Musings East of the River

Obsession and Reverence

Originally written November 17, 2009 for Creative Writing with T. Medina.

Obsession and Reverence*
By: Mahoganie Jade Browne

he was taught to pray three times a day.
Sunrise. Afternoon. Dusk.
Sometimes East. Sometimes West.
No true religion.
Just fun and games.
Until…

he stubbed his toe.
Lost everything to friend and foe.
Bare.
Cursing.
he walked away, feeling forsaken
Thinking.
he did his share of proper worship.  
Asking.
What had he done to trigger what he had wrought?

No reflections in the dark.
No echo.
No sound of his own breathing.
The open space rang loud and clear.
Empty.
Like his prayers.

Suddenly playing church wasn’t an option anymore.

*Title taken from Lloyd McNeill’s painting “Obsession and Reverence” (1963) currently on display at Howard University’s School of Fine Arts Art Gallery

11pm

Winter Wonderland or La petite mort

*A musing on writing exhaust and motherhood*

It’s a struggle to get these thoughts out. I convinced myself I needed to write to get me going again. Since Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I’ve been feeling as if I’ve been in a daze. As if my body and mind has reached it’s highest level of excitement and activity that it can’t do anymore…at least not at this time. Still I have four more papers to complete before the close the of the semester, plus some editing and writing duties for the publication that is officially launching.. err ummm this week!!! (EEK!)

I didn’t realize how busy and how truly drained I have been since August. From writing two to three papers just about every week, to writing creatively for Medina’s class and even throwing in some journalism duties PLUS coming home to take care of whatever issues there, I should be half out my mind. Still I’m in tact. A long time ago this would have drowned me. I would have given in to defeat and sat on the sidelines, again prolonging my “college career.” But a force stronger than me has kept me afloat. I’ve just lived up to my end as far as the work goes.

This year I didn’t formulate any real thoughts on Thanksgiving. I was just thankful for the second year in a row that the “Ides of November” wasn’t looming - death, depression, sickness, over blown drama - and I was able to spend Thanksgiving with the ones I love. The day after met me with an incredible body crash. I managed to get up early with the Snickerdoodle and give her breakfast and watch her favorite shows with her. However, for the most part I stayed on the couch with one eye on the Snickerdoodle as she played and another trying to talk me into a full fledge sleep. Stayed away from my computer and for the most part my Blackberry; though I did send and received a couple of text messages. I did get a couple of cat naps in, but once the Snickerdoodle was in bed for the night, I wasn’t far behind.

I slept a deep, dreamless sleep. The best.

Saturday met me with such energy. I knew I still had work to complete, but the computer just didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t fret over it at all. I spent the day helping my father dig out Christmas decorations and few other items from the storage shed. I did find a few goodies that once belonged to me as a kid that I’m now giving to the Snickerdoodle.

So this red chair was wrapped up and towards the back of the storage shed. Apparently my grandfather gave this to me when I was about 2 or 3 years old. Of course I looked it and said the Snickerdoodle had to have this. She saw it and couldn’t wait to sit in it.

Then there was my “Dressy Bessy” doll; the doll that helps you understand how to zip, button, snap and tie. I think this was my favorite find for the Snickerdoodle. After I gave Bessy a good spin around the washing machine, to brighten her up, the Snickerdoodle hasn’t been able to put her down. She loves this, which is a bit of shock to me. Usually the Snickerdoodle doesn’t play with dolls at her. She’s more for toys with actions and that makes noise. Then again, with Bessy there is action as you zip, snap, tie and button.

By the end of the day I was tired. My whole body ached. Energy was gone. I took a bubble bath and headed straight for the bed. I was nearing my deep sleep when the Snickerdoodle awoke in the middle of the night. For whatever reason she wasn’t  trying to go back to sleep. She wasn’t ill, but I knew she too was tired having a long day playing outside. Still she fought sleep and made space in my bed for her, her blankie, and Bessy. I made several attempts for her to go back to sleep, but none was working.

Soooooo.

We had an impromptu slumber party as we watched a couple of movies on OnDemand Shrek and Sesame Street’s Follow That Bird (a classic from my generation when I was like… 5) The Snickerdoodle stayed up and watched both movies and still fought to go back to sleep. Nevertheless by 4:30 am she was too tired to fight and my body felt like it wanted to slap the crap out of me for not sleeping. Once I knew for sure the Snickerdoodle was sleep (in her own bed), I collapsed back into my bed, falling into a deep repose until the house phone rang around 8 am. Then my cell phone rang no later than that.

I hit ignore for both calls and went back to sleep.

My body and mind had grown just that tired. Even now.. as it’s only inching towards 3:30 in the afternoon, my bed seems to be calling. Just one more day of sleep and I’ll be ready to finish out the last week of classes and the next week of a final exam, plus the last two papers that are due. 

3pm

The Melody Hearing Her Song

Within the past few weeks, Medina has been pressing the class to go deeper with our writing. The first couple assignments were reactions pieces or poems/prose we were to construct based on artwork by an African-American artist we individually choose. There was an “I Am From…” assignment where we have to look within and create a piece illustrating where we are from and then there was the one due today; the soundtrack of your life.

When the “soundtrack” assignment was given, immediately I thought back to the tag line I created for my blog years ago.

“A Melody In Search of a Lyric.”

How convenient this would come to mind? At the first opportunity I got I wrote down: I’m a melody. Everyone that enters my life one way or another is a lyric…creating a neverending bittersweet symphony.

The whole weekend I pondered over it more. Eventually last evening I sat down and began listening to music. Somehow Alicia Keys’ latest single “Doesn’t Mean Anything,” struck a cord that caused my thoughts to flow. I began writing. What I ended up with I presented in class.

In Search Of….
By: Mahoganie Jade Browne

A melody in search of a lyric.
Deaf to the harmony already rumbling in the background.
Blind to the words facing her.
A Bittersweet Symphony she was escaping.

“We got your sex and your violence. Melody and Silence.”

Being a Soulful Moaner, she wailed.
Most times out of a lustful fit that soothe the pain.
Other times out of  the need to be.  

 Always looking to others to write her song; from Donnie crooning on about A Song For… “Her” to taking on the Shapeshifter’s Theme to Lola and rewriting it Blackveleteen’s Theme knocking off Lenny.
It’s just as Springsteen and Manfred Mann’s Band said, she was Blinded By The Light.

 A melody in search of a lyric.
Stumbling onto a blank score.
Unknowingly setting the time signature to a never ending composition.
From six-eight to four-four.
From the blue note to the highest praise pitch.
Perhaps rococo
Never a strophic.

Vivid rhythms conjuring faces.
Attracted to the distinct flow.
Co-writing the symphony of her life.

The room fell silent for a minute and then heads nodded in agreement. I could tell everything was thinking, but didn’t know what to say. Medina cut the silence by asking me to read it backwards…..

Co-writing the symphony of her life.
Attracted to the distinct flow.
Vivid rhythms conjuring faces.

Never a strophic.
Perhaps rococo
From the blue note to the highest praise pitch.
From six-eight to four-four.
Unknowingly setting the time signature to a never ending composition. Stumbling onto a blank score.
A melody in search of a lyric.

It’s just as Springsteen and Manfred Mann’s Band said, she was Blinded By The Light.
Always looking to others to write her song; from Donnie crooning on about A Song For… “Her” to taking on the Shapeshifter’s Theme to Lola and rewriting it Blackveleteen’s Theme knocking off Lenny. 

Other times out of  the need to be.
Most times out of a lustful fit that soothe the pain.
Being a Soulful Moaner, she wailed.  

“We got your sex and your violence. Melody and Silence.”

A Bittersweet Symphony she was escaping.
Blind to the words facing her.
Deaf to the harmony already rumbling in the background.
A melody in search of a lyric.

Almost in unison the class let out whispers of excitement and approval. Even I couldn’t hide the fact that the words were more like me… a bit abstract, yet a bit transparent. A living metaphor.  

It took everything within me not to cry in their presence. My life.. plain as day…

9pm

Industry Fatigue?

Last week my school held their annual job fair for those in the communications field. In years before, there has always been a good turn out of both internship/job seekers and recruiters/companies from all sectors of the communications realm. In those years I was always excited to go, especially once I reached the junior and (quasi) senior level, because really that is who the fair is intended for. However freshman and sophomores can attend to browse the exhibit booths and sit-in on the various information sessions lead by a panel.

This year, the closer the date came for the fair, the more disenchanted I had become. Originally I chalked it up to be the so-called “mother hen” on campus, having “been there and done that,” here I am a near 30 year old scrambling with 19, 20, 21 year-olds for internship and job possibilities. My energy level for the whole scene seemed…well…low. It couldn’t have gotten any lower when I received an email confirming a pre-scheduled interview with a prestigious newspaper that is based in another city and state, but has a DC bureau. Actually I perked up a bit only because I saw a little light of actually doing some work with this paper at their DC bureau, but I was still discouraged that I wasn’t pre-scheduled with nearly as many interviews I use to bag from previous fairs.

I honestly felt something was wrong with me and perhaps my resume. Though I’ve revamped my resume countless times over the past year, my work in the journalism/communications field is so broad. My heaviest concentration is in print/news editorial, but I’ve had a touch of public relations, technical writing and even creative writing - bios, synopsis writing. Nevertheless, the week caught me in a hectic state as I had four papers to work on and turn in, plus doing preps for the interview. I even worked on changing my attitude about it all and figured that I never know what may come out of this meeting.

The day of the fair was nasty with rain, but people from my school and other HBCUs from near and far came ready in their suits and armed with portfolios. I was in the mix, running back and forth between classes I had mid-term exams in and the fair. When I finally settled in at the fair I noticed how there wasn’t really a good number a companies this year.  There were big time companies that had uber long lines of folks waiting to be interviewed and other companies with small to non-existent lines. MY prestigious newspaper had no line, but every now and then a person was in the chair being interviewed. When my turn came I sat down and before I could really get into the meat or the crux of what I’m all about, the elderly white man looked at me, my resume and told me that if I were to intern with them I would need more experience with a daily newspaper. Outside of the work I did in 2001 with a local newspaper, anything else has been on a freelance basis and obviously not really daily, though deadlines were tighter.

Surprisingly I didn’t feel shot down by his words. I understood, just as I understood later (via our discussion) that any work I would do for them (internship or employment) would be done in their home base office, especially since they are ”shaving” their DC bureau staff considerably. Honestly, I don’t think it’s the right time for me to pick up and move with the kiddo to another state, especially for just an internship.  We shared a few little laughs in between, he handed me his business card and that was that. However, what took place after was a little uplifting.

I walked around that ballroom for a fourth time, looking through the program book at the profiles of the various companies. I check marked the ones I thought would be of interest. However, after further inspection I learned that though booths were open, a majority were ONLY open to the ones with pre-scheduled interviews. So that knocked off the main booth I wanted to visit…. DC’s local NBC affiliate/NBC Universal. Though I had it check marked, I almost walked by the local ABC affiliate.  since I saw someone having an interview. However, there were two people manning the table. My body stopped dead in its tracks before I could even have a conversation with my brain on if I should or shouldn’t stop.

I read through some of their material and picked up their sheet announcing openings. In that instant the lady behind the table sparked a conversation with me. Turns out she is part of the HR department. I asked her were their any openings for a person like me who has more print experience than broadcast. I would be interested in working in the newsroom writing up the stories. Her exact response,

“Baby we got any kind of position you are looking for.”

We talked a little more, I handed her my resume and few other items as we discussed a friend of hers that is head of a non-profit and in need of a writer. I even did the ultimate; name dropped my godsister who works for them in their newsroom; anything for a little edge. She lit up. She knew her. She pulled out a post-it, placed it on my resume and began taking notes. I breathed a little sigh of relief.

By the end of the day as I did a little reflection, I pondered over what exactly has the so-called recession done to the print journalism industry. Newspapers are shutting down or consolidating their staff/resources as there is this shift towards “new media;” really.. all electronic news. Once, my good friend Erin, who is a photojournalist, and I were having a discussion about such. I will never forget her comment.

“[the industry] is only dying if people in the industry aren’t willing to change with it.”

I thought about her statement in relation to what I had just experienced at the fair. I wondered how open is the industry towards people like me, with such broad experiences. Shouldn’t the industry as a whole move to adapt to the change in the climate? One of the most enlightening experiences I had was back in April, when I visited the web operations of the Washington Post. There is a team of people, with a grouping of web design, technical invention, writing and overall creative talent that the publication allowed this team to morph and work together creating a new job (and maybe a new division) of the web version of the paper. I met the team and fell so completely in love with their work. I craved to be on such a team.

A las, going back to the fair, I was shut out with the out of state prestigious newspaper before I could even open my mouth about what I can offer. I figured, their loss and again, not my time to make a sudden move to another state right now anyways.  I also wondered was the whole thing about the job fair set up for those of us in the print journalism world to fail.  The bulk of the companies present were of marketing and public relations…selling. Maybe it’s the present day enrollment of communication schools; maybe there are a higher number of students interested in the marketing, public relations medium. However, where does that leave us who are straight up journalist (broadcast and print)?  I actually overheard a young fellow journalism major describe his pre-scheduled interview as just “okay.” He too was a little dismayed that the fair seemed to be bit more aimed at the marketing and public relations students. However, like me, he figured he would participate anyways because he didn’t know where the opportunities of the day would lead.

As I’m getting older and facing the last days of my undergraduate studies, I can’t help but to figure out how to step up my game. Competition is uber fierce. I’ve been proven this time and time again; even as recent as loosing a freelance bid with a local publication. Graduate school is still on my mind. Yet, I have so much to decipher being a single mother (of one). What is practical? What is economical? What is meant to be?

Lately I’ve been feeling fatigued, but trying to stay motivated. That’s MY hardest challenge; not giving into the slightest fatigue. However, I don’t want to become burnt out. It’s my fear. I’ve been there and done that. Not a pretty place to be. Again, for me it’s all about balance. Yet in my world, my balance can be easily thrown off with matters outside of school.   

A classmate of mine, who is an older lady that is also a former student returning, that hardly knows me, listened to me tell my thoughts on the job fair. Without blinking or missing a beat she said,

“I have complete and utter faith you will be fine. God has something out here for you. “

I usually feel weird when a stranger or a person who doesn’t know me fully tells me something like this. It comes off as common rhetoric that has no value. But when that lady spoke those words I didn’t feel as such. I found myself agreeing and believing. I guess that’s step one of stepping up my game; actually believing.

Step 2?

Work.

6pm

YouTube posting by cemkan34

Simply because I can’t get the song out of my head.

8pm

Artistic Plane

I’m in an artistic mood but not sure where to start. Ok… maybe I have an idea. I’m working on a creative writing project for my class with Medina. It’s our Mid-term. The project is to take about 20 shots (pictures) and create a narrative from the pictures taken. I had so many ideas for this project, but each one foiled. Mainly I wanted to shoot pictures of my grandmother’s move. Her life has been my muse lately. Unfortunately, the house she is moving to isn’t quite ready yet. The move is postponed.

I pulled out my old (late 80’s) Nikon 35mm. Not an automatic, but the professional kind. Back in the day I use to take shots, mainly in black and white, and developed the prints myself. I dabbled in and out of it as I attended different workshops and even on my own. I even went back into in high school as I spent one school year taking pictures for the yearbook.  I looooove that Nikon better than any digital. For that I’m truly an “Analog Girl In a Digital World.”

When my original idea foiled I pondered the idea of another upcoming event. My cousin “T’s” fashion line debute. She held a private fashion show and party at the Studio Gallery in Dupont Circle, with invited family, guests and few press folks. It was a hit!! I have never been so proud of my cousin as I was Saturday. Literally, I was moved to tears (which I choked back - I couldn’t let my eye makeup give me away).

029_29

I managed to take much needed black and white shots and had them developed the next day. I’m shocked how interesting and nice they turned out; considering I’m still an amature at this and hadn’t touched the Nikon in light years. I’m not even gonna get into how it took me a moment or two to figure out how to load the camera. Once I finished a roll I had to remember where the release button was located to allow me to roll the film back in the film canister before opening the back. After one wasted roll of film, a few out of focus pictures and a few pictures with off balance lighting, I forgot how the whole process gives me a rush! I went out and bought more black and white film for more pictures to take - for my own leisure, projects.

Aside from the picture taking A LOT has been placed on my plate and I’m still trying to find a balance in all of the madness. On one hand I love it, because I’m immersing myself in work that I love doing, but the flip side is.. trying my damn hardest not to succomb to my distractions and not neglecting those in my life who are very important and dear to me. Of course the biggest one of all…my daughter. 

I probably shouldn’t worry too much about my Snickerdoodle, since she is in good hands while I’m drowning in reading material for classes, writing papers, writing and editing articles and whatever else I have going on. I get a sense that at two years old, my Snickerdoodle has some of my streak of independence. On one hand she’s attached to me -she’ll crawl in my bed in the middle of the night. However, she is quick to tell me “Buh Bye” - such as Sunday in church when I dropped her off in the in the children’s Sunday school and she told me “bye” before I could rush back upstairs to the sanctuary.

So again.. I need not worry too much about the Snickerdoodle.  

IMGP1545

But getting back to this artistic aura that has been around me lately…. It’s funny. I had been crying about lack of inspiration and motivation and in the last month or so an abundance of what I’ve been lacking and crying out for has hit me.

A couple of weeks ago Medina asked us to write a Creed, based on why do we write. I took some time to think about why do I write and tried to form it into a creed. Here’s what I came up with.

“There’s the gift, there’s the spirit & there’s the work. All three have to come together. If one of those things are off, it can stop you from becoming who you were meant to be” - Jay-Z Oct. 2009 issue of O Magazine

The Gift:

For it was bestowed upon me to carry a tradition. It’s by divine touch to have such a legacy flow through the blood line; from grandparents to grandchildren. This inheritance is rich with vivid imagery, a plush vocabulary and a background harmony singing lullabies helping to see and feel. For the mission is bigger than me and beyond my understanding. For the words entertain, heal, soothe, inspire, liberate, anger, teach, help and captivate.  The art of writing is one of power. I shall not take this lightly journalistically or creatively.

The Spirit:

The spirits of pure and evil are there. Yet it’s the pure that I seek and long to keep. For evil uses my voice, the gift, as a weapon sharper than any known to man. For I pray and pledge not to be led astray, to find friend or foe slain or arrested by my hidden weapon. May nothing but positive influence and true conviction bleed ink.

The Work:

It is understood that nothing is handed to me freely and without consequence. For I have received this gift and must make use of idle hands and idle time. For it takes more than just having the gift and letting the passion fester. Passion must be allowed to be the driver. For once it is allowed to drive falling in love with the craft and the tools are comprehensive. The work will deliver unto itself when passion is allowed to live aloud and able to drive.

10pm

Working Class Hero v2.0

The following is my written response/reaction to John Lennon’s Working Class Hero.

Colors or Untitled
By Mahoganie Jade Browne

I wish I could make everyone see what I see. Sometimes it’s easy to verbally paint it verbatim; how the four-four timing matches perfectly with the yellow, red and orange glow of the setting of the sun. A praise as soulful moaners wail about surviving another day, another task completed on earth. It’s beautiful thing to see shades of pink go hot to a cold magenta; or even shades of red, the color of life, flow and spill soiling the land to breathe new life. If I could only bring out the smell of green, not found in everyday vegetation, but one that reminds me of my old Afghan hound that would lie about on a piece of carpet after a bath. Even so, it can be hard to even paint such a picture as the tongue is bound by its own saliva. Leaving only its owner to choke up and keep all they witness and learned to themselves.

There are those that will never get it; having written me off as a bohemian without a care in the world. They know all the answers. They know the way to happiness.

 “Have you got good religion?”

 “Why certainly I do.”

A look at my tattoo and a peek at my words, I’m seen as the black ink blotch sneaking and snaking my way into naked holes on their invisible white cloth. Cunning are my words where they have taken my propaganda for truth and my truth for lies. Keeping virtual theatrical appeal to keep them guessing. As I am a smear of ink left to dry, they have already been made permanent in blue. Marked for the government to work for the people. Robots and puppets with no view of dawn or the setting.

Perhaps it’s true we need our government. I applaud those who are truly called to work it.  But I mourn for those who don’t see what I see. Not for me, but for them. So much more than Blue. I desperately want them to try another hue.

Then again who am I?

Just another crazy bohemian in their eyes.

3pm

I created this “scene” in response to a piece read during my creative writing class with poet Tony Medina. The poem was called Mermaid Song by Kim Addionizio

www.poemhunter.com/poem/mermaid-song/

Our assignment was to create the scene via snapping a photo or drawing one - based on the poem.

Though my own child likes to pose for a photo, I wanted to do something a lil bit more than to have try and recreat the picture presented in the poem.
I thought the shot was rather cute, so did a few of my classmates, one of which had to create a poem from my photo. 

10am

Sink or Swim

My spiritual journey has been one of highs and lows. Perhaps the reason it hasn’t been a constant plane is out of my own stubborn and controlling ways to which I haven’t given up my full trust and completely rely on my faith. There have been moments when I have just released myself, but more likely only after hitting rock bottom or out of my own hard headedness God has brought forth huge road blocks or signs to get my attention.

In regards to my writing, it has become evident and I’ll admit, I haven’t been using it to my full potential. Some time ago I realized I didn’t want to be writing just for the sake of it; creative or journalism wise. I always wanted to use this gift for the benefit of the greater good. I believe it’s time to “put the money where my mouth is” sorta speak. Since returning to school, I challenged myself to be a bit more disciplined in my journalism studies, regular studies and even in my creative writing. Last semester, through the rigorous finale of my journalism courses I stuck it out and saw the fruits of my labor. Not monetary wise, but in the satisfied looks and comments from my sources that I interviewed, my professor(s), my peers and myself.

Last semester knocked the wind out of me and I spent much of the summer on cruise control. While I did produced a few more [freelance] articles, I felt spent and needed to breathe for a moment. Maybe a moment too long, because by the start this semester I found myself hitting the ground running in finishing up these last courses for my minor - African American Studies - before being declared a graduate. However, not before the end of the summer one of my journalism professors [an editor of a major magazine] tapped me to join in on a [paid] project; launching a national publication that will be operated by and through the school. Of course I jumped on board, but only to feel a little lost over the summer in my duties, since we’re starting from the ground up.

As school started two weeks ago, I met with the professor and another young lady on board for the project. We hashed out our ideas, discussed the foundation that started forming before the end of last semester and the next phase of moving things through. After the meeting I felt so energized and excited, but even still I have slacked [not intentionally] in getting my part done at the moment. My semester is chock-full of writing and reading. Not to mention, coming home to a two-year-old that loves your attention after haven’t seen you all day long on two days of the week and half a day on the rest of the days. So I’m struggling a bit in finding a balance. Right now my brain feels a bit helter skelter.

Even in the midst of this, another call has been extended to me. God via my pastor is calling. Many moons ago - well maybe not that long ago - I worked on the “newsletter ministry” at my church. My pastor caught wind that I was in school for journalism and thought it would be a good idea for me to serve as editor of the newsletter. At the time I was only 20 and worked with a team of folks that were much older than me. In the end, some folks had issues with my decisions about certain things and though I tried to work with them it got nasty. Like - I’m sending you an email and CCing the pastor nasty. So I quit the ministry and the newsletter was defunct for a while. It was revived again sometime later but didn’t last long.

Since the time I quit my mother has been on me about reviving the newsletter for the church. So nearly three weeks ago when she told me the pastor wanted me to call him about the newsletter, I thought it was another ploy my mother was pulling to make her thoughts known. Just in case, I did call the pastor, but not immediately though; try three days later. I know.. bad.

Nevertheless, I was faced with his voicemail inbox, so I left a message. A couple of days later my mother asked had I called. I told her I did and left a message. Her voice was laced with an urgent tone as she scrolled through her blackberry to pull up the pastor’s cell number.

“He REALLY wants you on this. Call his cell. Don’t call the church.”

Without protest my mother’s Blackberry was pressed up against my ear as my pastor’s phone rang once and went to yet another voicemail greeting. I left another message. As that week’s Sunday came upon me, I went to church. I went up for alter call and the pastor spotted me, leaned into me and pretty much affirmed that he did need to speak with me when I had a moment. The end of church was hectic with people all around and my daughter getting a bit fussy because it was near lunchtime. So I left before having the needed conversation with my pastor.

Today after church I went up to speak with pastor. Ironically today’s sermon was about discipleship and going forth to spread/teach the word and message of God via however you are lead to do so, or moreso using the gifts/resources/talents/calling that God has bestowed upon you. I had already made up my mind that reviving the newsletter would have to wait until January, when I’m done with school for good. I mentioned this to my pastor today. He had a slight disappointed look, but then told me he was hoping to see something around November, but if he had to wait until January he would, because he didn’t want to interrupt my school-work. I told him I would see what I could do. Just before I bid him a good rest of the day, he turned to me and told me that he really wanted me to work on this for the church.

So many times I hear talk about being obedient to the word… being obedient to God period. Part of me believes this isn’t some random coincidence that projects are coming my way and even something pertaining to my church home. I do believe it’s all about helping me further grow in this realm of writing and even as a person. However, when it came to my church I’ve been wrestling for the longest about feeling out of place. My church is the same church I grew up in. My parents were married there, I was dedicated and baptized there. I sang in the choir, been on many retreats, fellowshipped in many ways with my extended family - my church family. Still, at some point of my adult life I felt out of sorts or out of place and lost as times were changing inside the church and even with me.

My current spiritual journey has been one of baby steps, prayer and me trying to be disciplined with a lot of things. Which is why the other part of me is still the fearful me; me fearing failure - the insecure me that still creeps up. Now that I know in the past I wasn’t [fully] ready with some of my journalistic/creative endeavors, I’m nervous. Unsure if this time I’m ready. Deep down I feel that I’m ready, but on the surface I still feel like such a novice.

A couple months ago I posted a status on Facebook mentioning how I felt like such a novice. It generated a few comments, one in particular came from Brandon.

“You’re not a novice, but at the same time, you’re always learning. When you get to a point where you think you know everything, that’s when you don’t flourish.”

I feel it’s time to flourish. So I guess it’s time to be obedient. Learn through trial and error. After all, that’s the only way to grow. Now if I can only completely kick these insecurities and fears of succeeding out of my life. *umph*

11pm

Verbal Assassination to the Heart

Today my heart cringed as the ultimate verbal assassination took place in front of me.

It was day two of the [final] semester. One class in particular, I’ve been thirsting for. You see, once upon a time, I took a poetry class taught by the infamous poet Tony Medina. It was during the spring 2005 semester, before I took my personal sabbatical from school. At the time I didn’t know how much of a big deal Medina is until students who weren’t even registered for the class broke their necks to sit in on a session to watch and listen. I loved every moment of that hour and 20 minute class. It was my time and space to sink into my Aquarius Abyss and pull out from depths unknown hidden words. I loved the books he had us read; a poetry book by Audre Lourde and another by Nikki Finney. He even shared some of his own published work, including the then newly anthology he co-edited “Def Jam Presents: Bumrush The Page.”

I still recall the day an arrogant I’m-so-full-swag-I-can-spit-a-poem-in-two-seconds-and-serve-you dude dared to challenge Medina. Little did he know who he was dealing with and ended up being [respectfully] told off. It was also here where he talked about how old school poets like him and Nikki Giovanni will go to an open mic and will show respect by staying until the last poet has spoken.

As we “urban” folks say.. he dropped jewels.

Today he dropped more jewels as nearly eight of us wanted to know our fate for the Creative Writing Workshop class. It seems that since Medina’s first days on Howard’s campus, he’s become very selective in who he allows to register for his classes. During registration, his classes are always listed as open, but are blocked, unless he authorizes. This is part of his process to see who is serious and who is just plan ol’ bullshitting.

To start the process he went around the room asking us a few not-so-random things, but mainly what are some things we like to read. I watched his expression become a little perplexed and intrigued at the same time as two classmates expressed their not-so-fondness towards reading. Both mentioned they do read but one, however, claimed it would depend on whatever the literature is and if forced to read, she would, but other wise she wasn’t enthused. The other said the ultimate as he expressed how reading is still pretty much “illegal” in his eyes because society still doesn’t think it’s cool to read. When Medina asked him to name a poet, his only response was Lauryn Hill. Granted “L-Boogie” can flow and drop knowledge on a whole slew of so-called rappers/hip-hop artists out here, but as Medina pointed how there is a sure fire guarantee that she’s read something, she’s studied someone. Medina asked the young fella has he heard of Sonia Sanchez.

Answer: no.

Shots fired!

Ears Ringing!

I heard a confused sigh released from another classmate. My own heart stopped and my guts, teeth..entire body cringed. Without warning, I didn’t realize I was ready to rip into this 21 year old, until Medina beat me to it and I felt my body relax. Again Medina dropped jewels as he explained to the entire group, but mainly to the two non-enthused readers, that in order to become a good writer you have to read, study the art form, READ other writers & poets. He pretty much reiterated something he shared with the poetry class I took that ‘05 semester; when your thoughts are dry, go to the well. It’s a lesson I NEVER forgot and ALWAYS carry with me.

The “Forced Reader” took offense and became somewhat defensive. Medina softened his tone a bit in order for her to see his point - it’s pretty much a painter telling someone he paints but can’t explain his craft. We spent the whole class time talking about the importance of reading, especially as it pertains to a writer or someone who aspires to write. At some point Medina felt compelled to share his experience when he fell in love with reading, which helped him realize he wanted to be a writer. He made the point that his home life growing up wasn’t filled with books. It took a teacher from the 9th grade to almost fail him for not doing a book report for him to pick up a book - Flowers for Algernon - and read.  

As the discussion rolled on, I couldn’t help but wonder what is with some of the folks in my generation who are younger than me and teeter on the borderline of being in someone else’s generation. You would think, being on anyone’s college campus that one would want to seek and even have a thirst for as much knowledge as possible that reading shouldn’t even be a question nor a chore. Yet, in the past year since I’ve returned to campus I’ve notice something that kind of bothers me, that goes beyond taking a college education for granted. Intellectual laziness.

I noticed this last semester as I finished up my journalism courses and was pretty much in an intense, almost journalism boot camp world. It was only just a few years earlier, that our instructors expected and demand so much from us journalism students that we frequently gave 110 percent PLUS. Yet, during a time when I had to serve as an editor of one of the school run publications, I noticed how a lot of “reporters” were turning in regurgitated stories from other news sources (ugh!!) or opinionated pieces and not going deeper; like finding a new angle to a story while staying objective.

Granted the population of Howard is large (not sure of exact number), so I know not ALL of us are suffering from this sleepiness, but I have to ask of those that are feeling it, where is your quest for a challenge? Where has education “failed” you?

Then a general question: Why have we, descendants of slaves and civil rights children have taken EDUCATION, especially READING so lightly or for granted? As Medina pointed out, this sleepiness or laziness to read is generally across the board, but when it comes to US, the children of Linda Brent, Ella Baker, Frederick Douglass, W.E. B. Dubois.. and even from Sarah Bartmann you would think we would have a greater appreciation for it….

There are some of us who get it and some of us who don’t.

Today, my heart actually bled for those that don’t.  

Shots Fired…..

12am