Mixed feelings in September

Whew! This has been one long extra boring week, however TGIF. I went out on Monday and enjoyed the view, had a little doubt after I left my appointment for future work and I suppose I carried that energy all week. Because I was unsure of the right strategy to solve a problem, I somehow became incompetent. I felt indifferent because I should have known the answer. I know now that I stored that feeling of self-worth in my subconscious and rendered myself depressed. The three days after that was a drag as I moped around the house unable to shake myself and this heavy weight loose. I listened and read even avoided social interaction thinking that it was people I was becoming tired of. I found myself questioning purpose, health and sanity, my three biggest fears. I even went through a few vinyasas thinking that of course “centering” myself would alleviate this for lack of words, pain. But I soon realized that to come to the yoga mat with any feeling of negativity is a waste of time and only prevents and prolongs the healing. I went for a long walk with my sons and I believe a little light began to shine through this dark soul. I’d had enough of this feeling that I was in that I ran to my first love, Christ. I couldn't’t bare another night of sleeplessness that made the day’s quest for sleep inescapable. I had exhausted myself and my very limited abilities and knew the only way out of this was to take it to the father. I let go and released all the weight of the past week into the lap of my savior. I told God that it was too much for me and that I needed his strength. I told him that I could not or rather did not want to experience another one of these days. I took a deep breath and was sound asleep. A few hours later I woke up because my room lacked a midnight cooling I’d become so accustomed to living in the city by the lake. I rose but commanded myself to be at peace and found myself back in dreamland. Though I cannot recall any of the contents of my dream I am glad because it means I slept well. When I did finally did wake, I went for another brief walk to get my new day going and I must say I felt good. My only concern is why did I let this linger for so long and where was my faith sooner? This has a lot to do with my sometimes inability to let things go, but we will discuss that later. In all, today really is a new day, and writing is how I give thanks, because I am present which means I matter. Thank you God….

One day on the bus

Sometimes I wonder why is there so much ignorance amongst my so- called “people?” Why is it that when we are confronted with another perspective, to highlight our shame we, hate on another person. How come instead of asking the other person about their ways, we assume and stereotype. We label each other based our outer appearance and assume, assume, and assume that the difference has to be because they are wrong and we of course are always right. I have lived in Chicago my entire life and have watched what ‘street life’ does to so many people, my family included. I have seen that so called having street knowledge lead one to jail, abandon his family and end up a statistic. I have felt the grip of molestation. I have seen first hand those around me turn to drugs and alcohol to cope with life’s issues. I have also decided to be a responsible parent and not let my children become victims of street-life. This is for many a topic of discussion, and subject to scrutiny. I walk in a certain air, thinking that I am a little better than what’s around me, and for that I come off arrogant. This is only because I choose to have a different perspective in and for my life. I choose to do things a little differently, and I also choose to show and give my children more than what I have. Some might say that I am sheltering them this is not the case. For where we have lived for the last six years is as bad as it gets, and yet I try to take my children out of this environment to show them more, that there is more to life than hanging in the streets, having illicit sex, rapping and basketball. I have intentionally crafted a life for them simply by exposure to the arts, that will enable them to dream a little bigger and want for a little more than a good paying job. I graduated from college so my children could walk in pride knowing they have the same opportunity, I afforded. I am a first generation college graduate in my family because my parents wanted more and I want more for my children, is that so bad? I think not. In fact, if one were to sit and talk with me they would learn more about what really matters, Christ and the love he gave which is why I have an obligation to serve him by obedience in raising my children in the way they should go so they will not depart…is that so bad? Again, I say no! To those that think otherwise, I pray for your soul, I pray that you get the same chance to empower your children that I have and that you also teach them the ways of Christ. I hope that your soul finds rest with Christ…Amen

Morning Commute

“The next stop will be 79th street. Doors open on the left at 79th street. Standing passengers, for your safety please do not lean against the doors,” the invisible automated male voice spoke. Amongst the silent colorful shades of brown faces staring aimlessly at the traffic flow outside the train windows, a middle aged man stumbles into their commute. His unshaven face is dark and tight, a sign of hard living unmatched by the warmth of his brown eyes. The red baseball cap covering his bald head reads in white letter’s “Guaranteed Before You Leave” an unfamiliar declaration unmatched by the common daily pleas for loose squares, CD’s, DVD’s, bible-thumpers and loose changers that permeate the trains. Regardless of the length of the commute, count on a less than desirable stranger asking for, or selling an item that they feel you cannot live without. Unseen by the “I don’t want to go to work today, so please don’t say anything to me” colorful crowd is his mobile office paired with his supportive obliging wife of ten long years. Marcus’ shirt matched his hat, a bright logo of a white stove with two small pots spilling with what could be soup or stew on top of a silver speeding train, highlighted by his slogan. “Hmmm, never seen this before,” says the young teenager with her cell phone attached to her heavily pierced ear. She’s on her way to school, in her common uniform, blue pants and a white shirt which she has paired with her fur-trimmed boots and jacket. “Girl I’m gon’ call you back!” she says to her invisible phone friend. She pulls down her black and gold “Baby Phat” hoodie revealing a head full of shoulder length multicolored micro braids and a face that screams young and inexperienced by her bare eyes and glossy sparkly full lips.
Quickly Marcus gives his story, his time on the trains taught him to be honest with the public and no gimmicks or sob stories. With cold dry hands, lifted in the fluorescent-lit air, “Good morning everyone, we don’t mean no harm, just want to give you something warm. Flapjacks to Applejacks, eggs to toasted bread, guaranteed before you leave. Now folks, I’m no crook or ex-addict. I’m a husband and father of three. I’ve been to school and hopes to one day open my own place. My wife and I simply want to feed the streets with good quick eats. We’ve got it all and we make it good. For four-dollars we cook and you eat and like I said, we guarantee your food before you leave.” Marcus catches the attention of young urban professional man with dark Chanel shades sitting by the door and leans into him, careful not to open the portable oven strategically strapped to his back.
“Sir what will you be having today?”
The young man removes his shades showing his bright brown eyes, “You got any fresh fruit sir?”
“Sure young blood, anything else?”
“Perhaps your business card if you’ve got one.”
Angie, Marcus’ wife, who doesn’t look old enough to drive, is visibly smaller than her full size husband, leans over to pull out the fruit. She’s also wearing the red hat and shirt that her husband/business partner is wearing. She leans her petite body down reaching inside a side pocket on their oversized gym bag grabbing a sticker with their logo and contact info slapping it across the bag of fresh green grapes, red apples and oranges handing it up to her husband before tying it closed. Marcus hands the mesh bag to their first customer in exchange for a crisp ten-dollar bill.
“Thank you. Angie get this man his change.”
“Sure thing, honey.”

An elderly lady sitting across from the young man, peers over her reading glasses and watches the transaction waiting for some sign that this is just another person trying to hustle people out of their money. She is on her way to work and every morning there are people mostly men, selling things that she deems are a way to support a habit. Most days she is right, but this man seemed different. She decided to give him a try. She looked up at Marcus, “Uuhm, excuse me sir, do you have any toast?”
“Yes mam, white or wheat, butter or jelly, grape or strawberry?”
“Wheat with grape jelly hold the butter.” She says back.
As if speaking into a speaker at the back of a noisy diner, Marcus tells Angie the order and makes eye contact with the other passengers, to see if anyone else will want anything. He’s learned many things on the train, and one of those lessons taught him to multi-task. In the morning people are pure skeptics and they have to make decisions all day and the last thing they need in the morning, is another person asking for something or suggesting they think about where they will spend eternity. Quickly Angie hands Marcus a square Styrofoam box with two thick slices of wheat bread and a pat of jelly in the smaller inside square. Marcus hands it over to the lady; she gives him a five dollar bill and tells him, “Keep the change.” Marcus tells her “Thank you mam, it means a lot.” There was something different about Marcus, his hands were clean, his voice was clear and his eyes, there was something about his eyes that spoke a different story.

Character conflict intro

As the sun peeled into our bedroom, I felt the unfamiliar movements underneath my tightened skin. The crisp white sheets I preferred looked blue underneath its glare. I looked up at the clock on the armoire and noticed it was five am, the time when witches ran for cover and the angels assumed their defending position. Growing up with an over religious mother I’d learn to rise with the sun and pray to the silent God. My mother would stand over my sister and me teaching us how to act in public, amongst friends and strangers, at restaurants, socials to make sure we knew proper etiquette. She would place her right gloved hand on the middle of my back and with her left hand, pressed my shoulders down, “When you walk, stand or sit down, push your chest out and drop your shoulders” she would say in the sweetest voice. My mother walked as straight as a board. She walked as if she were a puppet on a string being led by a straight cord from her head to her toes down the middle of her back. I remember she smelled like sweet peaches when her thick air floated through our house. Mom slept in rollers and make-up. Before bed time, she would say while tying here dark hair in pink rollers, “The good Lord will not call me home and find me unprepared.” I never understood what she meant when she said things like, “Clean hands and a pure heart, got to have a flawless face and groomed hair” but figured she meant well. I pictured her standing at heaven’s golden gates harps twinkling praises and giant angels awaiting Sister Mom. The good Lord waiting for her while she primped and puckered her shiny lips. Mom never wore any color on her lips, she said if God wanted her to have red, pink or purple lips he would have painted them at birth and since he didn’t, all she needed was to have them shiny so people wouldn’t think she was a chapped lip heathen. I watched my mother take care of my father as if he were her king. I tried to be like her and do for Craig all that I knew how to do, but it didn’t seem to work.

3-to-5

Does it take three to five years
No, just three – five mil-lion
And a rod of strong
And a back to hold on
To when I feel like letting go
When every decision tells me no
When time won’t give me a dime
And my breath is quick but dry
When I’m against the wall
Ready to fall
And give up on all
The promises from before
Stole and lied to my naked soul

Does it take three to five years to get me
No, just three to five minutes and a apple tree
Whose seeds will continue to grow
As I show
Them the path of life
Untangled the cords of the fantasy wife

_____________________________________________
Just want to hit-replay
And give the love the husband says
Is all he really needs
To be alive
Not a fine woman with big hips by his side
But the one whose eyes told no lies
The one whose kitchen was fully stocked
And made sure he had clean white socks
Not the drama queen that lives in the mirror
So full of herself couldn’t plan for tomorrow
But the one whose faith overcame times of sorrow
The one whose voice warmed his soul and spilled pure love from a treasure worth gold
In waiting she remained content
Prayed for his soul with knees bent
No it does not take three to five years
But blood, sweat and tears
And a pocket full of pills
Purple please

Here's a brief snippet of some work we've done. This piece of fiction demonstrates the kind of work that will be displayed. Enjoy

The click clack of her heels down the bare floor middle aisle broke the silent candlelit air. It was first Sunday which meant communion and visitors. The regular members knew upon entering to light a white candle to offer atonement for the sins of the day or month since their last communion. Heads nodded and eyes closed as a silent request for forgiveness started the service. The flickers of the tiny flames surrounding the rear of the sanctuary, made the large building look majestic. Her red too-tight suit because she only wears it when she comes to church, which was at the last year’s Easter service, parted the crowd like the Red Sea. Her Winnie the Pooh baby bag scratched against her wide child bearing hips, everyone noticed but pretended not to by quickly turning away. When latecomers arrived, everyone took notice and instantly condemned them. “Look at her walking in here late, must have been out drinking last night... Well if it ain’t Mr. Bojangles strutting in that suit his dead mama got for him, knowing good well he was with that tramp last night,” stirred in the mouths of the always watching ushers seated at the back of the church. They were defined sinners because of their tardiness, a trait unassociated with the members and self- proclaimed ‘good Christians.’ When Ms. Sheila walked in late, everyone took note and imagined her doing some evil act that delayed her arrival. “Hmmm, she walks in her late and wearing red looking like a hooker” one of the ushers said as she wafted by. Ms. Sheila looked left and right at the faultfinding audience, catching sight of a vacancy near Karen up front on the second row.