Red Summer's Blog

No Explanation Necessary: Trigger Alert

I think I was a junior in high school. I was asked by my neighbor to babysit her and her sister’s kids so they could go out. At some point, the sister’s boyfriend came to the house. He said he was coming to check on the kids. They were all asleep. He stayed. Wanted to talk. He was grown and huge, I was a kid and small. What did we have to talk about? Why was he there? Why wouldn’t he leave?

Eventually, he started telling me how pretty I was and that he was going to have sex with me. I had been through this before. I had been so pretty that I didn’t have a say in whether or not I was going to have sex. This time, I got up the strength to ask if he would wear a condom. He did. When he was done, I left and was so shaken and trying so hard to pull myself together that I didn’t realize I had left those children alone with a rapist. I was so afraid for them that I never really addressed what happened to me.

A few days later, I was confronted by the sister. I fucked her man. I was a little slut. I was all kinds of things. I listened through the yelling for clues if anything had happened to the children. From what I could tell, they hadn’t been harmed. I was happy about that. She wanted to fight me. Told me that if I wasn’t such a tiny kid, she would have beat my ass. I didn’t defend myself from her attack, I didn’t try to explain. I didn’t need to or want to. I didn’t care what she thought. I knew the truth. Sometimes, that’s all that matters. Sometimes, that will be all you have.

Who am I not…?

I’m expected to know who I am. I’m much too old to still be trying to figure it out. But I don’t. Not in a tangible sense. I am saddled with the sense of obligation to have a defined identity, But more than a list of I am’s… I have of a list of who I am not’s.

I did grow up studying Islam, it is the religion of my father. But, I don’t fit in it. I’m not a Muslim woman. At least, not in the way I’m told a Muslim woman should be. In my travels, I’ve met all kinds of Muslim women, so I know that this is not a monolithic animal with one mind and one experience… but I’m not even sure that I believe what I was taught to believe anymore. Your faith system does determine your religion, doesn’t it? Well, since I don’t believe in the regimented, predisposed, monitored, judged and punished system that is allowed to live within the confines of Islam, I feel like I love Allah… but I am definitely not a Muslim.

Ever since I was a small child, I have been groomed in my blackness. Moreso than my blackness, my Africanness… if that is a word. I was taught that I was an African and I believed it wholeheartedly. My mother showed my pictures of women in the National Geographic and made a point to instill in me how beautiful they were. How artistic their hairstyles were. How deep and dark and amazing their chocolate skin was. How amazing their intricate garments were. How free they were to be able to be garmentless in their community. I was an African until I had a daughter and wanted to allow her to stay at a boarding school in Senegal. My mother was outraged. I could NOT leave her granddaughter in Africa alone. “THOSE PEOPLE hate little girls. She will be forced into marriage to a stranger. She will have her clitoris cut off and be sewn up down there. She will be trafficked as a sex slave and sold as a personal pet. Girls are not valued in Africa.” Well, wait a minute. I thought these were my beautiful people. Descendants of my majestic ancestors who knew the ancient secrets of civilization. Why would they not value the life and body of an African girl? Had she been selling me a dream all along? An over-romanticized notion of this far-off land that was nothing like the reality that girls are really living with when they are poor and black and lacking value in a society that sees them as only objects to be traded and controlled? Well, I am black. That is for sure… but I am definitely not an African.

I had never said the phrase “I am an American” until I was abroad. I had never seen myself as such. I was black, I was African American maybe, but not American outright. I was a poor black girl, from the projects on the South Side of Chicago. My mother was in and out of housing, my father was in and out of jail. I was bussed to schools where I was either too black or too white or too light or too skinny or too something to be left alone. I was always keenly aware that the American Dream was a myth that did not include me. So I was not to be lulled into a false sense of acceptance. I will never be a part of the mainstream. So having to identify myself as apart from the people of color in the diaspora and being left with only the option of American, took some time to get used to. I was born in East St. Louis, Illinois. So were my parents. I was born in America and I have always lived here… but I am definitely not an American.

Even holding on to this notion of gender is troublesome at times. When I was married, I was expected to want certain things… like a husband and children. I had them, but I didn’t feel adequately defined by my service to them. I wasn’t excited to rattle off the many activities I had to escort my children to. I wasn’t excited about refining my domestic duties. I wasn’t allowed to cook dinners for other ministers who were visiting my husband on their travels. The other women in the mosque came over and made sure that we were not embarrassed by having me be responsible for such tasks. I could talk. I could write. I was smart. I wanted an opportunity to give a lecture like the ones I had heard on tapes from the one female minister I had heard of at the time. I prepared a lecture. It was sound, it was grounded, it went over pretty well. I wasn’t allowed back on the podium again. Not that my information was bad or incorrect or anything of that nature. The leadership (my husband and his homeboys) decided that I could talk and teach among the sisters, but that the lecture tasks should not be handled by a woman. Why? What’s wrong with being a woman? Why can’t a woman handle this job? It’s not labor intensive… as a matter of fact… I had a baby, I could handle intense labor. So, why was I not fit to lead…? Because I am a woman. Why was I targeted and attacked and forced into a position of service then ridiculed for not accepting my role? Because I am a woman. I am SUPPOSED to want, be, do, say and accept certain things that I just don’t. And if I don’t, where does that leave me. According to the standard, I am female… but I am definitely not a woman.

So, who am I? As I get to this long in my list of nots, I want to say that I am just love. Just the essence of giving and sharing joy. But, the people who have loved me have not felt secure in my arms. I am too much, or not enough. I am overlooked or overwhelmed. I have not known a love that did not burn and leave scars. I have not known a relationship that was not littered in pain. How can I be defined by such an abstracted version of a non-reality? Or such a visceral version of absolute existence? I have not even allowed myself to be loved by the ones who were willing to try. So, that cannot be the totality of me. I have to be something else. I have the capacity to love. I have the desire to love. I have developed skills in managing and surviving love. I am most certainly loving… but I am definitely not love.

There should be an end to this. A revelation of some sort. But, I am a work in progress, I have a lot figured out… but I am definitely not done.

What I Know for Sure… Saying Nothing Says Everything

I used to be a spoken word artist. When I was, I would write these lengthy poems designed for recitation. They would be 3-4 minutes long and they would explore all that I could think to say on a topic. In grad school (the first time), I started writing for the page and experimenting with silence. Writing for the page required me to say all that I needed to say with the least amount of words and silence work required me to say all that I needed to say with no words at all.

I guess my life has been imitating my art lately. It has become full of elongated silences and pregnant pauses. It also has moved me to speak only when I have just the point I want to make and conserve my words for their proper use. When I try to thoroughly explain things now, I feel like I’m overdoing something and I inevitably settle back into my silence. There are people who I don’t talk to for months or years and that empty space is filled with nothing but love. Then there can be a person that I don’t speak to for 7 minutes because inside that space is the rage of a thousand demons that would surely burn them to ash if I part my lips. Two very different and telling experiences.

What I know for sure… Saying nothing can say everything. Once I released myself from the burden of being liked, I didn’t need to explain everything so profusely. In the silence, is everything I want to say on the matter. It is what I’m willing to do about it. It is all the effort I’m willing to give to it. It is all that I have left. My silences to others and their silences toward me have said so much more than any words we could have ever spoken.

What I Know for Sure… Misery loves Misery

I have some amazing people in my life who have been there for me when I was at my lowest. They patched me up, helped me to my feet and sent me on my way. Then there are those people in my life who find me at my worse, patch me up and hold me down. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I finally have. The thing is, I have serious seasons of depression. Real bad seasons where I withdraw from everybody, I let myself go, I’m distant and unmotivated and all I can think to do is get a job somewhere and be normal people. Get up, go to work and come home. Being Red Summer is just too much. The schedule, the constant travel, the demands of myself, my art, my time… being ON becomes too much to bare and I turn off.

Normally, in these times, someone will see me in my sadness and take pity on me. They jump in and help me out of the grand messes I seem to get myself into. They help with the kids, the bills, remind me to shower from time to time and they love me. At my lowest, they love me. That is such an amazing and beautiful thing. Until my depression passes. Then, I wake up. I get up and get moving. I’m inspired, I create, I find things that I’m interested in and I pursue them with passion. I come alive. And the person who was there at my low point… is devastated. I’m gone all the time, I’m out all the time, I need to come or go home and sit down somewhere… My happiness makes them miserable.

What I know for sure is… Misery loves Misery. Some people are not invested in your happiness. Not if they are not the cause of it. In this case, it is not your happiness that makes them feel needed and worthwhile. It’s your misery. Your misery gives them purpose, drive and inspiration to help. But once you are healthy again or stable again or happy for some other reason… they feel left out. They secretly wait for you to mess up or fall down so they can spring into action and thrive on your misfortune yet again. That is not healthy. As I’m entering my season again, I have to remind myself of that and be aware of who I let help me get through this time.

What I Know for Sure… Results May Vary

I know this woman who told me that I was a struggling artist because God does not love me. She is rich and she has a lot of money because God favors her. God favored her parents and they also had a lot of financial resources. I was not as blessed because I was not one of God’s favorites. She called for some time inviting me to come to her big house and hang out with her. She was very generous with her steadily amassing wealth and would share it with her less fortunate friends so they could travel with her or otherwise enjoy her blessings. She even helped me out once when I needed financial support with something involving my children. After listening to the lecture that followed the “gift,” I realized something… She is lonely. She is tragically and obviously unfulfilled in her insatiable quest for emotional sustenance. With all of her financial wealth, she is emotionally bankrupt still starving.

I have the same amount of bedrooms and bathrooms as the woman I described. Only I don’t have room for an office or a guest room because I have a house full of folks most times. I dream of the moments where I am home alone sitting in silence. I have an impossible calendar that includes many social obligations to the people I love and support. I pretend to complain about it all the time, threatening to run away to a far off island and live among the bugs and animals. But… It will be a few months before I can buy a ticket… so they are lucky this time. At the end of one of my idle threats, I looked around at everyone laughing. They knew I wouldn’t leave them and even as the children are getting older and moving out into the world, they will always be mine. They are my fortune and the return on all my investments.

What I Know for Sure… is results may vary. If you spend too much of your time coveting someone else’s life or possessions or blessing, you will miss the one that was meant for you. I had a chance to live in a big house and live a rich life. I chose to be a struggling artist because the cost of that life was much more than I was willing to pay. I didn’t need to. I was already rich beyond my imagination. I have kids who adore me and want to be like me or impress me. I have love in so many genuine forms that to attempt to count them is exhausting. My blessing doesn’t look like anyone else’s blessing. Their blessing don’t look anything like mine. But God’s love for me makes me feel like I don’t need anything else… well… a new car would be nice.

What I Know for Sure… karma is real

People always say stuff like “Karma is a bitch” and refer to karma as a vicious and vengeful woman. The threat always is if you do somebody wrong, Karma will find you and get you. Karma, here, is a punisher. Getting people back for the wrongs they have done. This helps the narrative of good and evil, saviors and sinners. But, I don’t think it’s that simple.

When we’ve been hurt, we want to believe that the universe is keeping track of those who have wronged us and will show them the the error of their ways. But we forget that Karma, if she really is keeping score, sees our wrongs too. We’re never as excited for that prospect as we are about the visual of our wayward lovers or unfaithful friends getting “what they deserve” by our good friend Karma. We want them to feel the way we felt… Especially if we felt hurt or pain.

What I Know for Sure… karma is real. Not the capital K, like a person, the lowercase like a reality of life. Karma is simply balance. It’s the blessing of being able to live long enough to see both sides of a situation. This is how wisdom is formed. Karma is not a threat, it’s a gift. If I was a child who gave my parents grief, I get a child and learn what they must have felt. If I was a dismissive partner, never taking my partner into consideration or listening to them. That is only one side of the story. Only one reality. I only get to know what it feels like to be dismissive. Karma then comes into my life and brings me a situation where I feel dismissed and not considered. If I am immature, I’ll see this as punishment. If I am prepared for growth, I will be able to tap into the times when I made someone else feel that way and learn why I need to do and be better. It’s our ability to see the fullness of the experience that counts. Karma is only a bitch if you are.

What I Know for Sure… Prayers are answered

One day, I asked for a certain kind of life. I described what I wanted for the universal agents of change to get to work at making that happen for me. I started clearing out my life and my space in order to make room for this wonderful something that was coming. I waited. I looked at every movement in life as a step closer. Looked for the signs. The problem was… I was looking in the wrong direction.

The work that was being done, the path that was being laid, the way that was being made wasn’t something that I had to look out for. It wasn’t something that I could look ahead and see coming. Once I prayed that prayer and asked for the specific things that I asked for… I could have thrown away all my furniture and sat on the floor, cross-legged, for seven years and I still would not have been making the space that was needed. The change was taking place in me. I was being prepared for the life I said I wanted one heartbreak, one disappointment and one rejection letter at a time.

What I Know for Sure… is that prayers are answered…. but not always in the ways we think they will be. When I asked for financial independence, I didn’t get a new job. I actually got a pay cut and less hours at the part-time job I already had. I lost all the people in my life who were financially helping me when I got into a bind and all I had was an idea. I put the idea on the back burner and I applied and applied for jobs. Even when I applied for ones that I KNEW I was expertly qualified for, I didn’t get one call back. I was nearing the end of my rope and sanity when I started getting invited to speak at events. It isn’t enough to travel the world with, but it’s enough to keep me afloat in the meantime. I didn’t mean for things to happen the way they are, but I realize that the idea I have, is mine. Te people who are left around me are the ones who are meant to help me as I bring it to life myself. It is my divine meal ticket and I can cash it in whenever I decide to believe that the prayer has already been answered.

Before you dream of me tonight

Before you dream of me tonight you should know

When I was five, my mother made me up in a full face of make-up,                                                                                                       wrapped a thin layer of fabric over my head and said I was a bride.                                                                                                                 I pretended the hallway was the chapel isle and walked into an invisible I Do.                                                                                           I later learned that the earth is 92,960,000 miles from the sun.                                                                                                                 And some little black girls will trip on the fabric wrapped around their heads and fall down the stairs ripping their lips open and see their teeth outside of their mouths.                                                                                                                                                             The summer heat would set it so quickly that she could go back and see just where she thought she was pretty for the last time        The human heart weighs 8 ounces                                                                                                                                                                       And once I stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating and I learned that                                                                             Butterflies are just caterpillars with wings                                                                                                                                                        Ones who wanted to find pretty again                                                                                                                                                                Closer to the sun                                                                                                                                                                                                            At the tops of trees

Someone told me that paper was once a tree wanting to find more significance in its purpose

I think she was a martyr who wanted nothing more than to be a tree

But people

People will not always let you just be

Only in death are you light enough to blow in the breeze and go where it wants to take you

Gravity holds us to the ground

But all of us can take flight if we choose to

Defy the elements

Redefine ourselves

Make pretty from the wreckage

Burst out of cocoons

Fold yourselves into airplanes

Learn to fly

Today

I do

 

 

Written in the Where Are you  From workshop facilitated by Theresa Davis at the Women and Girls in Georgia Conference.

What I Know for Sure… I am a Sellout!

I’m reading the comments. Line after line, time after time, black man after black man being told that if you criticize black people and even suggest that they need to get themselves together… You are a Sellout! Now, I’m not sure when this was decided. When I think back on the philosophies of Marcus Garvey, Elijah Muhammad (Malcolm X, Louis Farrakhan, Khalid Muhammad, etc), The Black Panther Party and Martin Luther King Jr… they all had one thing in common… the politics of respectability. Straighten yourself up, take care of your family, protect the women and children, get off your butt and do something for yourself. From W.E.B to Jesse the message has been the same. Then something happened that changed all that.

All of a sudden the men became more and more aggressive. They became mean, heartless. The women were all bitches. The children were left to fend for themselves as the streets claimed life after life with no end in sight. My city, Chicago, became a war zone. Thousands of residents have fled the city to protect themselves from the rampant violence and go so far as calling themselves refugees of a place that is now known as Chiraq. Where are the men? The leaders? Where are the mothers and grandmothers who children used to fear and obey? Did we spare the rod and now have to deal with the reality of what an unchecked child is really capable of? And “IF ANYBODY UP AT THAT SCHOOL SAYS ANYTHING TO DERONTAVIOUS, I’M BEATING THEY ASS!!!” is the only form of active parenting most people, who have taken it upon themselves to actually work with children, ever see.

What I know for sure is… I am a sellout. I am happy to be. Not that I’m middle-classed, paid and privileged. Quite frankly, I’m a poor, single mother of two teenage children. My father and brother are both in prison and only two of my father’s six children attended college for more than a year. I live in the hood with crimes happening at my literal doorstep often. Sunday night, I sat outside my house and I told the young boys to pull up their pants, watch their language, stay in school, not to make babies they weren’t going to be fathers to and to stop terrorizing their community. If they don’t, I warned, I would call the police on them every time I see them. If the police don’t come, I’m getting my belt and coming after them myself. Their response… “I respect you MomDukes. We not gon do nothin’ foul in front of your house.” Now, it’s not the solution… but it’s a start. Imagine if all of the adults in the community held that same expectation for them. What would happen if we all sold out to the idea of Black Solidarity meaning we had to just accept and not challenge the things that are hurting our communities? I’m ready. Somebody point me to the Sellout line. I want to enlist.

bittersweet

you are land mines and booby traps

i must watch where i step

there are stick pins in your fingerprints

broken glass in your tongue

you tear tender places to shreds

chew the shreds and spit

you are the morning after a botched suicide attempt

regret and horrible scars

you are blood stains in all my favorite clothes

you put the thorns on the rose

you are beautiful

and mean

bitter and sweet

so if i were ever brave enough

or defeated enough

to love you

i would have to love you

to death