Faye McCray's Blog, page 5

52 Prompts: Virgin in Harlem

Their wooly black locs twirled in circles down their backs, swinging in unison with one another to the beat of the faint steel drums echoing from the hot Harlem streets.  Their fingers laced together, tight and their offspring close at their backs.  Their tiny steps just hairs from their elders.  Their baby locs springing like tiny coils from their fertile heads.  Uneven but still beautiful.

And they were Harlem black.  Uptown brown.  Deep but shallow. Created by the sun and mildly bitter from yellow. Like jewels in the smokey city heat.   Their velvet locs moist with coconut.  Their skin like licorice and Shea.  Their clothing was handmade.  Rich cottony fabrics. Vivid blue and white.  It floated with them.  Caught in the breeze they created.  Barely grazing the asphalt that carried their feet.

I wanted to be with them.  Birthed from them.  Maybe just close enough to listen to them speak. So my thoughts could dance in the beat they left in their footsteps.  Words and books and truth and knowledge.  Standing in my moss green tights and Catholic school uniform, I released my mother's manicured hands and watched.  We were here from South Jamaica to see ourselves. More what we hoped and who we had planned to be.  My hair was processed and short.  It smelled like Soft Sheen and Dax. It stunk in their light. And I
Who I
Me
Who I pretend
Who I be
I knew
Breathing in the air they shared as they passed us by. I was watching them be free.



***Prompt: Write about freedom.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.

Love and Light,
Faye

52 Prompts: The Cats Who Walk On Two Legs

I wasn't entirely sure how I got there. I'd overheard the one with yellow hair say I'd been asleep in a box and that my fur had been covered in icicles, my eyelids practically frozen shut. I just remember that the box was warmer than the ground had been and drier.  That sleep had been good after all of that walking. I'd curled up in the corner of the box, warmed by a small stream of light pouring from a window high above my head.  The light smelled like cinnamon and warmed the air around it.  It reminded me of home. Though I knew it wasn't. I had been lost for awhile then. Too far away to find my way back.

I must have forgotten to awaken because I woke up in a cage, bright and warm.  A soft bed, a full bowl and a sandy box to do my business in when I had to go.  I had a neighbor but he didn't acknowledge me  much.  He had patches of fur missing all over his body and I could tell from his scent he had been places I'd never been.  He'd lick his bare skin and fall in and out of sleep, a habit that made most visitors stand a little farther away and visit me instead.

I didn't mind it much.  I liked the cats that walked on two legs.  They'd crouch down say things to me. Warm air pouring out of their mouths, teasing me with their fingers.  Some would even scratch my head until I closed my eyes. Purring to show my gratitude.  They'd come and go until the sun went down.  Nights were lonely and quiet. It was then that I'd miss the sun and moving air.  A good stretch or a long walk.

When she came in for the first time, I had a feeling it wouldn't be her last time.  She stayed for longer than most people and left right after we played.  Like I was who she had come for and no one else.  She had the little one with her and he was scared at first.  He'd smile but he wouldn't get too close. He'd bring me squeaky objects that the dogs like and wave them in front of my cage to get my attention. Then he'd run away.  Too afraid that I'd get too close but wanting me to at the same time. I'd stick my paw out so he could touch it and mash my face against the bars so he would nozzle my nose.  When he was brave enough to touch me, he would giggle.  His hand smelled like clay and wax. It was usually stained in marker.  When I knew him better, I'd try to clean it off.  When he'd laugh, she would too.  I would stick my paw out of the cage and place it on her palm.  She stroke it tenderly and say calming things in words that sounded like songs.

The day she brought the other two with her I knew they were mine.  The big one brought me out of the cage and held be high of above the ground.  Held me tighter when a big dog walked by and scratched in my favorite spot beneath my chin as he said hello.  The other little one did the same, holding my eyes for the longest and smiling with missing teeth.  I went home with them that day. In a box like the one I'd found under that window.  But this one was filled with warmth. In this one, I wasn't alone.

In our house, they give me my space. They open the window to let me feel the air and pull me close sometimes so I can feel their hearts beat. My bowl is full and I don't have to search to find water.  They say things that they believe I can't understand. I do. Most of it.  But I go when I want so they know its always my choice. To stay. I know enough about the places around to go when I don't want to be seen or hear any sounds.  I can tell they like me. I can tell they won't hurt me.  I can tell they would be sad if I went away.  I would too. I guess.

I think I'll stay awhile.



***Prompt: Write from the point of view of an animal.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.


Love and Light,
Faye

52 Prompts: Summers in Queens

The blades of grass tickled our bare feet as we tried to outrun the chase of the sprinkler. Hopping between the gaps, the cool tap water shooting out like fireworks, raining down and mixing with the beads of sweat on our skin.   We'd collapse on our towels atop the asphalt and giggle until our stomachs hurt. Inhaling the salty smoke of the fired up charcoal grills, swimming into our nostrils and making our stomachs growl.  Low bass and sweet rhythms poured from other yards, intoxicating the elders with Beres Hammond and coconut rum, whiskey and Maze.  Their shadows peeked through the thick bushes that separated our yards.  Holding each other close as the sun beat down on their cotton tunics and sandaled feet.  Low rumbling of grown up talk soundtracked the air as we browned like turkeys and ran like wild beasts in the city sun.

We feared nothing yet were afraid of so much. Scraped knees and chewed fingernails.  Climbing tall trees and hiding from the leer of new grown ups.  Our bathing suits hid so little.  Blossoming bodies practically nude beneath the thin nylon lycra of our swimsuits.  Jaundiced eyes and "Hey, little girls" and "Hey, little lady, you look so sweet." Accents and curry.  Nicotine and blackened ribs.  Tight hugs and leather belts.  The candy from the corner store was hard, thick and ten cents. You could get two mouths full for a dollar.  Wedged beneath the gaps in our braces and mashed in the pits of our back teeth.  Short bike rides. Hot asphalt.  We, hopeful with bright eyes.  Police sirens and the Cosby show.  Sweet dreams, disappearing nights.

Endless days on repeat.





***Prompt: Write about a place.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.


Love and Light,
Faye

52 Prompts: Last First Kiss

There were so many possibilities in that moment.
When I close my eyes now, I can still feel them.  Warm, sweet, endless.  Leaned into him. Wrapped in his large arms.  On my ivory couch. Even then it felt safe and worn. Like I had been there before. Even though it was our first time.
The scent of the candle I lit traveled between us, filling the air with hints of cinnamon and spice.  Bouncing around to the music he played.  A forgotten song buried in a forgotten CD.  Satisfying in a way I'd forgotten I'd needed.
I was in a small studio then.
Young, solo, excited and scared.  Scents and sounds filled those four walls like color.  Vibrant, present... almost human.  We were barely shadows in that candlelight and I think we both knew how small we were in the depth of that moment.  The girl with the long braids and the boy with the messy afro.  Specks of candlelight in our eyes.
His fingertips moved up and down my arms, stopping only to toy with the hem of my long sleeves and then drifting back up again.  I could have stayed like that on repeat.  Living in that song.  In that moment.
His voice was so low at first I thought it was the song.  He'd asked me to kiss him.  I was almost too nervous to say yes.  I nodded slowly, leaning my head back to meet his lips and looking into his eyes.  He looked back at me, still asking.  I met his lips with certainty, our eyes drifting closed.  Ready.  His hand resting tenderly on my cheek.  Mine on his.
It was nothing but a thing.  I'd said. He'd said.  Before, we'd thought there would be a dozen first kisses.  Some not his. Some not mine. After all, there was our youth.  Our immortality. Our possibilities.
Not accepting for a moment that underneath the weight of the song, swimming in the scent of cinnamon and buried in the cushions of my ivory couch, we'd want to make this one our last.



***Prompt: Write about a first kiss.

Each Sunday, I will be sharing my response to a short writing prompt from the many (many) writing books I've invested in over the years.  Enjoy, join me or leave a comment! Prompts are an awesome way to get the muse to come out and play.

Happy New Year ;-).

Love and Light, 
Faye

Be back soon!

These hands have been working furiously to bring you a load of content for 2016! Stay tuned here and on my Facebook and Twitter pages for updates.

In the meantime, have a wonderful holiday season! See you in the new year :-).


Love and Light,
Faye

VLOG: Blog Tour, New Novella and Editing Services!

Hey everybody! I have three EXCITING announcements. Check out my new vlog below for details:



Love and Light,
Faye

Confronting My Fear: Lessons from Ta-Nehisi Coates

My Children (c) Faye McCray 2015
When my first son was born, I nicknamed him pickle.  Not for any real reason.  He wasn't green or lumpy.  In fact, he was a beautiful golden boy with a mound of dark, curly hair and the pinkest little lips.  He was the spitting image of my husband so I fell in love with him instantly and with ease.  I already trusted that smile, memorized those lips and I felt myself melt wrapped in those arms.  He was born with his eyes open.  The physical trait he most inherited from me.  Big, dark, oval eyes looking at us with razor-sharp focus, as if he was thinking, already, about who he would become and how we would fit into his life.

When my second son was born, I nicknamed him peanut.  Odd really, because he would be the only one of us to develop an allergy to them.  He was born bright red and wrinkly, screaming so loudly, his voice echoed throughout the delivery room.  Unlike his brother, his eyes were squeezed shut, we joke he wasn't ready to be born.  My sweet, kind boy clung closely to me for his first year of life. He, who I affectionately joked would prefer I had a pouch, like a mama kangaroo.  He was perfectly content burrowed in a wrap, tight against the warmth of my body, only peeking out with a toothless smile when he saw fit. 

Born three years apart, I fell hard and deeply for my guys.  Their beauty.  Their energy.  Their curiosity.  Now five and almost eight, they still squeal with glee at a chocolate chip pancake or a butterfly that lands unexpectedly on the car's passenger side door.  I am proud I was chosen to be their mother.  Every single day.



I recently finished Ta-Nehisi Coates's book Between The World and Me.  In it, Coates writes to his son about race, humanity and navigating this life in a black body.  When I knew the book would adopt the narrative of a father speaking to his son, I knew I had to read it.  I listened to it on audio with the spouse and then read it in print to linger a little longer in the language. 

There are so many themes in the book that stopped me.  Halted me really.  Left me sitting in my chair short of breath.  He ran a highlighter along things I had been reluctant to see.  The most profound of which was Coates hard-hitting words on fear.  Fear growing up amidst the sickness of the inner city and the fear he felt from the adults around him who loved him so hard, it hurt, and most significantly to me, his fear as a father of a black son.

I identified with the fear.  From growing up as a black girl in New York City, to loving my beautiful black sons. Reading his words forced me to confront how deeply I feel afraid.  In some ways, I think it was the universe's way of toughening me up to give me two black boys to love.  To make me a heterosexual female who fell in love with a black man.  I am sensitive.  My mother crowned me with that label as a child. Emotional wounds have always felt deeper for me and the pain felt by people I love always struck me as deeply as my own. The people I love the most walk this life in black bodies. A fact that, as of late, has been nothing sort of torturous to my sensitive soul. 

In his book, Coates speaks of an experience taking his son on a visit to a preschool with his wife. His son jumped right in with the other children.  His first instinct, was to grab his arm, pull him back and say, "We don't know these folks! Be cool!" He didn't.  "I was growing," he wrote.  "...and if I could not name my anguish precisely I still knew there was nothing noble in it.  But now I understand the gravity of what I was proposing - that a four-year-old child be watchful, prudent, and shrewd, that I curtail your happiness, that you submit to a loss of time.  And now when I measure this fear against the boldness that the masters of the galaxy imparted to their own children, I am ashamed."

I read this and cried.  I saw myself in this passage.  Governing my own children's moves and reactions.  Curtailing their happiness in favor of my wariness.   "Don't get too close to that child." "Don't be the loudest at the party." "Don't touch another child's toys at the playground." "Don't dance to wildly at the school picnic." I am so very afraid and reading his words, I felt so very ashamed.

Truth is, I am afraid for my beautiful boys.  I am afraid of the looks my taller than average eight-year old gets when he moves with too much eagerness in public.  The excitement that bubbles in him animating every long limb he is not quite accustomed to navigating. I am afraid of his sensitivity.  The tears he cries when his feeling are hurt.  The frustration he releases when he doesn't feel heard.  I am afraid for his fearless intelligence.  His insistence on questioning everything.  His cleverness and keen ear, picking apart questions so well, adults forget the answers.  I am afraid of the grown-up teeth squeezing their way into my five-year old's mouth.  The changing contours of his baby face.  His burgeoning athletic frame, broad like my husband.  I am afraid for his charm.  His beautiful smile.  His ease with and adoration of little girls.  I am afraid for my boys.  Their huge spirits moving in black bodies with little knowledge of the hurt that awaits them.  The limits people will place on them.  And the ill-will strangers will project on them.  Or the dangers that arise in policing them. 

Reading Coates's words, I felt damaged by my own wounds. I was only ten when a person with white skin first made me feel inferior because of my black skin.  She called me "black" on a school bus.  Hissed it.  Because I took a seat she thought rightfully belonged to her.  I still remember her icy eyes, staring at me in hate, as if any triumph I could ever feel would always be marred by the body I was in.  I knew what it felt like to be judged before I said a word.  To be presumed guilty and have to prove my innocence.  To be presumed ignorant and have to prove my intelligence.  I am hard on my boys because I want to protect them but the reality is my protection can be suffocating. I am chipping away at their beautiful spirits.  The parts of their humanity that introduced themselves even as infants, as their skin first parted the air in this new world.  I've become so consumed with how this world will react to them, I almost forgot to nurture and respect how they will react to the world. How they might even change it. 

I want my children to be free. In order to do that, I may have to be one of the ones to step out of their way. 

Thank you for your words, Mr. Coates.


Love and Light,
Faye

You may say, I'm a dreamer

For Mother's Day this year, I bought myself a bike.  I planned on getting my old one fixed but a very effective salesman picked up on me salivating over a gold Trek calling my name as soon as I walked in the door and was relentless until I practically walked my old one to the dumpster. 



I always loved riding bikes.  Ever since I was a little girl I loved the feel of the wind rushing against my face and the burn in my little legs as I pedaled as fast as I could up and down my block.  I realize now it's because it felt like flying... and I have always wanted to fly. 



Since Mother's Day I have been flying all around my neighborhood.  I discovered this amazing lake surrounded by trees and 2.5 mile paved loop that I go around and around kicking up dirt, pushing through hills, and breathing in the air.  I go early.  Just when the sun is settling into the sky and grass is still damp from the morning dew.  I watch rabbits hop through the blades of grass. Turtles sludge their way through the mud and I marvel at how far the trees wind up into the sky.  I love the rhythm of the joggers, the sweet dance of the pensive elderly and discovering delicious places where its just me and the stillness of the lake.



We are living in scary times.  Nine souls lost senselessly in Charleston.  Churches are burning.  Flags are flying. I am afraid for my children.  For the world they will inherit.



When I ride, I am reminded of the beauty.  The beauty in life that is bigger than us. Bigger than our skin that binds our souls.  Farther than our eyes can see. And stronger than our hate, our anger and our fear.

When I ride, I fly. 

Love and Light,
Faye

VIDEO: Howard County Author Reception

I had a wonderful evening meeting authors and readers at the Miller Branch of Howard County Library in Ellicott City, MD! Here is a video of my short speech. Thanks to all those who stopped by my table and purchased books.  Don't forget to write a review and let me know what you thought!  I had a wonderful night.



Love and Light,
Faye

Howard County Library Author Reception

Tonight, June 22, 2015, I will be at the Howard County Author Reception selling and signing copies of Boyfriend ! The event begins at 7pm at 9421 Frederick Rd Ellicott City, MD.  I am so excited to mingle with other authors and readers.  I hope to see you there!

Love and Light,
Faye