Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 30

Offering My Words with Courage

Maya Angelou once said there are three things needed in order to be a writer: 1) you have to have something to say, 2) you have to possess the ability or talent to say it, and 3) the courage to say it.

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is (listening to) the little voice at the end of the day that says I’ll try again tomorrow.” — Mary Anne Radmacher

“This is really sad.”

Those were the firs words my friend said after she finished reading one of my latest short stories. Her words deflated my confidence, though she didn’t know it. I was truly proud of the story that I’d sat up the previous night to finish writing. It’s a story that came to me about two or three years ago. It didn’t come to me as a story, but rather as an image. A mother staring into the rearview mirror seeing her son’s face. The son was dead though and the mother just couldn’t accept that. This was a story I needed to write, but it took several years for me to finally write it.

“It’s not sad in a bad way,” my friend added. And she went on to describe some of the images she had as she read my words. Images I had not seen myself as the writer. When I wrote the story, I was fully inside my main character. I became her so that I could tell her story. And for thirty minutes we discussed my protagonist, Rayna, as if though she were a really dear friend of ours who’d recently lost her child. In the end, my friend said,”You should enter this in the competition.”

Well, she didn’t know I’d already talked myself out of entring the contest because I anticipated receiving another rejection. And I didn’t want another rejection. I wanted someone to read this story and be carried away with Rayna’s story like my friend was. So I offered my friend the excuse, “It’s 3,500 words long. And the contest calls for stories 3,000 words or less.”

“Well go through and cut some stuff out. Send them the condensed version. And save the full version for your book of short stories.”

I just looked at her. Because she just didn’t know how I was feeling inside. I was terrified. I am growing tired of being told no. Even when my rejections come with sweet words of encouragement to “Keep writing” or “This is a really good story, but just not for our market.” These are still rejections.

I left the meeting with my friend having every intention of holding on to my story until I have finished the other stories for my book of short stories, She’ll Never Tell. But I can’t get her voice out of my head. I have heard her since yesterday saying, “This is really good.” “I couldn’t stop reading.” “You just have to know what happens to her.”

Then today on Oprah’s Soul Sunday, I heard Sue Monk-Kidd talk about acting on that desire at the bottom of your heart, your deepest desires and I cried. This is my deepest desire. I don’t care so much about money. I want people to hear what I have to say. And, so I offer my words to you with courage. I feel that there are people who can identify with things I’ve felt or things I’ve just written about. I believe it’s my calling to minister to the spirit of those who feel they don’t have a voice. That’s why I wrote Tattered Butterfly Wings. I’ve listened to my students and I know they feel that no one ever listens to them. And this was my way of saying, “I hear you.” I may never become a blockbuster, list topping author, but I will always respond to the longing of my heart. So, I’m going to condense the story and I’m going to enter it into the competition. And I’ll hope that I win this time. But if I don’t, it won’t be the end of the world. I will continue to say, “I’ll get up and try again tomorrow.”

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Kill Me

Smother me. With your eyes.

Drown me. In your arms.

Kill me. With Love. Over. And. Over. Again.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Love

I feel her heart quickening

inside of me.

She is rearranging my life,

stripping me to my most basic self:

love.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Sleeping with Ghosts

She claimed to not believe in ghosts

even while she slept with the remnants

of corpses of loves that never should have been.

She made pillows out of the faces of men

who fed her candy coated drops of sin:

failing to love the woman within.

She covered herself with the blanket of lies

used to help her forget the value of her life,

causing her to forget the miracle of she.

The miracle being that she existed.

She closed her eyes and swallowed the nightmares

they had dumped into her mind, so

she would toss and turn all night.

They loved what they could see with eyes

blinded by their own needs to be desired.

Their own needs of such a towering size.

They took, took, took, offering nothing

in return until it was safe to finally leave.

Now she’s left with the daunting task

of learning to love the woman within &

knowing that ghosts can be exorcised

and she will one day be able to love again.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Hump Day Haiku

She ripped back flesh from

painful wounds and memories.

Mother Earth. Sun. Moon

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

He Carried the Moon, She Carried the Sun

He carried the moon wherever he went.

She carried the sun. Some days she lost all

strength and will and forgot to hold on to

the sun. He used the moon to split her darkness

in two. He stole the darkness away from her. Left it

on the sidewalk where passerby would sometimes

stumble, trying to get over it, anything to keep

from having to stoop to pick it up. He carried

the moon. And split her darkness in two. She

was so grateful that he shared the moon with her

that she agreed to become the stars.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Thin Love

“Love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t love at all.” – Toni Morrison

She carried a dangerous storm inside

where her heart should have been.

Her eyes were spears, able to tear into

flesh, pierce it deep. She felt the things,

awful things crawling underneath her skin,

words they had been trying to tell her since birth.

I love you tried to pierce her skin, but she’d

grown a shell of protection, locking her in &

keeping her separate from everyone who tried

to love her. She destroyed what she didn’t

understand. And that was her truth. That

was the storm that was brewing within.

She didn’t want love that tried to make her

pliable, she craved a love to make her free.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Enough

Words have power.

Yes. No. Hate. Love.

Words have power.

Ni****. Nigga.

Words have power.

Let. Go. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Words have power.

You said you’d never let go.

Words have power.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Words. Have. Power.

Promise you’ll always love me.

Words have power.

Get that bi***! Get that ho!

Words. Have. Power.

Words will never hurt me. I remember saying that as a child. A simple childish comeback in response to being called ugly, dumb, or fat. Yes, that’s childish logic, to think that words can’t hurt. They can. Words also can heal. Words have so much power.

I recently finished reading “Stand Your Ground,” a novel by Victoria Christopher Murray. At the beginning of the book, Murray explains why she wrote the book. She said she wrote the book because she wanted to “do something that mattered.” She also wanted to write truth. In the fictionalized account, Murray tells the story of two families caught in a tragic incident much like what happened the night George Zimmerman murdered Trayvon Martin. She tells the story beautifully and she allows her characters to speak from their souls and to tell their truths.

There were times when I was reading this book and the words angered me. There were also times when words pulled tears from my eyes. And there were times when the words caused my lips to curl up in a smile. The most important thing is that the power of words is shown as truth within the pages of the book.

As the protesters in the book chant, the word they say over and over again is “enough.” And that is the truest word spoken throughout the book. America has seen enough of black boys being seen as threats simply because they are black. The young man in this story is a typical teenage boy; he’s a truly smart and well-rounded kid. But his one mistake is taken and used to criminalize him even as his cold dead body is buried in the dirt. He could just as easily be either one of my sons and that scares me. So, yes, words have power. Enough. Enough. Enough.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Breathe In

I breathe in memories of you.

Thinking memories will make me free.

But some memories die as soon as they

hit the ground. Running.

Realization. That’s all I’m doing. Trying to

escape the sudden death of living

without you. I breathe in. Breathe.

Breathe.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Amari’s Song

Blood sings to us from the ground. The voices

are picked up, carried away, scattered to the wind.

Our children crying out, trying to be heard.

Do you hear?

This poem is dedicated to the short life and long memory of Amari Brown, a seven year old boy who was killed in Chicago. Brown died from a bullet intended for his father, a ranking gang member. And Amari became another casualty of a war he wasn’t involved in. He’s another voiceless victim, unheard.

All ground becomes sacred ground once it absorbs the blood of our children.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind