Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 5

Heat

When you got Lauryn Hill on the radio, a pen in your hand and a notebook, this is what happens:

It’s kinda hard to pinpoint

when I first knew

something was wrong. Sometimes I think

it was just the fact that

you were there.

Sometimes I think it was

the mirage-like quality of things,

the way heat seemed to be rising up

out of everything.

The night sky quivered like a woman

being fingered by her lover. The asphalt

street moved in waves, couldn’t seem to stay still

as if pleasure was running through her bones.

When I held out my hands, they moved

without consent from me

as heat rose from my pores. It felt like

I was losing me.

This can’t be real, I remember thinking.

I thought you were transparent, not totally there

or maybe that was just me knowing I’d always been able

to see right through you. But

when I reached out to touch you

I felt your warm skin beneath my fingertips.

This has to be a dream scene.

My feet have never so easily sank in the street

like walking on pillows or a deep feathery mattress,

sank so far I nearly disappeared.

But then you sank down beside me and

I knew this was more than just a dream.

It was reality. And when you touched me, for once,

it didn’t hurt. No pain accompanied your touch.

So I just let it be.

Let you be. With me.

In the back of my mind, the truth cowered

in a corner like a scared child, one who knew

that stars are just lamps in the darkness and the moon

is just a child’s drawing seen through a toy viewer

because anything is possible in a dream.

There are unlimited possibilities in the realm of dreams

but there are many truths too, to be faced

when the morning comes.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Very Superstitious

In one of the stories I’m currently working on, my protagonist, Ruby, purposely drops a mirror on the floor. The act is a defiant disavowal of the superstition that says, break a mirror and suffer seven years of trouble for it.

As I’ve been working on this story, I’ve thought a lot about African-American culture and how to suffuse it into the story. When Ruby first came to me, it was to tell me what she’d learned about love. About how her boyfriend has marred her beautiful face, an attempt to make her less attractive to other men, thereby ensuring that she would never be able to leave him. Why would she? No one else would want her now that she’s ugly, right? Maybe.

Anyway, since I first began writing this story, I have wanted this story to be set during the 1970s on Grant’s Corner, a neighborhood where my grandmother once lived with my dad, uncles, and aunt. I remember that place; it has become a part of my memories. Family. Love. Community. And superstitions. Those are all things I think of when I remember Grant’s Corner. And those are all things I want readers to pick up on when they read the story.

But, why superstitions? Well, because when my grandmother lived on Grant’s Corner, I can remember sitting behind the sofa with all the lights, appliances, and telephone off. We were forbidden from doing ANYTHING when God was doing his work (translation: it was storming outside). Naturally as I am infusing culture into my story about this young woman, I thought of other long-held beliefs and superstitions in the African-American community. So ingrained in our culture that we might not even realize other cultures aren’t aware of these beliefs.

Some of these superstitions roll off my tongue so quick that I hardly thought of them as superstitions. Below is just a few of the superstitions that are held as truth in the African-American community.

If you place your purse on the floor, you’ll always be broke. I heard this one growing up and without even thinking about it, I’m very careful not to leave my purse on the floor.
Young black males are cautioned against eating spaghetti prepared by anyone who’s not family, specifically mother or sister. The reason for this is that it is believed that a young woman might mix her menses blood with the spaghetti sauce, which will result in the young man falling in love with her.
Don’t walk around the house in only one shoe. To do this, will result in the death of a family member. I was always told, “You’re going to walk someone out of the family.” Even today, when I’m getting dressed, I’m careful not to walk around the house in only one shoe.
A man should be the first person to enter the house during the new year. Every New Year, my dad invites one of his male friends over to be the first man, who doesn’t live in the house, to enter my house. This is supposed to ward off bad luck.
No washing on the last Friday of the old year or first Friday of the new year. This, too, could lead to bad luck.
When you cut your hair, you must immediately burn it. If you don’t burn it, someone can get ahold of it and urinate on it, which will give them control over you.
Don’t make fun of someone’s looks while you’re pregnant. To do so, will cause your unborn child to resemble the person you made fun of when they are born.
If you allow small children to sweep the floor, they will sweep up unwanted guests.
Speaking of sweeping the floor, if you happen to be sweeping the floor and the broom sweeps over the foot of someone, that person should immediately spit on the broom. If they don’t, it can lead to bad luck. I can remember family members becoming angry with me if I accidently swept their foot with the broom.
A cold chill means that someone has just walked across your grave.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

 

*Note: There are WAY more superstitions[image error] that I discovered during my research (searching my own memory, talking to older family members, and internet research), but I only included a few here to show how varied and impactful superstitious beliefs are in the African-American community.

You Wanted It As Much As Me, He Said

He said I

apologize.

I never meant to

hurt you. Ok. No.

That’s not what

he said, he told me

you wanted it

as much as me.

His smile blinded

me, but I knew no one

would believe me unless

they had experienced

the blinding light of

his smile.

I almost drove right

into a tree one night

on an unfamiliar street

because I was blinded

by bright headlights.

And that’s how I

almost lost me.

Only you can’t call it

rape if he’s smiling

when he fucks you.

Up. When he hears

the word rape, his smile

slips temporarily.

He’s been conditioned

to believe that rape

only involves screams

and the forceful

tearing of a hymen. He

can’t see how lies

and deception

purposefully used

can defile love. Can

leave a woman

feeling used and dirty.

It took two years

to wash the smell of

you off my skin.

But you knew, you

knew, you told me you

knew that what we had

would never last. You knew

that my words that my

promises were full of holes

that I said only

what you wanted me to say.

It’s true I did know, not that

he’d only fallen in love

with my words and so the

exchange of words

was nothing more than

flirtation, a temptation,

fresh oxygen to cleanse

away years of residue.

His own words never meant

anything, he knew that too.

Who taught him that, me or you?

Who knew in the winter

time that love could change

colors like leaves? That promises

could fall down to the bottom

of the sea like empty sea shells

and colorful rocks?

I walked along the beach

the other night, my feet lost

in the sand and my dreams

lost at sea. I knew. I’ve

always known. My mother told me

to be wary of a stranger’s smile.

She cautioned me that some

men smile

but they don’t really mean it.

Sometimes a smile is as

elusive as the rain and sometimes

love is a crutch

some never learn to use.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Stranger

This has been a difficult few weeks. I’ve watched my mother become a woman I don’t recognize. She’s always been so strong, so resilient, and her body is turning on her and there’s no defense strong enough to fight back. So, we’ve entered a period of adjustment. We must learn new ways of being mother and daughter. And honestly, I have struggled to write anything. I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything. And then tonight at the hospital, I glimpsed that other side of my mother. And the words, they just came. It’s an understatement to say love and appreciate your loved ones while you have them because one day, you won’t. Every lucid moment with her is a moment of preciousness. Every time I touch her warm skin or kiss her cheek, I hope she realizes how much she is valued. I love her so very much and it’s so hard to see her this way.

i hesitantly follow her

to places of total darkness,

afraid i will lose sight of

her, afraid i will get lost

too. in this new darkness

there is no time to wait for

my eyes to adjust, it happens

all so quickly. shapes

obscured by memories, lost in

a jumble of words marred by

confusion. she is no longer

my mother. she is a stranger.

i do not know her & i do not

want to know her. i

search for her in old photographs,

in eyes, frozen in time, i search

for clues—when did she first

start to leave me? where

can i find the missing pieces

of her? photos strewn across

my floor like land mines,

my life now a foreign land.

i trip & fall constantly. and

when i rise, always i

am bruised. this woman

does not belong to me.

she is a stranger. she is

not my mother. how did

i manage to misplace

someone who never bothered

to leave me?

peace & love,

rosalind

P.S. hold your loved ones tighter. love a little harder. because one day this will all be a memory.

 

My Mother

i saw my mother

today

as she must have

saw me one day

so long ago

a precious sight

that doesn’t seem true

toddling, helpless

fumbling along the edges

of life, dropping

whatever she tried

to hold

a beautiful memory

unravelling

before my eyes

i saw shadows

of the woman who

was my mother

from days and years

before, unable to

look away, i struggled

to see the woman

she used to be

i held her hands

as she

must have once

held mine

afraid to let go

would you believe me

if i said i saw

all of yesterday

in the palms

of her hands?

tracing wrinkles

she accumulated

over time though

it seems like just

yesterday

when she was

so young,

lounging in the

front room

listening to music,

so different

from today

when music

soothed her,

made her sleepy

rocked her to sleep

like she’d once

done for me

treading carefully

along the life line

that stretched

across her palm

hesitating at the

breaks, the halting

lines, resisting

the good-bye

my dad told me

to be strong

for her & that’s why

i held my tears

inside

but once i

walked outside

the dam broke

& released all

the pain i was

holding inside

my first real

adult act

is caring for

the woman

i love with

the fullness of

memory & my

heart

just like she

used to do

for me

my first adult

act: learning

how to say

good-bye

to the woman

whose

heart beats

just like mine.

i heard it

faintly echoing

my own

as i held

my mother

close,

fighting

the inevitable

letting go.

peace & love,

rosalind

Tough Love

Isn’t it funny how

tough love never manages to

feel like love at all? How

it feels more like hate.

No, not hate, but indifference.

And, of course, the irony of

those thoughts visiting her,

as she watches her mother

stuff her life in two plastic

garbage bags, isn’t lost on her.

How can you just let her leave

knowing she has nowhere at all

to go? The question stings her

like that time when she’d been

riding her bike all evening and

she went to get off her bike

and the skin of her leg got caught.

in the tire spokes. She hadn’t been

thinking about being careful, but

only about moving on.

But the sting, it had forced her

to stop and think, to consider.

What should I be thinking about?

I’m not forcing her to leave.

If only she would just….Just what?

She doesn’t know. Watching

her mother walking down the block,

away. Years of belongings stretching

the inside of garbage bags. Her gait,

unsteady yet determined, beneath

the weight of so many years of

history. For weeks her mother

has been known to live behind

the corner store where she used to

send her only daughter

to buy cigarettes and tall cans of

beer, a note from her mother

balled in her hand. One time

a man lured her behind the store.

He’d stood in line behind her and

followed her outside. She stopped

only because he called her name.

To hear your name on the lips

of another can be dangerous in so

many ways. And that’s why

she never told her mother

who she knew would not understand,

her mother would scold her

for being silly, for being naïve. She

thinks now of the cold

penetrating the old coat her mother

wears and the blood spilled

on the pavement beneath her mother’s

feet in that place where she will sleep tonight.

After all these years, will it still be there

covered in layers of yesterday’s grime?

Yes, she is sure it will. Spilled blood

never loses its memory. And blood binds

across years, across miles, across distances.

This is not the first time they have both

decided to go their separate ways. It’s just

tough love, she thinks, ignoring the tears

on her own face, as her mother once again

walks away. Isn’t tough love walking away

when you really want to stay? Briefly

she considers running after the woman

who gave her life, to stop her, to love her

softly, but she knows she won’t ever

be able to go back there again. And so

she just stays and convinces herself

that love can be both hard and soft.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

If He Had Stayed

What if he had stayed?

If all his sweet lies were

strung together to form a bridge

that he’d be willing to travel

across, one way? What if

all those sweet words you shared

were more than gentle lies to rest

your naked back and exposed fears on?

If all the words you shared could have

built a bridge to somewhere other than

nowhere? What if love didn’t require

obligation or acceptance in the court

of public opinion, wasn’t so easily

asphyxiated by wounds left open and

festering for too long? By closed lives

and obvious lies? If he had stayed

wouldn’t that be just another lie?

It seems the most honest thing he did

was to choose to walk away. Because

if he had stayed, you’d always be wondering

if staying was truly a choice or

the softest deceit of settling?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Daydream Blackness

Because in this so-called “post-racial society” my oldest son, who’s working on his music degree at the University of Memphis, was walking to a benefit dinner for his fraternity and a woman who didn’t know him told him, “I don’t have anything you can use.” And, he, the wonderful young man that he is, kept walking and allowed her words to miss him. And because my youngest daughter was verbally assaulted because of her blackness. And because post-racial is a figment of the imagination.

Daydream Blackness

I wear the color black

like a thick, heavy fog

that covers me. Only

I’m not really black, more

like caramel-colored or paper bag

brown, but when he told me

I was a fool for believing

racism still exists, I folded up

my bag, wrinkled from overuse,

and shoved it under my bed.

That corner closest to the wall

where forgotten dust and secrets lie.

I do hate you, he spat, but

it’s not because you’re black.

It’s because you’re a nigger.

Your ape-like children won’t

stay in the zoo where they

belong. I can’t find work

cause your nigger ass

took a job that should be mine.

And you people always asking

for something – clean water,

healthy food, a decent education.

You see, he assured me, I’m color blind.

I don’t see caramel or cinnamon or

toffee or a creamy shade of coffee

with the right amount of cream. All he saw

was a nigger and to him

that wasn’t racism. Excuse me

while I take a deep breath —

that word is heavy with history.

It keeps me from breathing

normally, especially when I’m

sitting in a restaurant with my family

and I suddenly feel the brush

of a whisper beside my ear.

You don’t belong here. Go back

to where you belong. And why you

people always make everything about

race, you ape in high heels?

My God, I can’t breathe. And, God,

can I ask you a question?

Where are you? I mean, where you

been? ‘Cuz my people been praying

to you for hundreds of years.

We been pleading with you

to lift the burdens we been

carrying around, dragging behind us

like too small, overpriced luggage

we never could afford. We daydream

in color, longing for blackness that

doesn’t smell like rotten fruit or

the decaying flesh of deferred

dreams. Carrying around my blackness

is suffocating me. Asphyxiation.

My God, my God. I can’t breathe.

And I really don’t understand

why you won’t save me. Why

must I continue to daydream

a blackness that’s no longer a sin?

Is your silence a sign you’re in

agreement with them, that you

want to see me forever be a slave

to the color of my skin?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Note: The title was inspired by the phrase “daydream blackness,” which I read in Paul Beatty’s novel The Sellout.

The Chameleon

I wear fear

like the color

of my skin. So much

a part of me.

The Chameleon.

Settling inside skin

too little for me

to move in. Trapped.

Trying to fool you

with boasts of

being unafraid.

Like fear was never

encapsulated

in the seed

of our love.

Fear wears many

disguises. The masks

hiding what can

clearly be seen.

Like when you’re holding

me, and I try

to etch the feeling of

us in love over the veins

of our existence.

Something to live

beyond us.

Which fear am I

hiding? The fear that’s

etched in my memory

or the fear that gathers

like clouds while

you’re lying

on top of me.

Diminishing.

And my role becomes

the watcher: me looking

beyond you to see

what the view

will look like

when you’re gone.

Foolishly

I believed you would

try to stop me.

(Not really, I didn’t.)

That you want me to

believe what we have

won’t just one day

be a hazy memory.

When the truth is

we both know

you and I are a lie.

And lies

that look like love

simply cannot last.

Lies that resemble

love are a lovely deceit.

But being the chameleon

I am, I slipped into the skin

of your intention and saw

the traces of your leaving

long before you were gone.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Mutation

Our daughters are broken and

we’re not trying to fix them.

We’ve neglected them like discarded bodies

and frames of cars that no longer run.

We watch them being dragged by hair on national TV

or pushed down stairs or gun to head.

We tell their stories, share their stories like it’s evening

news, fodder to firm up the view that

Love is not supposed to be soft, but difficult. Love’s

not easy. No pain, no gain is what we teach them.

That it’s possible to plant carrot seeds and harvest corn—

a mutation. If it doesn’t start from love, how can it ever go back?

That’s the question we teach them to hold in, like bated breath,

afraid to release it. Afraid to teach truth, we present a legacy of lies.

Love is struggle, compromise. Love is trying to convince him that

without you, he’d be nothing when all along you’re the one who

believes you’re nothing, without him. Love is the feel of his words

crawling under your skin, up your spine till you become his

truth and your own lie. A legacy of lies.

When we teach that love does hurt sometimes, do we differentiate

between good hurts and bad hurts? Or that struggling and settling

are not love but an ethereal illusion that cannot last? So, one day

you will have to let go. Or do we teach that love is obsession, a

possession? Because how can she ever let go of what she wants

when what she wants doesn’t want her? If you chase him far enough,

eventually he’ll slow down, stop running and realize, with you,

he can compromise, practice loving the one he never wanted to love.

With you, he’s nothing he ever wanted to be. And that’s love.

Our daughters are broken. Are we ever going to try and fix them?

 

Peace & Love,

Rosalind