Sins of the Father

You're 6 when you realize that your father doesn't have a normal job. Yes, you know that "we" own a record store, but you also observe that not everyone who comes into the record store actually buys any music. You are that kind of kid, observant, watchful… Nosey. So you watch as money exchanges hands with no records sold. Yet, those customers run gleefully out the door as if they were just given the new Michael Jackson album for free.

You're also 6 when you are awakened in the middle of the night. Indiscernible words from voices that are clearly recognizable.

 "Call 911!"

"Man, are you crazy? All this coke in here."

"Yo! He's seizing; he could die, man."

"We gotta hide this coke first."

You instinctively know not to come out of your room, not even to use the bathroom. So you lay awake all night trying, unsuccessfully, not to wet your bed while contemplating why the police will be mad that there is coke-a-cola in your house. You finally conclude that this must be why you are not allowed to drink coke: it's bad for you and the police don't like it. But why do they sell it in the stores? It takes another two years when you realize the difference between coke and 'coke'. Still too young to be distinguishing between the two.

At age 10 it dawns on you that none of your friends have thousands of one dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands hidden in the bottom of their closets. That's where their shoes are stored; not under their beds like yours. None of them get their lunch money from bundles of cash hidden in their room. They get checks made out to the school in beautifully written cursive. If they do get cash, it's a twenty from mom's purse or dad's wallet. And they don't get sideways glances from the judgmental lunch ladies who always give you one of two looks as you pay: disgust or pity.

Without the explicit explanation of what 'this' is, you're constantly told that "all of this is for you, my children that I love so much". You carry this with you. As you grow, you slowly understand the implications of “this”. In some ways your very existence has caused the, once beautiful, teacher and mother of three across the street her family, job, and looks. At 12, you feel responsible for the loss of her livelihood.

At age 15, you begin to wonder if every drug addict you see in your, now rundown, neighborhood is supplied by the same man who used to spend his time passing out milk to your friends in elementary school. This is not the neighborhood of your childhood.

You're 17 when your entire world changes as your father is taken from you. While you know he is guilty as sin, you still hope, pray and beg that he will be coming home soon. That somehow the last 15 years of your life has been someone else's. That it is not your father in that orange jumpsuit sitting across from you in the crowded visiting room of the county jail. That is not your father. Your father would never make you a fatherless child. Never make you a fatherless daughter. Never make you a statistic. But he has.

Although you are not the one who committed the crime you are embarrassed.  You dread that in inevitable question that always comes whenever you let someone in close: where is your father? There's always a pause while you search for the courage to answer truthfully. And in those quickly passing moments, the look in your companions’ eyes always gives away their fear of having asked the wrong question. Maybe he died... maybe she doesn't know where he is. Sometimes you think it may be better to answer this way. You never do. You realize that you are, nonetheless, ashamed. You are 22.

At 26, you now have three children. The idea of ever doing anything that would separate them from you is unimaginable. Yet, you now know that you will do whatever it takes to keep them fed, clothed, safe, and even a little spoiled. And as that third child, a son, is born, you begin to ponder what his life will be. How hard will it be? Because you know that simply due to the fact that his mama is black and his daddy is Mexican, his life will be so much harder than others. What will he have to do to survive? To care for his family? You vow to never let history repeat itself.

So what exactly do you do when you know the father you adore so much helped to destroy the neighborhood, culture, the life that you loved? It isn't until you are 30 that you realize that you have to love him anyway, especially in those times you find yourself hating what he did the most. You must remember that the sins of the father are not your own.

Lessons (FOH)

Well Hello,

It's been awhile since I've heard from you.

You know, that day when you left me wondering "is he going to call? When will he text me back?"  

It'll be tomorrow.

Yeah, tomorrow.

But tomorrow became tomorrow, and then tomorrow.

And those tomorrows became next week, then next month, then never.

Well apparently, never became today! 

Some 2 years after the last time we spoke.

You remember that last conversation that ended with "Baby, I love you". 

So how can I help you, today?

Ohhh, you've been thing about me, have you?

Tell me were you thinking about the nights I spent crumpled on the floor of my shower where the never-ending flow of tears and cascading water intermingled becoming my feeble attempt to wash away the pain from the outside-in.

Were you even aware that you had affected the very core of my being? That you had me second guessing my own intuition. 

cause how could that which has never led me astray lead me to you to incur such unimaginable pain? 

How could it have failed me so? 

Could you even fathom that you made me wonder if I could ever trust ME again?

Oh Yeah? You've been thinking about me? wondering how I'm doing?

Well,let me satisfy your curiosity--- can't you see?

I'm glowing from the inside out.

Igniting a fire so bright that trying to get next to me again will burn you. Your ego will be crushed and your F-boy pride too. 

Cause without you, my blessings have become infinite.

My skin is clearer and my hair is fuller

I've lost weight and gained it back in all the right places.

HELL, even my butt has gotten a little bigger.

So Tell me, did you ever think that I would have come out of the darkness completely whole?

Knowing who I am, what I want, and what I deserve?

No longer willing to bend to your little girl mold?

Cause you see, I picked myself up a and dusted myself off

I wiped my tears and I fed my soul

With knowledge that I am still whole without you. Hell I was always whole with you, giving of myself wholly, while you were only giving half of you. 

You were always only half. You were my other half; but not my better half. 

If there"ain't no such thing as halfway crooks", then why would you think halfway love is acceptable? 

Promises to write your love on my heart, but only wrote half the book.

Standing there smugly, but I won't give you the satisfaction of even half a look.

Now who's shook?

Oh Yeah, I know. You've been thinking about me.

Well you can stop, cause now you know

That naive girl is now the woman of your dreams.

So the next time you think of me

Sit back, roll up and puff on that "L" you took when you let me go.

Believe me, I've been through worse than you and this heartache did not break me.

I've never been a better version of myself, never more true

I've never been more confidant, braver, or stronger 

So I bet you didn't think that I'd end up saying... Thank You!

Untitled

He is kind of an asshole; yet, as deep as the San Andrea's fault.

Yeah... he's intriguing that way.

He's the one that your mama warns you about, and your daddy bought the shotgun for.
The sun and everything it illuminates revolves around him, defying scientific law.
The confidence in his stride commands attention, leaving a string of broken hearts in his trail.

It just takes one look from him, and instantly you're gone.

Lost in the abyss of a million what ifs, and those possible forevers that deep down you know gonna turn into nevers.
But you don't think about the nevers; you're thinking about today. Craving the right nows; those butterflies that swim in your stomach when he catches your glance.
You know it's not worth it, that you should keep moving.

But hey, that little voice inside of you says, "What that hell? Take that chance."

‘Cause when you're together it's like magic.
No, It's better than magic, it's kismet.
No one else in the world exist as you sit and talk about everything that's important and nothing at all at the same time.
There is nothing or no one to interrupt, for once your mind isn't wandering or racing... You're in the moment... He is in the moment.

Until that moment has passed, and you're reminded that you're the last
thing on his mind, until the next time he needs an ear to be lent, a will to be bent, someone to entertain for the moment.
Then you're waiting for the next time to revel in, to hold on to, and to carry you to that next moment, and the one after that, and the one after that.
You know there will be more
‘Cause like you said, he IS an asshole.
But man, are you intrigued

Drunk

 I was intoxicated at the word "hello".
 My every intention was to resist.
 To never drink you in. To never let you pass my lips.
 But, oh, look at me now.: succumbing to my addiction.
 Simultaneously, you are the cure and the affliction.
 I'm Drowning in a glass of you.

Tracing the lines of you mouth as I drink from your cup.
Your touch, the touch of intention.
Your skin warm against mine.
Like 100 volcanoes ready to erupt.

Can I get a refill of what your serving?
One taste could never be enough
I want to be consumed by you, be taken over.
Guide me with your inner light.
Shine so bright that I'm blinded by your aura.

Teach my body to respond only to your look, your touch, your kiss.
Wash over me.
Cleanse me with your caresses.
Give me new life with every touch of your lips.

I'm filled to the brim with desire.
A thirst that can only be quenched by multiple glasses of you.
Wait, did I say glasses?
Fuck that, this addiction calls for bottles.
Fill my wine cellar with multiple.
This affliction does not require rehab, simply a lifetime of inebriation.

Anomaly

"Your so pretty- you know, for a black girl."

"Your so articulate and astute-considering."

"I mean, I don't really consider you black."

"I'm just saying you're not the "typical" black girl!"

Really? How do you expect me to respond to that?

Do you really anticipate a thank you?

I mean, You say these words like you're paying me a compliment; like I'm supposed to be grateful that I don't fit a stereotype that society has spoon-fed you about black women.

Am I supposed to be flattered amidst your back handed admiration?

Am I supposed to feel gracious that despite my blackness you've found something in me worth your attention?

Well, let me tell you that I am not, and I don't.

Your compliments say more about your lack of appreciation for the array of complexities that is the black woman than your regard for my beauty or intelligence.

You comment on my full lips, my high cheekbones, how "good I look for my age", how naturally I possess these attributes that others pay money for, or use make up tricks to achieve.

"Must be luck, or at least good genes."

Look around you, "black don't crack",

Despite the weight of the world we carry on my backs.

My attractiveness, my intellect , my charisma, my magic is not in spite of my blackness; I assure you that it is because of it.

Being a black child in America meant studying extra hours learning "American history", as well as our own.

Cause Lord knows there were gaps and I wasn't going to find the answers in the district approved textbooks.

It meant learning your literary canon on school time, and on mine discovering that for every Hawthorne there is a Wheatley, for every Hemingway and Whitman there is a Hurston and a Hughes.

Being a black woman in America means working harder than our peers because our intellectual competence just may be second-guessed.

It means being comfortable and confident in your own skin despite mainstream society pointing out all the reasons that you shouldn't.

It means teaching our daughters to do all of these things whilst not dropping their crowns.

I stand next to millions just like me, black women world wide

We dispel your stereotypes

proving that the beautiful, intelligent, articulate, educated black women in not a myth.

I am not some anomaly.

I stand here and tell you that we are reality.

Bleeding Heart

History does not make my heart swell with pride

My heart bleeds history

With every lesson learned a cut has been made

It's no wonder that I'm bleeding out

Ready to give up on this country

that has given up on my people, my brothers, my sons.

But, this is nothing new

We've seen this before

2016 is looking like more 1916 except

nooses have been traded in for guns

And the strange fruit that once hung from the trees

Is now hunted down, shot and left to bleed out on the streets

The tactics have changed. But the results remain the same.

Someone's son, father, husband (maybe all three) will have died in vain.

My heart bleeds a history that band-aids cannot heal.

And still, for every cut, there is a makeshift bandage:

Tamir, Trayvon, Alston, Philando

Blood continues to soak through

Every other day there is a new name to engrave

Another person's memory to save

I carry these names on my bleeding heart

This mother of sons who are black and brown

cannot help but beg when I pray that

there isn't a bandage that will read Taj or Joaquin someday.

 

Tell Me

Tell me what to say to convince you that you matter?

Tell me, how do I convey to you that your voice belongs despite the collective transgressions of this country that may have you believing otherwise?

Please tell me, how do I look you in your eye and say, "You are needed here.You are wanted here" regardless of your race, ethnicity, gender, or religion when the rhetoric of this nation's leaders expresses the contrary?
 
I am simply a teacher...