I can no longer sit silently.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
On memories...
I tear up listening to Luther Vandross' "Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby..." because it reminds me of an old love from college who didn't seem to remember a lot of what he said including how much he loved me. I tear up not over the loss of that old college love but over the strength of those memories of the love, loss and tears that I experienced many moons ago...I tear up because the song reminds me of all those feelings I once had. There's beauty in being able to remember what once was and how intensely I felt the joy and pain of that love that a song can cause it to flood my memory and find its way into my tear ducts.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
On expensive tea
Last weekend I walked past Teavana and was lulled in by tea sales associates peddling their wares via the tiniest samples ever. I usually taste and walk around the store and walk out because their tea is so pricey. But, I noted to myself that I would quickly purchase these expensive fragrant leaves for a friend and that it was time to treat myself the way I wanted to be treated.
I was worth insane amounts of money of tea leaves. The fast talking tea peddler almost sold me with "10%-off-if-you-buy-a-pound-we-can-do-eight-ounces-of-each." I was like, "yes, I love a discount." But then I did some very slow mental math and 2 oz. for the chai was $10 and for the energy booster $8 ; I love myself, but I can't spend that kind of money on tea. I wanted a cup of their hot tea to go, but refused to spend $5 on a cup of hot tea. I happily walked away with 4 ounces total for a little less than $20. I happily walked away proud of me for treating me how I want to be treated.
Then I walked my happy behind to Starbucks for a cup of $2 hot tea.
I was worth insane amounts of money of tea leaves. The fast talking tea peddler almost sold me with "10%-off-if-you-buy-a-pound-we-can-do-eight-ounces-of-each." I was like, "yes, I love a discount." But then I did some very slow mental math and 2 oz. for the chai was $10 and for the energy booster $8 ; I love myself, but I can't spend that kind of money on tea. I wanted a cup of their hot tea to go, but refused to spend $5 on a cup of hot tea. I happily walked away with 4 ounces total for a little less than $20. I happily walked away proud of me for treating me how I want to be treated.
Then I walked my happy behind to Starbucks for a cup of $2 hot tea.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
On bottling these moments
So often I want to bottle these tender moments with my son to put on a shelf to experience later. I want to take enumerable pictures and record each moment and write down every feeling.
Today, this two year old went upstairs on his own, climbed onto the adult, 16" toilet and made a bowel movement, and then persisted to wipe himself. I was so thrilled and he knew it. He said, "look boo boo" along with a great look of accomplishment.
This afternoon, we painted together, but then he kept messing up my artistic work. So, I decided I would read The Washington Post Mag and watch him paint. He wasn't having that; he handed me the paintbrush and said, "paint, paint." I was obedient because clearly he needed me to be fully present and clearly I needed to be fully present for myself as well.
This evening, I watched him "read" from a few books and I tiptoed away to let him entertain himself. He often seems to need attention and I desperately want to foster a sense of independence. He read a few books before coming to find me. I said go get me a book to read. He said, "c'mon" and motioned for me to come to him. He was not leaving my room without me.
He then got some lotion from my desk and I teased him and made him laugh so hard that he backed into the bed and hit the floor and continued to just laugh the happiest, purest laugh. He warms my heart.
His independence shone through as he refused two books and was happy to read the third suggestion. We followed with a few more and then sang, "He's got the whole world in his hands." He sang a few lines on his own. I kissed him and said, "good night, baby." He replied as clear as day, "good night mama." My heart melted again.
A good friend said we try to "collect" their childhoods and in so doing we fail to be fully present. I do genuinely wish I could save these moments for later. The tenderness and beauty is unmatched by anything I have ever experienced. I know that I can best honor these moments, by enjoying this little person daily.
Today, this two year old went upstairs on his own, climbed onto the adult, 16" toilet and made a bowel movement, and then persisted to wipe himself. I was so thrilled and he knew it. He said, "look boo boo" along with a great look of accomplishment.
This afternoon, we painted together, but then he kept messing up my artistic work. So, I decided I would read The Washington Post Mag and watch him paint. He wasn't having that; he handed me the paintbrush and said, "paint, paint." I was obedient because clearly he needed me to be fully present and clearly I needed to be fully present for myself as well.
This evening, I watched him "read" from a few books and I tiptoed away to let him entertain himself. He often seems to need attention and I desperately want to foster a sense of independence. He read a few books before coming to find me. I said go get me a book to read. He said, "c'mon" and motioned for me to come to him. He was not leaving my room without me.
He then got some lotion from my desk and I teased him and made him laugh so hard that he backed into the bed and hit the floor and continued to just laugh the happiest, purest laugh. He warms my heart.
His independence shone through as he refused two books and was happy to read the third suggestion. We followed with a few more and then sang, "He's got the whole world in his hands." He sang a few lines on his own. I kissed him and said, "good night, baby." He replied as clear as day, "good night mama." My heart melted again.
A good friend said we try to "collect" their childhoods and in so doing we fail to be fully present. I do genuinely wish I could save these moments for later. The tenderness and beauty is unmatched by anything I have ever experienced. I know that I can best honor these moments, by enjoying this little person daily.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
On my birthday
There is a magnificent tree that I pass as I pull onto my street after entering my neighborhood. The sun, rain and air tiptoe on the edges of the leaves creeping towards each leaf's stem. Daily, the tree changes as I drive home. Until one day, it is clothed in full majesty snatching the breath of its witnesses.
Year after year, for the last six years, as my life has changed dramatically with comings and goings, as I have aged, changed and become more myself, the tree lets me know fall is coming, it is here, and then way too quickly, it has passed. Without fail, the tree does its dance routine before my eyes, inviting me to watch and enjoy.
I have spent a lot of time watching and enjoying my own children and on some days my students. I enjoy watching various children (friends, cousins, neighbors) in my life learn new words, speak more clearly, learn to ride a bike, sprout up and dance into themselves. I have watched friends and family conquer challenges and pursue their goals, choose sadness, anger, happiness or joy.
The tree has spoken to me this year in a sing-song voice: As the seasons cycle through as they do every year, change is occurring ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. If you choose to slow down as you hurry through, you can see the slightest difference within yourself as I mirror the passage of time, the change to vibrancy. If you choose to see yourself with the same awe and majesty in which you see me, this simple tree, you will see your own beauty and power. If you watch how people view and remember you, you can begin to treat yourself with loving kindness and compassion. Write out your life, stretch out your arms to the sky, embrace the divine within and watch yourself become amazing.
Year after year, for the last six years, as my life has changed dramatically with comings and goings, as I have aged, changed and become more myself, the tree lets me know fall is coming, it is here, and then way too quickly, it has passed. Without fail, the tree does its dance routine before my eyes, inviting me to watch and enjoy.
I have spent a lot of time watching and enjoying my own children and on some days my students. I enjoy watching various children (friends, cousins, neighbors) in my life learn new words, speak more clearly, learn to ride a bike, sprout up and dance into themselves. I have watched friends and family conquer challenges and pursue their goals, choose sadness, anger, happiness or joy.
The tree has spoken to me this year in a sing-song voice: As the seasons cycle through as they do every year, change is occurring ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. If you choose to slow down as you hurry through, you can see the slightest difference within yourself as I mirror the passage of time, the change to vibrancy. If you choose to see yourself with the same awe and majesty in which you see me, this simple tree, you will see your own beauty and power. If you watch how people view and remember you, you can begin to treat yourself with loving kindness and compassion. Write out your life, stretch out your arms to the sky, embrace the divine within and watch yourself become amazing.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
On holding onto binders
I found two binders that I had shoved under my bed. The maroon one held my college days with one of the best professors I ever had. I grew as a writer with him and through my column with the Xavier Herald. I had a confidence during those years, that I have never had since. Reading my work and specifically my professor's comments brought tears to my eyes.
A few brief passages from a paper I wrote and read in class from that spring of 1998, "Not Having Anything to Say:"
"Many famous writers explore and explain the reasons behind their artistry in their work. One such writer Joan Didion,("Why I Write,") explains that a writer spends his or her most important hours doing what he or she loves: writing. Most often, I write from my heart, I try to write what my heart is telling me. But just because arranging words strategically on paper is something I love does not mean that I'm good at it. Didion's essay is telling me I do not have to be good or an "intellectual," because writing in its truest form is not about anyone else but me.
...
I do not try to be the bully that Didion claims writers become. I have no desire to manipulate anyone's thinking, shed a little light, well yeah, but manipulate, no. I just use the Herald as a vehicle to do what I love: write. But I do not want to write for the sake of writing, I want to write something that will be read. If I am the only one who thinks that I am saying "something" and in turn am publishing "something" not being read, then in actuality I am saying nothing.
...
This past weekend I called my mother and asked her opinion on my column; it was due in two hours. She told me not to write the column. All I could think was not write my column, the last paper of the year and not write my column. My mother told me that it was better not to write anything than write something that said very little or nothing at all. Troubled, I turned off my computer and did not write. For the first time I didn't write because I didn't have anything to say. I did not write and I felt good about it."
Looking back at my words from thirteen years ago reminded me of me. I've kind of lost that girl in some ways. I wish I could talk to her and tell her to avoid the pitfalls and stay secure and confident. I like what I read. In class, my professor said he watched my classmates nod and sit with rapt attention as I read. He wrote on my written version, "Yvette, I enjoyed reading this essay. It has a wonderful voice. It reaches readers with a modest grace, thoughtfulness and wisdom. You write very well because you're sensitive, observant, self-critical, skillful with language and smart. Keep on!"
I teared up thinking this older white man thought this way about this 20 year old black girl's writing. I didn't know that all of these amazing adjectives could describe me and my writing. He persuaded me to go to graduate school and pursue a PhD. And I did for five years or so. But it wasn't me. I'm not an intellectual; I'm a writer with a big heart, who lost herself.
I wonder if I had listened to Didion and myself where I would be now. At the same time, I know that all those challenges and triumphs came from listening to other people for a good portion of my life. Listening to others has helped me and hindered me in many ways. Maybe, I didn't lose myself, but took a much needed detour on cobblestone roads with bare feet in order to keep building myself.
The second binder was blue and dusty. The papers, from grad school, contained memories of someone I couldn't recognize. I took a class on Transnationalism in African-American Literature in 2003 and read complex scholarly articles like "Essence and the Mulatto Traveler: Europe As Embodiment in Nella Larsen's Quicksand." I kept this binder with articles and presentation notes from two really great classes while at University of Maryland. I even kept the program from a conference I participated in on African American Identity Travels.
My memories of grad school include never quite belonging and never feeling smart enough to be there. I'm shocked that I could even stand in front of big name scholars and read my paper on expatriation and transnationalism. She (the girl reading that paper) wasn't me, which is why she/I didn't go on to write a dissertation. I'm surprised I held onto those papers for so long. I easily threw away most of the articles, though I kept a few. I'm not sure what I'm holding onto as I slide them into the binder full of good memories from Xavier and my publishing days.
I don't know why we hold fiercely to the negative moments of our lives and allow the images of amazing moments to fade. Why do the hurtful memories, harsh words, brutal pain tether us to insecurity, anxiety and fear? Why when we throw out the tangible representations of those moments can't all the intangible feelings be drained from our being as well. I don't understand why I've listened to others' opinions of me or why I've allowed negativity to overtake me in exchange for embracing the amazing parts of me.
One binder is leaving this house and I'm going to work at getting rid of what it represents as well.
A few brief passages from a paper I wrote and read in class from that spring of 1998, "Not Having Anything to Say:"
"Many famous writers explore and explain the reasons behind their artistry in their work. One such writer Joan Didion,("Why I Write,") explains that a writer spends his or her most important hours doing what he or she loves: writing. Most often, I write from my heart, I try to write what my heart is telling me. But just because arranging words strategically on paper is something I love does not mean that I'm good at it. Didion's essay is telling me I do not have to be good or an "intellectual," because writing in its truest form is not about anyone else but me.
...
I do not try to be the bully that Didion claims writers become. I have no desire to manipulate anyone's thinking, shed a little light, well yeah, but manipulate, no. I just use the Herald as a vehicle to do what I love: write. But I do not want to write for the sake of writing, I want to write something that will be read. If I am the only one who thinks that I am saying "something" and in turn am publishing "something" not being read, then in actuality I am saying nothing.
...
This past weekend I called my mother and asked her opinion on my column; it was due in two hours. She told me not to write the column. All I could think was not write my column, the last paper of the year and not write my column. My mother told me that it was better not to write anything than write something that said very little or nothing at all. Troubled, I turned off my computer and did not write. For the first time I didn't write because I didn't have anything to say. I did not write and I felt good about it."
Looking back at my words from thirteen years ago reminded me of me. I've kind of lost that girl in some ways. I wish I could talk to her and tell her to avoid the pitfalls and stay secure and confident. I like what I read. In class, my professor said he watched my classmates nod and sit with rapt attention as I read. He wrote on my written version, "Yvette, I enjoyed reading this essay. It has a wonderful voice. It reaches readers with a modest grace, thoughtfulness and wisdom. You write very well because you're sensitive, observant, self-critical, skillful with language and smart. Keep on!"
I teared up thinking this older white man thought this way about this 20 year old black girl's writing. I didn't know that all of these amazing adjectives could describe me and my writing. He persuaded me to go to graduate school and pursue a PhD. And I did for five years or so. But it wasn't me. I'm not an intellectual; I'm a writer with a big heart, who lost herself.
I wonder if I had listened to Didion and myself where I would be now. At the same time, I know that all those challenges and triumphs came from listening to other people for a good portion of my life. Listening to others has helped me and hindered me in many ways. Maybe, I didn't lose myself, but took a much needed detour on cobblestone roads with bare feet in order to keep building myself.
The second binder was blue and dusty. The papers, from grad school, contained memories of someone I couldn't recognize. I took a class on Transnationalism in African-American Literature in 2003 and read complex scholarly articles like "Essence and the Mulatto Traveler: Europe As Embodiment in Nella Larsen's Quicksand." I kept this binder with articles and presentation notes from two really great classes while at University of Maryland. I even kept the program from a conference I participated in on African American Identity Travels.
My memories of grad school include never quite belonging and never feeling smart enough to be there. I'm shocked that I could even stand in front of big name scholars and read my paper on expatriation and transnationalism. She (the girl reading that paper) wasn't me, which is why she/I didn't go on to write a dissertation. I'm surprised I held onto those papers for so long. I easily threw away most of the articles, though I kept a few. I'm not sure what I'm holding onto as I slide them into the binder full of good memories from Xavier and my publishing days.
I don't know why we hold fiercely to the negative moments of our lives and allow the images of amazing moments to fade. Why do the hurtful memories, harsh words, brutal pain tether us to insecurity, anxiety and fear? Why when we throw out the tangible representations of those moments can't all the intangible feelings be drained from our being as well. I don't understand why I've listened to others' opinions of me or why I've allowed negativity to overtake me in exchange for embracing the amazing parts of me.
One binder is leaving this house and I'm going to work at getting rid of what it represents as well.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
On Envying Tatum (the short version)
I’m a little jealous of Tatum O’neal. She has this golden opportunity to try and get it right with her father. It’s impossible to tell how much is for the camera, her new book, their careers and how much is truly authentic. But the audience knows Ryan and Tatum have had a troubled past and now they are together talking. Maybe they are understanding one another, listening to each others' stories, hearing each others' pain. I sense that from them when I watch them dance a very complicated ungraceful father-daughter waltz.
My dad and I never really talked. So, I try to tell my students, my friends, whomever, to forgive and understand that their parents (loved ones) are doing the best they can. I try to tell my story as a way to get people to see that in an instance all those opportunities can morph into regret. Forgive. You may never understand.
I remember sitting at dinner or lunch with my dad, just sitting. Trying desperately to make conversation, yet few words would pass between us. It was challenging to come home from college and make a lunch date with him. We went to O’Charley’s or Ruby Tuesday and ate and said a few words and he took me back home. So much was left unsaid and unheard.
I think maybe he let himself leave this earth so early because he had reached an important apex in life. Much like that episode of Seinfeld, where George Costanza says, “I knew I had hit my high note so I thanked the crowd and I was gone.”
Yet, beautiful blond Tatum who is writing a book for the world to hear her story has this opportunity to understand her father, for him to see her and to build a relationship with him. Ryan hasn’t quite hit his high note. He’s sarcastic. He’s still here.
My dad and I never really talked. So, I try to tell my students, my friends, whomever, to forgive and understand that their parents (loved ones) are doing the best they can. I try to tell my story as a way to get people to see that in an instance all those opportunities can morph into regret. Forgive. You may never understand.
I remember sitting at dinner or lunch with my dad, just sitting. Trying desperately to make conversation, yet few words would pass between us. It was challenging to come home from college and make a lunch date with him. We went to O’Charley’s or Ruby Tuesday and ate and said a few words and he took me back home. So much was left unsaid and unheard.
I think maybe he let himself leave this earth so early because he had reached an important apex in life. Much like that episode of Seinfeld, where George Costanza says, “I knew I had hit my high note so I thanked the crowd and I was gone.”
Yet, beautiful blond Tatum who is writing a book for the world to hear her story has this opportunity to understand her father, for him to see her and to build a relationship with him. Ryan hasn’t quite hit his high note. He’s sarcastic. He’s still here.
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