WordStrummer

Farther Back

2009-07-09T15:46:00.004-04:00

I was on my way, searching through my Documents and Folders, to do something special with one of my projects (or at least hoping to), when I happened to click on this file. I forgave myself for the goofy bio I'd written after reading the two poems below it, and thinking, I wrote that? I like when that happens.

Haiku—Untitled

My ink bleeds through your

paper as I tattoo your

flesh with my kisses

Love, Unrequited: A Yearning

I see you in my reveries,

your topaz-hued skin, your eyes

a combination of evasion and curiosity.

I hear your voice

resonant with the rhythm of my passion.

You, silver-tongued and pragmatic,

flipped my world outside-in

(and I like it that way).

Your memory etched its home in the pages of my life

and I cannot uninvite you.

I need your company;

I want to feel the richness of your flesh alive against mine,

I want to slow dance to the sound of your voice

I want to finish your sentences

and pick up your thoughts;

I want to write you poetry

and give it to you at the mic.

I want your originality to accent my creativity

so that together

we can make sense of this world,

and make the best of our time in it.

I miss your kiss—

though I've never felt it before,

but I imagine it to be tender, yet burning

with the pain of want—

each time like it's the last time,

and I can't stop staring at you,

cocky, yet humble;

forever endeared to my memory.

JGH, 2004-05

Digging through the past

2009-06-30T12:17:00.003-04:00

As usual, I'm filing my thoughts away, reading and re-reading some of them as if they will recapture a moment long past. I thought I'd post something from a few years back. Hopefully I haven't posted this one already (man, my memory has gotten ter-ri-ble!).

The Running Man

He did the Running Man well

I couldn't tell

if he saw Me when he looked in my eyes

or only whom he wanted me to belie

My melancholic kisses

distanced him from his pain

a vortex in a fractured love triangle

I was cozy in his refrain

Lowered my guard

when he let me in through the back door

though we both knew he was unfit to love

I still wanted more

He hastily backed away

as if he heard my tacit plea to stay

The lemon menthol aftertaste

from his kiss

made me forget

he isn't mine to have

or keep

my loneliness seeps

in fitful tears

when I remember

he might not go far

but he won't be here.

JGH 2007

Magnetic Poetry

2009-05-30T18:19:00.001-04:00

imagine

wild rainbows

singing live

remember

wanting

to swim under

night cloud

and walk through

purple light

no more

silly love

Living or just alive?

2008-08-24T22:43:00.004-04:00

I had high hopes for 2008, so many hopes. The year is still in its prime, but hope is one of my friends who don't call anymore. Maybe if something actually happens I'll be pleasantly surprised. If not, it's just another Oh well.

But I did write something new.

Ceiling fans

we are in a room
that's not ours
living someone else's life
we've been moving in circles
going nowhere
anchored in place
the slight whir smothered
by sounds of other things
that actually
move
faux wood blades
determinedly propelling
but never lifting off
instead kept warm
by blankets of dust
and a pillowcase
of stale recycled air

JGH 2008

I Had a Dream

2008-08-04T13:42:00.005-04:00

So, call me crazy, and you might be telling the truth. But I've had this idea germinating for a while, and I have to believe it has merit. Just listen for a bit, and maybe you'll be believer, too.

Most people and most things have to hit rock bottom before they get better. Of course, the other consequence of hitting bottom is never standing again. But this is an optimistic view, and it's got wings. Let's fly together.

Two particular elements of what might be called "Black Culture" currently face a national crisis. It might sound melodramatic, but these are two art forms which have had indisputable influence within the community and beyond it for centuries. I'm talking about music and literature, and specifically about what is now called Hip Hop and the genre known as Street Lit. The paradigm is concurrent for Hip Hop (Lit); as the market grows, the mentality narrows, until it becomes a caricature of itself. It sounds harmless, and people may argue that at least 'black teens are reading' and at least 'they are making money legally'. But I beg to differ. So much, in fact, that my knees are kinda ashy.

This is a topic that I feel obligated to treat with kid gloves, because it may make me sound fuddy-duddy and like one of those back in the day types who mumble about how nothing's any good anymore. While it isn't, in the most obvious sense, that doesn't mean we're doomed. This, too, shall pass. But right now, we are in a crisis, and based on the popularity of music about lip gloss and Superman and books glorifying--if not glamorizing--street life, the hands of those who know better are handcuffed and tied. You can't tell the covers of CDs from the covers of the books; the books themselves read like hottest singles in rotation. None of it is saying anything worth listening. And it's all repetitive drivel.

Anticipating the response I'd get to that, I know, I don't have to listen or read. And worry not, because I don't. I refuse. But I refuse to give up hope.

Why is it such a big deal, you ask? Well, mainstream America has a time-tested pattern of pigeon-holing brown people. Not only pigeon-holing artists, actors, singers, rappers, and writers, but the everyday people who live here too. The way we allow ourselves to be portrayed in the media--hell, the way we sometimes portray ourselves--is giving the rest of the world license to believe we are all like that. I'm nervous about saying "Black Culture" in the first place, because it cannot be defined anymore than it can be confined. However, when the biggest sellers in film, music and "literature" are only movies and stories (and plays!!!) with cardboard box characters and mindless lyrics about sex, drugs, guns, and gettin' dat money, these hot-sellers eclipse the other folks and their talent. It also means--if you'll step out of context with me--that I can walk into a bar or lounge, and some guy who is not ::ahem:: my color, looks at me thinking I'm easy enough to spread 'em because everywhere you look the girls who look like me are all doing it. Sound far fetched? It just hasn't happened to you yet. The artists with something to say have to fight harder to stay on the shelves and in the box office (I know, I've expanded from music and books, but it's all related, with rappers acting and such). And sometimes the best comes in last.

I was watching the movie Talk to Me a few nights ago, and Dewey Hughes' character said something poignant. He told Vernell that he learned everything from watching the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and watching the show taught him that there was a world beyond the projects he'd grown up in. That's what media is supposed to do. And I'm afraid What's Hot Now is doing just the opposite. It's not taking us to new worlds, but giving us a tour of the same old. I don't fit into the worlds these "artists" are creating; I just can't relate, and I won't pander to their mentality by pretending I do. My guess is that there are thousands like me out there whose skin flips inside out when they're at the music shelves and reading bestseller lists, people who want more. I hope they, like me, are not ashamed of saying so.

I'm not ashamed because I have hope. This madness will end soon. I am not a fortune teller, so I can't say when it will end, but that I know it will. Everything gets worse before it gets better. There are people out there working on their masterpieces, and there are publishers and music execs who likewise, are looking for those masterpieces. So I hope that when my fellow writer friends (and myself) come out with fresh new stories about multi-dimensional people, and rappers/singers who can can make you use your head while you're noddin' it drop their CD, that all of us who know what's good will be in line to buy. Soon the New Day, y'all. Soon!

I just got my license renewed today

2008-08-04T13:34:00.002-04:00

OK, so the flow's been kinda regular, and that might be an understatement. Besides, I feel like I'm always saying that.

There's been a lot of activity up there--I wish I could say so much for the rest of me. I feel kind of sluggish.. But we're not here to talk about me. I've just finished a new poem, and thought I'd share it.

Know At All
She knows my face but not my eyes
I say I’m fine all the time
And she can’t discern the lie
Because she doesn’t hear me at night
That’s how I know
She sleeps harder than she believes
Even her mind can deceive
Love grows but doesn’t know
When a smile is a show
And she reacts to the scene
While I stand behind the screen
Not listening
She’s not listening to me
She wouldn’t understand the real thing
And fears what she doesn’t know
So I put on a show and
She doesn’t know that
She doesn’t know me

But don’t say anything
Say anything but that
Don’t say anything
Say anything but that

Strangers with the same face
What she sees as a waste
Happens to be my saving grace
She tries to pick me apart but can’t reach me
She can’t teach me
Anything
I haven’t learned on my own
This struggle is my own
This struggle is how I’ve grown
And she’s just like me
But doesn’t even like me
And I sometimes don’t like me
When I don’t like her
At all
We’re perfect because we are flawed
She can’t see
What she doesn’t want to know
And she can’t see what I choose
Not to show
And she may know who I am
But she really doesn’t
Know me at all

But don’t say anything
Say anything but that
Don’t say anything
Say anything but that
So I won’t say anything
Anything at all

JGH 2008

The Other One

2008-07-08T00:31:00.006-04:00

Ok, so I wasn't going to add this one for the time being. If at all. But I thought about it some, and after a strike through here and a changed metaphor there, I decided I've been too neglectful to indulge in such a luxury as teasing.

This one's called Morning Breath

3 AM
My pulse like hot glass
in ice water
still can't believe
the dead weight
lying across my shoulder
and the steady snore
in my left ear
are yours

Too scared that
you're just my pillow
again
arm half-numb and
eyelids bobbing
like debris
in the Wissahickon
I lay and watch
you dream

It's nearly dawn
and I leave you
with a soft agony
longing for the morning
I can awaken and inhale
your first breath
of the day
we spend together.

JGH 2008

A haiku (New)

2008-07-08T00:14:00.006-04:00

Excuse me for being so flaky...it's been a rather dry season.

It hasn't, comparatively speaking. I am slowly adjusting to the renewal (I'm trying to whisper so as not to scare off my muse) of my creativity.

Plus, it's summer, so I'm off (shout out to all the teachers!!!! Woot!), and well, there are no excuses to grasp. So, here's one of two poems I just wrote.

Intoxicating

If I could each day
imbibethe taste of your lips
rum would never do

JGH 2008

Route One

2008-01-27T14:32:00.001-05:00

It's been so long I've forgotten the nifty little code I added to break up my posts. Bear with me while I figure this out. I'm a tech moron, so this may take a while to figure out.

Still got the Funks, but it yields productivity at a time when I most need to purge. So may the Funk be with you.

Untitled
That two roads
to destinies
parallel
should intersect
so often
proves
they are meant
to travel
as one.

JGH 2008

(Second) First Post

2008-01-20T15:00:00.001-05:00

Well, hello, and Happy New Year.

Can't really say the year's off to a fabulous start. Beyond life's necessities--well, most of them--being met, there isn't much to brag about. But that's another post for another blog (as in, not this one).

I've just decided that if I were to classify my life as a music genre, it would be a hybrid of funk and blues. I've got the funky blues. I know what I mean, but I really don't feel like explaining it. I'm in what I endearingly refer to as a "funk" right now, so I apologize in advance for my 'tude.

But The Funks is, at the least, a productive time. I have written four poems in the past two months, which is impressive considering my years-long Battle with Da Block.

Type rest of the post here

Here is a little something I baked a few minutes ago.

Love music
Loving you is like
playing a smudged CD; the
melody is my
favorite, yet I wonder
when I'll hear more than verse one.

JGH 2008

Fresh ink

2007-10-20T22:42:00.001-04:00

Welcome (back)! I should probably be telling myself that, since I log on less frequently than my reader(s). But as it were, life is a non-stop train ride. I sure am glad I beat that hell of a cold bug. Three weeks of mucus and feeling like my head was stuck inside a balloon was not my idea of a good time.

I really have nothing (prepared) to post. I think I'm only writing at this moment because it's a diversion from what I am *supposed* to be doing, which is my work. Procrastination shows no favoritism, however, and when I feel the urge to avoid doing something, I step on my will power and let procrastination run the show.

Don't let me fool you. I actually have two poems I've been stirring in my head for at least a month. It would be delightful for them to squeeze out of my clogged head and onto a piece of paper. I hate being verbally constipated, especially when I see the words I want to join together on the lines at the tips of my eyelashes. But soon as I look down to uncap my pen, the words drop into my utterly useless short term memory bank (it's full of holes from years of wear).

Anyway, I'm newly inked and loving it (this is #3). What amazes me about myself--and should we all not be amazed at ourselves once in a while?--is the paradoxical reasoning I live by. Yours truly is terrrrrified of needles. I hate them and I've been known to become completely pallid at the sight of a needle. And hey, I'll cop to it: I cried like a brat this summer when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. Not just because the grinding sounds as Dentist Man dislodged my precious toofs from my skull nauseated me, but also because he'd stuck me with at least 10 needles during the procedure. Yet I've gotten three tattoos and a nose piercing (twice--it closed the first time...long story) without a second thought. But when do I ever make sense?

The part of me that shirks at a flu shot but will watch someone thread a needle and stud through my nose is the same part that will look at the simplest of questions with sheer befuddlement but absentmindedly (and correctly) answer the hardest question given.

But alas (did I just say 'alas'?), it is my destiny to tackle the most difficult feats while lacking the simplest of life's pleasures, and I reluctantly accept that. For example, men 20 years my senior and boys 15 years my junior fall in love with me everyday, but things don't work out so well with the ones in my age group. I can write a 25 page short story (I can?), but writing lesson plans gives me heart palpitations. I am fairly clairvoyant about certain situations, which I sometimes see happen before they do, but does it stop me from doing what I know (at the moment I'm doing it) I shouldn't do? I hear more and more often, "You're making things harder than they have to be." Well, how can it all be so simple?

This was all complete and utter drivel, brought to you by too much coffee and four helpings of procrastination. Now, back to work.

What a midday nap can do

2007-08-21T13:12:00.000-04:00

I don't know how many people I've told this, but I do know this is the first time I have said it here: I love--I am in love with words. Words stay with me like emotions. Without them I don't know how I would function. I don't talk a lot (most of the time, no really, I don't like to hear myself talk) but I think a lot. Sometimes too much. Sometimes too much about the wrong things.

It baffles me when people say they don't like to read. It's like saying you don't like music. Good writing is music. Good writing is the elevator into a genius' imagination. It inspires and encourages ideas like nothing else, including life itself, can. Right now I am reading Toni Morrison's Sula, and while her work is sometimes challenging, to be frank, there is beauty in her writing I just indulge in like dark chocolate (so yummy!). Reading this book gave me two ideas, one I'll get to in a minute, and one I hope to develop more with this blog of mine. Actually the second idea is one I've had for a while, but this book is calling me to get busy.

But without further ado, I have a new work in progress, which is as yet untitled...Look now, the ink is still fresh. I fell asleep after reading and woke up with this etched in my brain:

Untitled
I yearned for you to the marrow of my bones
learned the lines of your skin
and imagined your hair in my fingertips.
I craved the taste of your teeth in my mouth
swam in the black of your irises
and understood the curve in your lips was
not a smirk but pure pain.

Your voice was a raspy lullaby
no other man could ever sing

In pen, I traced you beside
the paper doll that was me
hoping forever would outlast the hell of
being without you.
It was not my song I wrote on your skin--
it was yours--
Don't
stop
singing
to
me.

I have sung all the songs there are
even with different notes
There aren't any new songs
but yours.

No one ever sung lyrics
so plain
so dark
so chilling
so sweet
no song ever pierced my marrow
like yours.

Though we don't speak anymore
your song still haunts me
the chill in my bones
tells me when you are near
because I am your song--
no one else sings it better.

And no matter that you tore me up
shredded my woman doll
I always return to the beginning
where there aren't any new songs--
just you, because
I have sung all the songs
all the songs
I have sung all the songs there are.

JGH 2007

Mic check

2007-08-15T13:50:00.001-04:00

I often post my poetry on this site. What I post is by no means the definitive works of Janae from PA. But my work is representative of who I am and I am proud to share it here. I am especially proud that I have begun what will hopefully be a monthly performance of my work at a local open mic, which has already ended my annual spoken word run. I read a few poems last Friday, and among them were two I'd posted here. However, as I often make it known, my work is never finished but always in progress. Before my performance I did some heavy editing of this poem, originally posted last November:

Cover to Cover

i was
wrapped in rainbows
for one hundred years of solitude
listening to krapp's last tape
and waiting
for a streetcar named desire
to take me to
the blackboard jungle
where things fall apart
and i learned that
a tree grows in brooklyn
where
the souls of black folk
are walking with the wind

i was
wounded in the house of a friend
tumbling
in a catch-22
with an invisible man
who had the bluest eye
and white teeth
carrying a bag of bones
he took me to
the learning tree
where we sat
and spoke of mice and men

i was
getting mother’s body
when i met a black boy whose
breath, eyes, memory
stole the heart of a woman
and then let her
drop
into a ring of endless light
before leaving Atlanta
with the prisoner's wife
whose only song in ordinary time
was your blues ain’t like mine

i was
eating the grapes of wrath
in Eden with
the woman warrior
we treasured
the moments, the minutes, the hours
before breakfast
with the dutchman and the slave
and while their eyes were watching god
she told them
“we are the ones we have been waiting for
i know this much is true.”

JGH 2007

They must not know

2007-08-12T12:34:00.000-04:00

There are places where you can sit down for two hours:

The coffee shop.

The bookstore.

Your couch.

Dinner.

The movies.

A play.

The park.

An open mic.

However…. the one place you should NEVER EVER, EVER be seated for two hours is a concert. Especially not a BEYONCE concert!!!

My girlfriend and I bought—ahem, splurged—on tickets to see Sasha perform at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City last night. We practiced twerkin it, droppin down low and sweepin the flo’ wit’ it and all the bootylicious moves we could do so we could tear it up at the show. We were READY.

Now, if my memory serves me well, I’ve been to at least eight concerts, from Janet Jackson to Fiona Apple, and not once did I sit down for the entire show. But when Bee came out on the stage, the crowd in floor seats went crazy, while the dorks in the elevated seats, well, stayed seated. It was like being at a funny movie where you’re the only one laughing. There were four people in my whole section who were making noise, clapping and singing along. Not a soul was moving, save a few here and there who never sat down. But there were three of us in my row who could no longer stand it, and by the time Bee did “Baby Boy” with these fooooiiinnne brothas sans shirts, we were out of our seats. (That dutty wine does it every time, nahmsayin?) We were gyrating and singing and hooting and hollering, when I heard a faint whine underneath the drum. “Sit down!!” Ignoring it, I continued dancing and singing. Then Bee broke into a rendition of “Murder She Wrote,” and I forgot where I was. But my jam was again interrupted with an even louder, “Sit DOWN!!” This time, my friend heard it, and she turned around. “This is a concert, so why don’t YOU stand up??”

Pause.

At least, I thought I was at a concert. .. I don’t even sit down when I’m at home watching music videos, so why would I sit down at a live show? WHY???? Is that not the whole point of going to a concert, the reason musicians go on tour--so fans can go crazy, sing all the lyrics, do all the dance moves, wear t-shirts and carry posters?? The concert is the venue where you let it all out, scream til’ you’re too hoarse to talk and dance til’ your feet are too sore to walk the next day.

But I’m not hoarse, and my feet don’t hurt at all. I really behaved more than I should have yesterday. It all started with my uncharacteristic decision to follow the rules and leave my camera behind, which I regretted immediately. And for the record, had I been in Philly, I wouldn’t have sat down. But, as a guest in the shanty town that is Atlantic City, I behaved myself. However, what made me even angrier—and I hate to take it there, but it’s what happened—was that when the white girl in the row in front of us stood up and danced for several songs after we were asked to sit down, they said nothing to her (the party poopers were also white). So I made up my mind that when Bee did “Check on It” and “Get me Bodied,” I WOULD NOT SIT DOWN. And I didn’t. Thankfully, the lifeless people behind us left by then, and I was able to wind it back without being yelled at.

My friend and I were not the only ones upset at the crowd’s lameness that night. Beyonce was not happy. In fact, I think her feelings were hurt. She performed her heart out for a sleeping audience. She stopped the show at least three times to say that she wasn’t used to such a quiet crowd. “I’ve never done a show where people were so quiet. I’m not used to this, y’all,” she said in her H-town drawl. I was embarrassed to be in that crowd. By her final song (“Irreplaceable”) she commanded everyone to get out their seats. There shouldn’t have been a warm seat in that audience, and she shouldn’t have had to go there, but clearly, some people don’t get out enough to know any better. So Bee, you probably won't ever read this, but if you do, know that you had four fans in the back who were showing you all the love we could.

She's bleeding again

2007-06-29T10:42:00.000-04:00

Quagmire (The Thought of You)

When I said I enjoy being alone I didn't mean without you
maybe it is the thought of you I long for
because after a time you wore on me
and I've already worn (out) a few
your frame calls to me in the moon's shadow
I part your lips with my mind but you say nothing
I thought I knew who you are but I was wrong
as it was wrong of you to mislead me toward vulnerability
and I was like a dog on its side--belly facing you
I gave you space but was always true
on my side
at your side
I would lie and you told my heart a lie I couldn't resist
so much that I questioned whether being alone
was as romantic as I'd opined and resolved to be
questioned if it really was the thought of you I loved
but my irrational unrationed ire
tells me it is after all not the thought but
you
and while I love being alone
since I know I'll always be there
I can't stand how the thought of you makes me feel
so alone

JGH 2007

(Don't) Honk if you're angry

2007-06-21T09:33:00.000-04:00

I really need to start writing things down so that ideas stop hiding from me... This one was somewhere under the rug for a week, and thankfully did not evade me entirely.

Back in my days when I carried a voice recorder, I would come around one of the last of seemingly endless bends and twists on Lincoln Drive, passing protesters from the Unitarian Universalist church. "Honk if you are against the war!" their signs would blare. Here I was, bleary eyed and sick of working (it being hump day and all) and not really feeling the barrage of horns from my fellow travelers. At first I thought it was my refusal of all things political, with the cop-out that I was an "objective reporter" that prevented me from participating in this weekly demonstration. I did and still do oppose the war, but never felt compelled, not even once, to sound my horn.

Then last Wednesday, as I was leaving my grown-folks class (that's grad school for y'all who don't know), I noticed more protesters, this time about two miles away, outside a presbyterian church, toting similar signs, as passersby would either stare or "beep beep beep" on their way past the intersection. I can no longer hide behind the guise of neutral reporter. It's not really the political stench reeking from their dedicated demonstrations that turns me off. I learned last Wednesday, and reaffirmed it yesterday, that the exercise in futility is what abates any morsel of desire to honk my horn if I'm against Bush.

After all, it is the tree in the forest theory we're talking about here. If 1,000 people honk their horns every week in protest against the war, but no one on Capitol Hill hears them, do they make a noise? Indeed, they do; a nuisance to be exact. But do they make a difference? Are they changing anything? Not a damn thing. Not once have I seen a headline touting anti-war horn honkers provoking any pull out of US troops from Iraq. It just ain't gonna happen. Why? Because backyard protests are a waste of time. Inciting drivers to honk their horns on some corner in Philadelphia is just plain silly. It disturbs the peace and nothing more.

While democracy includes the people having a voice, the misapprehension lies in identifying the appropriate audience. The medium is just as important, if not more so, as the message. Case in point: Would the March on Washington have made a ding in the civil rights movement had it taken place in say, Newark, NJ? No. The March was a strategically planned event to get the most people with a unified voice to speak out in a place where it would have the most visibility, and thus, the most impact. Angry with your mayor's decision to veto an important bill? Don't protest outside your church; protest outside CITY HALL. The message is simply lost in the medium when poorly planned and ineptly executed demonstrations take place. All the more true when they occur weekly. Sounding an alarm in your community to take a stand does little else other than make your neighbors, of whom many may concur with your arguments but are now too disgusted to care, view you as a problem rather than an active participant in our government.

Excuse me now, I must go apply calamine lotion; my hives are spreading.

Well, excuse me!

2007-04-10T16:02:00.000-04:00

Knock knock. *Slowly opening door, peeking in* Ahem. Remember me? Good.

I've stood up all day on less than 3 hours of sleep, and I really feel I need to express my thoughts on a few observations I've had lately. Bear with me, please.

Where's your hall pass?
It turns out I really dig my new gig. Like, who knew I would love pedagogy? Who knew I'd be so happy being in front of a room of hormonal, moody, impulsive, irrational, contrary, outspoken, cuss-you-out-till-your-momma-cries, self-absorbed, comedic young people? It turns out I really do. Even when they're obstinate and ignore me, I still like em a whole lot. But...

What I don't like is, after I've spent the better half of the semester telling a student to put her smutty book away, stop talking, do her classwork, turn in her homework, turn in something, and she obviously doesn't care enough to listen, she suddenly wants to turn me inside out when she gets her grade. How do you put in F-effort and expect an A????? And why are you mad at me for the choice you made, which was to fail? I told my students, "I don't give As; you have to earn them."

Doctor's (Sorta) In

"Our next available appointment is six months from now." Now seriously, I've had it to my eyebrows with the medical profession. WHY do I have to tell the office staff my arm's about to fall off, my child's going to get kicked out of school at the end of the month and my eyes are bleeding in order to be seen in a reasonable time? It seems the doctor can only see you at his or her convenience anymore! No, if my skin is falling off, I cannot wait until June to see you; I need an appointment this month! This week even! Then they try to act like they're doing you a favor and the doctor can "squeeze you in" during regular office hours. Like the customer service call center message that drones on that "We appreciate your business, and your call is important to us," while you sit on hold for 15 minutes. Right.

Friends don't let friends go

I understand that friendships are like relationships, and sometimes people just grow apart. In fact, the recent breakup of a longtime friendship of mine can be summed up in those words: we grew apart. We weren't on the same page anymore. It had to happen, our separation, or we were going to kill each other. Not that we saw oneanother that much to begin, but that's another rant for another blog.

Look, I know I am flaky. One generalization is that writers are flaky people, which I see no need to dispute. It's not something I'm always proud of, and I do think I could be a better friend, but I accept my fickle ways. All of my friends are flaky, and I embrace them for it. However there is a limit; there is a threshold where flaky becomes negligent.

I have a friend, in the loosest sense of the word, who has crossed that threshold. There comes a point where, after phone calls and text messages, emails and MySpace messages asking what the dickens is going on with no response, you just say eff it. I don't know what I did to this friend, even though she missed both my birthday and my daughter's (so yeah, I'm not too keen on that), and she's not talking to me to tell me. So, at some point you just stop caring. Right now I'm still circling around the block, trying to decide if this friendship and if she is even worth all this rigamarole. I can see the future, but I can't read minds.

Jalopy for Rent

No, really. There are times I wish I carried my camera with me, and this weekend was one of them. I actually passed a car on my way to the store that had a "For Rent" sign in its window. It was as if the owner were mocking himself, trying to rent his 1991 (I'm being really generous) hoopty...for cash. That owner (they can't be leasing a car worth $350) must have a great sense of humor.

Misty Blue

2007-03-19T23:24:00.000-04:00

I'm not in the happiest of moods lately. You know, "dreaming with a broken heart" and all. It is said that pain passes like the storm, no matter the length of the rain. I guess it's the pieces we have to pick up afterward that are the real work, the real pain, to get over. The cleanup only happens with work. So I guess I've got a part-time job.

Regardless, I won't let life keep me from feeding the fire I've just rekindled. Here's a WIP (work in progress, as always) I just finished. Like two minutes ago.

The Last Kiss

How he could look
and see through
me like we
never touched
hands

how he could
so easily
let me be forgotten,
dismiss my essence
when it enthralled
him just
yesterday

how he, a master
of verbs,
could not know
the pain
of words unspoken--
a mystery--

how he could
say she's an
invisible dot
when i can connect
her to every
half-truth he's
kept secret

is that the way
it is?
or, just how
it should have been
from the beginning
before the first
kiss goodnight
became
the last kiss
goodbye--

how could he?

JGH 2007

Another One

2007-02-19T22:13:00.000-05:00

Hot Damn! I'm on a roll like a pig on a platter... Lately the creative bug has bitten me, and I'm not complaining about the rash. In fact, I've been hoping this block would finally disintegrate, and it's certainly on its way. Maybe it's the New Year (a belated Happy 2007, btw), the new gig, the new shoes, but whatever it is, I'm baaaack...

I wrote this one on Saturday morning. Funny, it's called:

Saturday Circus

hard candy and bubble gum
hours in the toy aisle
French fries in ketchup soup
and staying up all night

the princess has free reign
at the weekend circus
she has tamed the center ring
whip in hand
feather in her ponytail
her wish
his command

whatever the queen forbids
the monkey slips in her pocket
shhh…she’ll never know
(but she always does)

each Monday is a reminder
that her life is finer
for 72 hours each week
where she has all the pleasures
of chocolate and sticky sweets
at the Saturday carnival
the longest-running circus
where she makes and breaks
the rules
and all wishes
come true

JGH 2007

A bird with one wing...

2006-11-17T12:46:00.000-05:00

...will only fly in circles.

I never understood the value of mentorship before, probably because the idea of befriending an individual with an ulterior motive sounded contrived. After all, the relationship is nurtured based on what that person can do to help you; what good is a mentor whose advice and network are of no benefit? I saw mentorship as a trite networking tool, rather than a sincere exchange, and had no desire for it.

But as I've gained experience in the twighlight zone we call a career, I see now that the value of a mentor is similar to the value of a smile from a stranger. It is said that a smile from a stranger could save a person's life, because you never know what a person's story is at face value. I now believe that mentors shape a person's career.

I never had one, not a career mentor at least. I was assigned a college mentor, a professor from the department I studied in at the time. It was not a process of self-selection, but rather an arbitrary match at the administrative level. We developed a rapport with one another, so much that when I switched majors, she remained my de facto mentor, despite not being "bound" by her duties to guide me. But while I am grateful to have had that relationship, I don't think it's the same as meeting someone who sees your potential and adopts you, or meeting someone whose work and ethics you admire and seeking his or her advice. We have not spoken since I graduated, as if our relationship were proxied only by my matriculation status.

Unfortunately, since I began in my field, no one has taken me under her wing. Equally unfortunate is the observation (and I am *extremely* observant, so I believe this to be true) that women in my field, and black women in particular, are reticent about reaching back. I find this unfortunate, because as an acquaintance of mine once noted, "black people are underrepresented in every profession except cosmetology and rap, "and more young people need to see examples of what they can become. I also find this unfortunate because the ones who have decided what we (think we) want to be need validation, in a sense. It is a tough world in the workforce, and having someone who's been there, who can offer counsel and encouragement, and who can show you beyond the forest. When you feel like someone is in your corner, you're less likely to back down. You're less likely to listen to the inner demons that say you don't deserve to be where you are. You're less likely to run away if you have someone to push you.

Last Thursday Ed Bradley passed away after a secret battle with leukemia. I was saddened by his death, because I admired his work on 60 Minutes. I was more saddened when I listened to his colleagues' and friends' lamentations that he'd died, because I heard over and over the same thing: Ed Bradley loved young people, and he loved reaching back.

Syndicated columnist Clarence Page wrote in the Houston Chronicle:

To me, Bradley was important because role models are important. You don't really appreciate the importance of role models until you're old enough to look back and re-examine the pivotal moments in your life and who had the biggest influence on you at the time. Role models matter.

"As a young black man watching him," a reader named "Greg" posted on the Chicago Tribune Web site: "I came to believe it was possible to be a successful black man without denying one's self." So did I. That's a powerful legacy Bradley leaves behind. Growing up in a working class neighborhood in Philadelphia, his folks used to tell him that he could be anything he wanted to be. He took them up on it.

In the Chigago Defender, Demetrius Patterson wrote:

NBC 5 News co-anchor Art Norman said Bradley paved the way for him.

''Ed Bradley was a friend to Chicago,'' Norman said. ''He helped us many, many times with different issues. He was a great friend of two of the founders of NABJ; I'm talking about Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett. Whenever Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett would come to a conference, Ed Bradley would be with them.

''He would be making sure that we had kids on the agenda. He was making sure that those of us who were veterans were mentoring young people. That's what he was about. And that's what he talked about and that's what he did behind the scenes.''

As I listened to news specials and read articles like these, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps if an Ed Bradley had reached out to me, or acknowledged my interest in a relationship, perhaps I would have survived my disillusionment. But as I said, because more black women in this field view me as a threat rather than an ally, I have been in this fight without a trainer. I felt alone because essentially, I am. For example, I attempted to befriend a colleague in my field by contacting her. I would give her praise for her work when warranted, and I tried to spark a dialogue with her. Our exchanges were not frequent, but knowing how busy she is as the only black and the only black female in her company, I didn't sweat it. But then I noticed that while she never took our email and phone exchanges anywhere beyond that, and she never offered any feedback--good or bad--to my work, she had embraced my male co-workers. When I emailed her before a male co-worker, I noticed she not only emailed him first but also called him...and set up lunch with him. She replied to me a week later. I have not spoken to her since. I don't have time for that pettiness.

Just yesterday I came across someone who is apparently more "seasoned" than I, and again, because brown faces are scarce in this business, I know she noticed a young, black professional woman right in front of her. I made eye contact with her twice, and twice she looked past me. Twice she pretended I was not there. Her work isn't even that great, and I wasn't necessarily seeking her guidance, but that she made it a point to ignore my very existence said more than she ever could.

I've never felt like I belonged in this business, and this has been an internal struggle of mine for a few years now. With each frustration and setback, and without anyone who has stuck it out to tell me the fight is worth it, the little fire I tried to keep burning has burned out. Perhaps if I'd had the opportunity to meet Mr. Bradley or at least someone like him, I would have been convinced to stick around.

A small chip off the ole Block

2006-11-12T16:10:00.000-05:00

Writer's Block is one hell of a sickness. When writing is your antidote to pain, your first meal of the day, your friend who knows you best, being unable to write is devastating. Deblilitating, even. Needless to say, the ole Block has been with me like a bad relationship, off and on, for a few years now.

I've been writing in fits and starts lately (even started a few posts that never went anywhere), but today I wrote and completed my first poem in two months. Funny, I was inspired to write this as I was studying for a test.

At any rate, this one is about one of my favorite pasttimes. I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoyed the write.

Cover to Cover

i was
wrapped in rainbows
for one hundred years of solitude
listening to krapp's last tape
and waiting
for a streetcar named desire
to take me to
the blackboard jungle
where things fall apart

and i learned that
a tree grows in brooklyn
where
the souls of black folk
are walking with the wind

i was
wounded in the house of a friend
tumbling
in a catch-22
with an invisible man
who had the bluest eye
and white teeth
he took me to
the learning tree
where we sat
and spoke of mice and men

he told me he knew
a black boy who
stole the heart of a woman
and then let her
drop
in the small rain
but she was only the prisoner's wife
and nothing more
than breath, eyes, memory
to us both.

Warning!

2006-09-06T00:41:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time, but you should know the deal by now. I am in a mood lately, and I just got something off my chest I thought I'd share. But I have to issue a disclaimer, that if you have sensitive eyes, ears, imagination, or whatever, you might want to skip this one. But knowing the morbid sense of curiosity we're given by human nature, you'll probably read on anyway. Don't say I didn't warn you (the title says enough).

Rebound (Kcuf You)
Tried to kcuf you away
hoping I could wipe
your residue
clean
afterward
Thought I would forget
about the burn
if I let him
take me
from your spot
Tried to let him
carve his name
in your place
so I could go home
and think of him
instead
of you
Tried to ride him as
far
away from you
as my hips could
grind me
thinking
'why you?'
'why me?'
all the time
Thought maybe this time
or next time
I open up
to someone else
I'll close the door
on you.
*9/6/2006*

(c) JGH

The Birthplace of AlieNation

2006-07-02T23:18:00.000-04:00

Dear City of Philadelphia,

I'd like to thank you for almost ruining my day yesterday. Thanks to you, I let down my daughter, who expected to spend her Saturday at the Welcome America Ice Cream Festival.

We got dressed and groomed for a day in the sun enjoying all the ice cream and water ice we could eat by the Delaware River. Instead, we drove down street after street from Old City to Society Hill with 'No Parking' signs at every meter. I was hip to your scheme, City of Philadelphia, by the time I turned off Market onto Front Street and saw those red-lettered signs all over the place. See you, City of Philadelphia, were trying to capitalize on the tourist haven that your beloved land is during America's birthday by giving revelers no other option but lot parking--at 20 effin dollars--to enjoy the festivities. And thanks to your shrewd planning, every lot along Delaware Avenue--I'm sorry, Columbus Boulevard--was full. So, after spending an hour driving on cobblestones and unpaved streets, I just went home.

So since my baby doesn't know or care who you are, she was upset with me. Because you let me, a tax-paying resident of your city, down to get more tourism dollars, I let my daughter down.

I know that tourists are heare to spend money, and if they're traveling on holidays like Independence Day or New Year's, they have the discretionary dollars to spend. But Philadelphia is mostly working class, paycheck-to-paycheck and out to find some cheap fun. I had it all planned out: $5 in change to spend at a two- or three-hour meter nearby, and $5 each for myself and my baby to attend the festival before enjoying a free concert featuring Cece Peniston and the Ohio Players. I intended to stay until I was depleted of change, sun-kissed and stuffed with sweets, my daughter's face stickier than fly paper, before going home to bathe her exhausted body and put her to bed.

But because you opted to alienate your own denizens, save those Old City and Society Hill dwellers, in favor of tourists, I did none of that. Don't worry though, I refused to let you melt our sundae. We got our ice cream, and got our sunshine on somewhere else. And trust, should this continue to be your modus operandi on future Independence Days, you can count this native out.

Yours truly,
A frustrated taxpayer

Love and Happiness

2006-06-25T22:36:00.000-04:00

A broken heart makes it easy to wallow in self-pity, easy to settle for victimhood. The struggle, the triumph, is getting back up again. To think of loving again immediately after your love-box is impaled is like craving a four-course meal immediately after a bout of vomiting. The very thought induces misery and pain associated with the purge itself, so much that at the time, you don't want to ever visualize, smell, or see food again. Eating is later re-learned, step by step, with first crackers, then a slice of bread, until you convince yourself you can eat again and hold it down.

Love hurts. The very thought of loving again during heartbreak or even at the beginning stages of recovery is torturous. You've already given so much, made yourself so vulnerable, so open to this union in which you've invested yourself, to be let down when it falls apart. What masochist would want more? But eventually, as you heal, you learn that you are more irrational in pain than in love, and you realize it's almost nonsensical to think, I'll never love again! In time, you find yourself longing --and ready--to love again. It could take months; it could take years. The point is not to want love in a co-dependent way, as if the thought of solitude is a prison sentence. The point of loving and losing love is to grow from it, to learn from it, so that when you're ready to love again, you can love even more. The heart is like a muscle; every time it tears, it regenerates and becomes stronger, as long as you continue to use the muscle.

I've had my share of heartbreak. I won't lie, one particular incident still hurts sometimes. But I am happy as a single woman. That's not to say--because I feel I must explain this--that I am content being single for the rest of my life; I am simply comfortable in my own company. But I am proud to know that I have conquered that self-pity, and I look forward to that day I will love again. I have not become the cynical, bitter and scorned woman who's lost faith in love. I have faith, which is of itself an accomplishment, that I will love again.

But why must people constantly make me doubt that faith?

It amazes me when I do things in the spirit of romance. I can be damn bold at times, doing a complete somersault out of my comfort zone. It makes me proud because the most recent time I got hurt, it was a situation where I'd made a bold move, and it backfired. But, I jumped again, this time convinced it was worth it. Here was someone I'd admired from afar for a while, someone with whom I felt compatible, whose conversation and company (physical and virtual) I enjoyed. We seemed kindred spirits, and it felt right to let him know how I felt. So, I confessed my feelings hoping for some resolution, big or small, between my love interest and me. And for a moment, that seemed the case.

Yet somewhere between "I dig you too," and "What now?," this nail-to-chalkboard inertia has set in, and not only has our alleged romance sat at a red light, our friendship has also since sat in purgatory. It's ironic because I remember in one of our debates about life and love, I said that I love being friends with men, it's when the line is crossed that guys start acting funky. He said it wasn't always the case, leaving me to believe he meant it wasn't the case with him.

But alas, it is. He has since been M-I-A, his presence along with his allegedly mutual feelings, leaving me no option but to take it personally. I put my heart on the line when I admitted my feelings, and I took that risk thinking the benefit would outweigh the cost. I took the risk because I thought he--we--had promise. This isn't so much heartbreak as it is plain disappointment. I'm forgiving enough that with the right explanation I'd still give him a chance, but I really hope his so-called feelings weren't just an obligatory concession. He seems an otherwise upstanding guy so I will give him benefit of a doubt.

Maybe he's scared. I understand; emotions are scary, because they're uncontrollable. Given our circumstances, being scared is expected, but it's no excuse for abandoning it all. Firstly, I thought we were friends. I can't take back what I said, nor will I, because it was honest. I just hope he realizes that avoiding his feelings won't will them away. In the meantime, I'll just keep the faith.

Random Ramblings

2006-04-09T16:55:00.000-04:00

I need to do some serious housecleaning upstairs. My mind is a cluttered mess. It's partly why I haven't written in a while. I've got to do better with recording my thoughts. If they'd only stop coming to me in the shower, I'd be good to go. A few things I must express:

Driving with your children flipping around the backseat, hanging out the window, and climbing over seats, especially when they're small, is a form of child abuse/neglect. It disturbs me that people don't buckle their kids in before pulling off. The earlier you introduce the habit, the easier it is to remember. And for small kids, it should go without saying that they need carseats until they're at least 7 years old. Not doing so is knowingly endangering your child(ren)'s life. (Oh yeah, and if they're under 10, they shouldn't be in the front seat either.)

So is smoking around them. Fine, you can't break your habit, and you're addicted to the cancer sticks. But do your kids have to inhale carbon monoxide?

It really sucks that you can't tell your heart what to do. Or not to do. Like get attached to people.

Do all black people have to be Christian? Is it really necessary to impose one's religion on other people? I don't go to church for want of a tabernacle- you can't go three blocks without finding one- it's obviously a choice. I respect yours; respect mine.

Like white t-shirts worn six sizes too big were a bad idea, so is wearing a sleep bonnet in public. In no way is it cute, not even if you let a few strands of curled hair drape across your forehead. That, my friend, is a fashion-hell-no.

I guess the rest I should just keep to myself. It's one thing to have an image as a crazy bat and yet another to affirm the perception.

Cyber Magnetic Poetry

2006-02-26T15:15:00.000-05:00

I was playing around on this site for kids called Time Warp Trio and decided to create a poem. My theme was "The Future," and I came up with this diddy (I'm taking suggestions if you have an idea of a title):

Between today and
beyond time
you travel
my mind

Strange that
we are where we are
but if our day is here
I can love you
this time around.

How can they sleep at night...

2006-02-07T20:09:00.000-05:00

...knowing they put not just one person or one family, but thousands of people, out on the streets?

AP reported today that FEMA evicted 4,500 people from government-paid hotel rooms in New Orleans, citing that those people, representing less than a quarter of the total people who were given extensions up until as late as March 1, were given "every possible opportunity to request an extension."

The spokesman said people either ran or did not answer their doors when approached by FEMA representatives. Were forms and other information left under the doors of people who did not answer? Were they available in the hotel lobbies, under a clearly marked sign that read "FEMA Housing Extension Applications"? Did FEMA air commericals and radio advertisements?

And the bigger issue is, what is a March 1 extension when you've got nothing but the clothes on your back? While people should make every effort they can to help themselves, it's all for naught if demand exceeds supply.

I just don't see how putting people out, with no other option or resource, is going to help in the short- or long-term. It's also quite arrogant of a bunch of people living comfortably to decide that six months is enough time for people with nothing to reconstruct their lives.

You may use Suave, but are you Suavv?

2005-11-27T09:34:00.000-05:00

Hey, I'd like to show you a new online black men's magazine I am working on with a few talented folks. It's called Suavv Magazine, and I'm the Creative Director/Executive Editor. I know he hasn't said much about it either, but my homie with the Stereo is a writer also. Check it out, and let me know what you think!!

Visit SUAVV MAGAZINE. The hottest online men's magazine.

Much ado 'bout nothing

2005-11-18T18:31:00.000-05:00

The Associated Press reported about a mom disciplining her daughter, whose grades were slipping, had excessive latenesses and whose attitude needed reconstruction. Mom dukes' way of showing sista girl where she was headed with this behavior was to put her on the corner with a sign that read:

"I don't do my homework and I act up in school, so my parents are preparing me for my future. Will work for food."

Someone thought it was necessary to notify the department of human services of "psychological abuse." The police told them to leave the corner after an hour. As if DHS workers' caseloads weren't cumbersome enough with actual cases of abuse, someone thought adding this to the load would prove something.

Was it humiliating? Probably. But likely no more humiliating than mom coming up to the school to discipline her daughter in front of her friends. Actually, that's more humiliating, for a girl who as a teen, lives for acceptance. As far as I'm concerned, this is along the lines of my mom and dad telling me when my lateness was abhorrent (despite my honor roll performance), that I should practice saying "Do you want fries with that?"

Or a kid who keeps getting in fights and trouble with police being taken to a morgue. Sometimes that is enough to snap them in check. And if the mom shows she loves her daughter, which she obviously does, her self-esteem and her psyche won't be damaged.

But psychological abuse? Give me a break.

Sometimes people need to mind they damn bidness.

In a sharing mood

2005-10-24T20:23:00.000-04:00

I don't read my poetry very often (read: I've done it twice). I don't want to sound like anyone but me, and from being underground on the scene in the past, I found that many many many people here in Illadelph are trying to sound like Sister Sonia. I love Sonia. Wanted to be in her class. But I don't want to sound like her. I want my own sound, should I decide to read aloud. I think I have my own sound, but I don't have my own voice yet. I'm less interested in having a voice out loud right now than I am in having a voice in between the lines. I suppose I should hone that voice to prepare for the day that I have my own book, to stand before language lovers and share. But that, like my poetry, is a work in progress.

I'm in a sharing mood today, so here's an untitled piece I wrote a few weeks ago. It's so nice to step off this writer's block. I never thought I was afraid of heights until I found myself stuck on one of them.

Untitled
found myself in that
silly
infatuated
section of my heart
again with you

you know
when a cursory wink
makes me giggle
and you mouth
'I love you'
into
the air's ear

and like a leaf
in Autumn
I float aimlessly
through your breeze

until you catch me
in the hammock of
your smile

but just as your breeze
can change direction
you turn my spirit
grey
when you say
it's all out of fun

and there again
I've fallen
for someone else
who is
emotionally or
otherwise
unavailable.

(C) JGH

Where's American pride now?

2005-09-07T00:39:00.000-04:00

My return from sabatical comes with many apologies. But I can't not write about things going on in this country right now, as we reveal our dirty underskirts. Given my occupation I will tread lightly in the area of punditry, but it goes without saying that I say something.

Much like my good blogpal Avery, I too have been fortunate enough (read: sheltered) to have never seen a corpse that wasn't decked with flowers and pallbearers. I have never gone involuntarily without food and drinking water, and have never felt as helpless as thousands of people are feeling now.

So it was with great emotional upheaval that I watched and read about Hurricane Katrina over the past week. Gladly, my colleagues who were down in the affected areas are safe and doing okay. But it is unfathomable for me, even as I see the treachery of it all, that human beings were left to fend for themselves surrounded by water four times my height with no means of communication, no answers, no help, no nothing, for more than a week.

People are still being evacuated...why has it taken this long?

My city is welcoming many of the evacuees (they are NOT refugees! They are citizens of THIS country!) this week. I am glad, because I will be able to help more readily than if they were farther away. But I am also leery, because a lack of foresight is what leads to catastrophic consequences such as we have seen, and I hope cities are really considering the needs of people, both short and long term, as they welcome them.

Aside from the political (que: rash) quibbles over who is to blame (from Bush to NO Mayor Nagin to FEMA) , and semantic/ethical issues of phrasing in media, one thing's certain: this is all about class. The people who were able to leave were black, they were white, they were blue, whatever--they had the means and the money to get out. The people who were left behind, while overwhelmingly black, were also white, young and old---and overwhelmingly poor. People for whom a mandatory evacuation should have meant a mandatory means of evactuation.

People who, in conditions left to fend for themselves lived by natural law, and who were surrounded by other law-abiding people as well as lawbreakers,and whose needs were overshadowed by the few engaged in senseless acts of crime. But we were given images of New Orleans as a land of anarchy violence and chaos, a place too dangerous for rescuers to enter. An effective way to dehumanize people and rationalize not aiding them immediately.

But I'm not here to point fingers.

I'm here to ask, in spite of the numerous contributions individuals, corporations, organizations, you name-its have given, where the publicly stated prayers are? Remember 9/11? It was within 48 hours that our televisions were taken hostage by advertisements sending condolences to the familes of victims. Commercials blazing the stars and stripes in her triumphant glory, declaring us all proud to be Americans.

Yet, I can't help but notice that not a single commercial claiming American pride or well-wishes and prayers for familes hit by Katrina has aired.

Again, it goes back to class. The 9/11 tragedy largely hit people working in well-to-do occupations. Katrina hit a below-working-class, "buried under the federal poverty line" city with few people having a high school education. Suddenly big commercial companies aren't so quick to identify with that kind of America, and have shelved their glossy images of heroes and banners waving 'til the rocket's red glare.

I end on that note, already having said far too much.

Disclaimer: These opinions are solely the author's and do not in any way reflect those of the author's employer.

Music to your head

2005-06-22T18:15:00.000-04:00

Neuromusicology, or the study of how music affects the brain, is this neo-therapy practice that assesses your brain for signs of anxiety, depression, insomnia, etc. and then converts your brain waves to music. The music is then played back on a personalized cd to promote either relazation or activity.

So I noticed this on Good Morning America on my way out the door, when I saw Diane Sawyer all hooked up like a surge protector. It's some fancy method of an EEG which scans your brain waves.

Okay.

I don't remember the wires being clipped to my face when I got an EEG once upon a time, but who's keeping score. Apparently, this therapy is gaining popularity or something, or at least catching interest.

My question is, can brain waves convert to hip hop?

Sum-m Sum-m Fo` Tha Ridez

2005-06-10T19:59:00.000-04:00

So says the Textilizer over at Gizoogle, a nifty little Snoopified version of Google search engine. Get the same results, just clockin' it real. Found this gem on at Dan Rubin's blog at Philly.com.

Try it; it's so ridiculous you have to chuckle. Type in your mayor's name, for example. Do it!

An Open Letter

2005-05-22T14:18:00.000-04:00

Dear Jill:

I'm so sorry, please forgive me.

I heard you and understood you yesterday when you said how the thing you dislike about celebrity is the way people are no longer real with you. How suddenly they're so mesmerized by you that they can't hold normal conversation with you. I stood there and heard you say that, but Jill, I did not listen. And I'm so sorry.

Maybe it was that I'd been standing since 12:30 by the time I'd seen you at 4. Maybe it was that I'd tried and failed to get you to sign my copy of your book the last time I came to see you. Or that every time you come back home I miss you, no matter how many days you're in town. Maybe it was that I'd wanted to know just who you were since the first time I read the answer to "Who is Jill Scott?" in the Inkie.

But whatever the reason was for my behavior, it was no excuse. I was so out of line yesterday Jill, and I'm sorry.

I stood in front of you as you signed your book, grinning like I stole something, and you tried to have a conversation with me. I talked through my smile as if I'd had dental work that stretched my face, saying how I'd missed you the last time you were here and I had to come back. And then, I got beside myself. I asked of you a special request.

You looked at me like I was crazy, and I'm sure I deserved the look. But for whatever reason, you said yes, and you wrote my favorite line of yours in the book.

I was so busy being a (fill in the blank) that I didn't ask you the "real" question I had. I really wanted to ask you why you did not include that fabulous poem from Experience: Jill Scott, "The Thickness." It was the first poem I'd heard by you, and the first poem I looked for in The Moments, the Minutes, the Hours.

I felt more shame than elation as I walked away from your desk. Jill, you are the kind of "celebrity" everyone should be. You are beautifully human, and on that spring Saturday I did not treat you as such. I treated you in the way that turns those other celebrities into the pigs they are. I did not deserve the request you granted. I'm grateful you did it, but I certainly was out of line for asking in the first place.

Sincerely,

Janae

Pieces of me

2005-05-20T22:50:00.000-04:00

I haven't shared a poem in a month of posts. So here's one, unlike how I usually do by reaching in my vessel of works, that I just wrote today:

Iodine Love

i opened my veins
and bled my love for you
you tasted me
and it scared you
that you could bleed
for me too.
seven times seven
my wounds washed
in your ocean's contemptous waves
and i bled
and bled
from every word you'd say.
i bled
a sea of errors
from my eyes
but you'd turn your head
the other way.
you knew
as long as you held my gaze
you'd be nursing
an open wound too.

By Janae

Regatta My Way!

2005-05-20T10:48:00.000-04:00

I'd like to find the individual who thunk up the Dad Vail Regatta and give him a big ole hug. Thank you! You have not only succeeded in making my ulcer-inducing commute heartburn's haven, you have inspired yet another cursed event within a week of your "traffic-diverting, hmm you know a good idea would be to close off a thoroughfare people rely on during rush hour for THREE WHOLE DAYS so our crew wearing our speedo-tight suits can frolick across the street with abandon while the real folks who have JOBS to get to sit wasting gas and space in bumper to bumper traffic all over the effin city" event.

Thank you!

So I've been late for work and late getting the Buttercup from school--I should be reimbursed for every extra $10 late fee I pay, thankyouverymuch--all thanks to the Dad Vail and now the Stotesbury Cup Regattas.

Do those things on someone else's time, really! Why not make it a weekend event? Really? Must you be in my way when there's already enough traffic doing that just fine?

Yes, and an extra warm hug to all the media outlets (cough, cough, KYW1060) for your inability to report on the traffic conditions IN THE CITY. Thank you for telling me there's an overturned truck on 202 and a mile-long backup on I-95 near the Villanova exit. Thank you for not saying ONE word about the various routes that are strewn with angry motorists all thanks to the very necessary event known as a regatta.

Rush hour, though. That was a brilliant idea. You can tell rich people came up with that one. Rich people don't have rush hour; their money is too busy making them money so they don't have to work for it. The rest of us, meanwhile, spend our first and last hours of work trying to get there.

Thank you.

Black Like Me

2005-05-12T20:53:00.000-04:00

I don’t watch a whole lot of television. I’m a sporadic viewer, mostly because I don’t have the time, but also because I don’t have the attention span. When I tally up my hours in front of a screen at the end of the week and they approach double digits, I feel as if that is time wasted. I watch at most, four hours a week.If I'm tuned in, it’s usually regulars like Law & Order, Cold Case, Girlfriends and maybe half of Half & Half, and America’s Next Top Model.

Last night’s episode if ANTM struck a chord with me that’s been a-singing for years. It’s what I think I’ll call Black America’s Box. There were four remaining candidates in the race for ANTM, two of whom are Black: Keenyah and Naima. Keenyah is the color of maple syrup, with an obtrusive jaw and a selfish disposition. Naima is a fair skinned, racially ambiguous ballerina with probably the only cool mohawk I’ve ever seen.

The model-wannabes have been in South Africa for the past few weeks, and on last night’s show they drove through the township of Soweto and to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was held prisoner from 1962 to 1984. Well Keenyah was being extra obnoxious for the entire trip, overspeaking about how profoundly affected she is by being in South Africa “because I’m Black.”

After the sixth time hearing this, I was sick of Keenyah. It seemed more to me like she was trying to convince herself that being in Africa should affect her because she is Black, but not necessarily that she believed it. It also seemed like she felt some exclusive entitlement to her pain at seeing people who live in tin roofed huts shoulder to shoulder on a stretch of dusty land—as if that poverty is not a human issue and is simply a Black people's problem.

As if her annoying drivel weren’t grating enough on my nerves, I was fuming when she allowed the words “I don’t really see Naima as Black” fall out of her mouth. Who elected you as Race Judge? Why do a few shades of brown make a difference in Naima’s race, such that her ethnic makeup is completely discarded in your eyes?

This was evident in Keenyah’s absolute disgust when Naima got to use the key that opened Nelson Mandela’s cell. Then (cue spoon to tonsils) she made an overt display of emotion in the cell, as if she “as a Black person” was so impacted by this experience. Give me a break chick. She doesn’t even know whether Nelson Mandela is still alive, and probably doesn’t care. I’m confident that Brittany, Kahlen and Naima knew more about him than Keenyah did.

I still hear Keenyah telling Naima she isn’t Black to her. I still hear her saying “I don’t really see Naima as Black” in the confessional. And the sad thing is, I know there are a few thousand people across America who concur with this drivel.

Because Black America is so obsessed with “Blackness,” we are blinded to its impedimentary effect on the race’s solidarity. We don’t see how silly it is, and how stooopid we sound when we say things like, “so-and-so didn’t sound Black” on the phone. When we assume that a person with fair skin and not so nappy hair must be white, when we expect certain behaviors or political beliefs from people as a measure of their Blackness, we are wasting time. We are wasting energy. We have too much work to do to waste time on inconsequential pseudo-ideologies.

For example, look at the way we associate the Black race with unproductive characteristics. Suddenly being “ghetto” or “hood” means being Black. A Black kid with a skateboard is not meant to happen. Everybody else can date interracially, except Black people—for shame of being a “waste of Black.” Oh, and my favorite, when I used to tell people I danced, and they automatically assumed I meant I danced hip-hop, jazz or tap. Never ballet.

And to think, for so many years we had to hear these things from our oppressors, that we have hammered the nails around our own box by believing them. Will we ever dock and unboard this slave ship?

UPDATE 5/18: And we have a winner... Naima takes the tiara as America's Next Top Model!

Up jumps tha boogie

2005-04-28T20:53:00.000-04:00

I'm in the mood to dance. I wish I could get paid to take dance class all day; I'd work a 60-hr week. Growing up I took dance, starting with the standard formula--ballet/tap/jazz--forming a love-hate relationship with both ballet and jazz, but loving tap. The times I hated the other classes were usually because I didn't like my teacher or my classmates. Sometimes both. Drama queen that I am, my favorite thing was the recital.

I eventually quit altogether, only to return to (go figure) ballet six years later, all for the love of performance. It was certainly a test of will, taking class with kids the same age I was when I quit. But I did well, moving up two levels in one year, and every year until I graduated. (Had I gone back one year earlier, I probably would have been in the advanced class.) My only regret is that I didn't have the confidence to go back to jazz, or even try hip-hop.

Today, due to unplanned but not unfortunate events, I'm no longer dancing. But seeing dance, whether live or on tv, awakens that suppressed urging to be on that springboard floor.

That said, here's a list of some of my favorite dance videos, in no particular order:

"Oh"--Ciara feat. Ludacris
"Rhythm Nation"
"If"
"I Get Lonely"--Janet Jackson
"Get Ur Freak On"
"I'm Really Hot"
"Hot Boyz"--Missy Elliot

"Hot Like Fire"
"Are You That Somebody"
"Try Again"--Aaliyah
"Maria, Maria"--Santana feat. Product G&B
"Smooth"--Santana feat. Rob Thomas
"Yeah!"
"You Make Me Wanna"--Usher
"My Love is Like (Whoa)"--Mya
"Baby Boy"
"Naughty Girl"
"Work it Out:"--Beyonce
"Like Glue"
"Gimme tha Light"--Sean Paul
"Bad"
"Thriller"
"Smooth Criminal"--MJ

Words Cannot Describe...

2005-04-05T12:42:00.000-04:00

BEEB WANTED TO QUIZ DEAD STAR
From Daily Record - 01/04/2005 (129 words) By Eva Simpson

A BUNGLING BBC researcher tried to get an interview with reggae legend Bob Marley - 24 years after his death.
She wrote to the Bob Marley Foundation asking if they could arrange for the Jamaican to appear on a BBC2 documentary, No Woman No Cry.

Current affairs researcher Paysley Ross said it would 'only involve Bob Marley spending one or two days with us', adding: 'The story would only work with some participation from Bob Marley himself.'

Marley died in 1981, aged just 36.
Last night, a Marley family source said: 'We didn't think there was anyone on the planet who didn't realise that Bob passed away years ago.'

A BBC spokesman said: 'This is not an April Fool. We are very embarrassed.'
http://www.bbc.co.uk

According to a co-worker of Ms. Ross, seems she is headed to LA for a reporting job by week's end. Must be nice.

Regurtigating Rhymes

2005-02-08T22:29:00.000-05:00

"Now what I look like? Givin a chick half my trap
like she wrote half my raps, yeah, I'm havin that." *

A certain radio station last week played a montage of song clips titled "I'm not a writer I'm a biter." Most music listeners familiar with hip-hop know who is famous for that line. Now, I knew when Nas asked "How many of Biggie's rhymes gonna come out your fat lips?" that Jay-z had more than a handful of songs with the late rapper's lyrics. But my head hit the wheel (I only listen to the radio in the car) when I heard how many other rappers' lines the so-called greatest rapper lifted.

Pac.
Slick Rick.
Snoop.
Nas.

And those are just names I can remember.

Now I'm by no means a rap or hip-hop critic, or even a hip-hop head. But I think there is a definitive separation from using another artist's line as a sign of respect for his game, and being too damn lazy to write your own stuff. That's plagarism set to music, if you ask me.

Thoughts?

*This line, from the song "Who Ya Wit" is just humorus, because during his career, I don't think Jay-z even wrote half of his raps.

2005-02-06T13:17:00.000-05:00

You are looking at an official college graduate! Go OWLS!!!! Whoot whoot!!!!
Posted by Hello

Cutting corners on the road to hell

2005-01-31T20:49:00.000-05:00

The concept of a "degree" or "certificate" in nine, 18, or even 24 months has always sounded suspicious to me. Particularly from so-called schools that are guaranteeing a bright future for a bunch of slackers who don't want to bother with real college, but want to reap the benefits of a degree. I say that because these schools, these "techinical" or "trade" schools, promise students not only jobs, but jobs paying $30,000 upon completion of a certificate or associate's program. Guaranteed job placement, they boast. Well here's news for those folks: you may not get that much in your first job with a four year degree. And that's taking a big leap of faith that you'll land a job at all.

As I watched the segment on 60 Minutes last night about a federal investigation prompted by lawsuits former students and employees filed because they'd been ripped off by subsidiaries of the for-profit Career Education Corp., I heard nothing but violins. They'd been fed the dream of big bucks the easy way, and were angry at their gullibility. Students at the Brooks College (California) fashion design program were upset that they'd graduated the school with jobs folding shirts and upwards of $80,000 in loans. Similar stories were relayed from students at ITT and Katherine Gibbs School and several others.

Associate producer Jennifer MacDonald went undercover posing as a student interested in different programs at different CEC schools. She was told at one that choosing fashion design she "can make anywhere from hundreds of thousands to if you go up to be a designer." And when she showed interest in the medical assistant program at another school, the admissions specialist practically handed MacDonald a roster despite attempts to disqualify herself.

There's no selectivity in these schools, unlike colleges and universities, which require transcripts, recommendations, personal essays and sometimes interviews before accepting a student. As one former CEC employee said, "You need three things. You need $50, a pulse, and you’ve got to be able to sign your name. That’s about it.” I'm willing to bet anyone could walk in to ITT and say "I never finished 11th grade," and the admissions rep would reply "There's no better time to start over than now! Sign here on the dotted line!"

Be wary, is all I'm saying. If you're not willing to put in the four, six, twelve years it may take to earn a six-figure salary, you're only fooling yourself by thinking an associate's or certification program with "career placement" alone is going to open those doors. It takes hundreds of hours' worth of strained eyes, thousands of words written, boxloads of books highlighted and then experience in the field to get the big bucks. Most importantly, and this alone can sometimes push a person sans degree very far--you need ambition.

It's unfortunate that the education industry is mimicking the predatory ways of lending, entertainment and fashion by hawking dreams to dreamers. But the cliche became a cliche for a reason; if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

Updates and thangs

2005-01-29T11:32:00.000-05:00

Hey there, long time no blog.

I've really got to keep this place up better. Put it higher up on my to-do list. Things are just a little maddening right now. The Buttercup is just a handful. Hi-larious, but extremely busy. So days are full of adventure, humor, and cleaning up. A lot. All the time.

Also on my list of things-to-do recently, I just submitted my entry for a local fiction writing contest. I've spent the last six weeks working on my story. Wish me well!

Plans are also in the works to enter another poetry contest. I've just been in a competive mood of late, lol.

And last, but absolutely not least, I'm getting ready for my big day. Soon I will officially be a Class of 2005 graduate. Updates are certain to come.

FYI: I am also an official gmail account-holder now. *cheese* (Of course, peeps who use my other email are always welcome to continue.)

I only ask of you one thing.....

2005-01-02T15:42:00.000-05:00

Dear folks:

First and foremost, Happy New Year!

I come to you today for a much-needed conference. Yeah, you could call me a bit squeamish regarding my loss of anonymity since entering the blogsphere. I haven't decided whether I'm comfortable enough to continue this so-called-blog. Granted I don't even write often enough as is. Not only am I accessible via this blog, that little invention called the business card also sends out my information when I hand it over to another party. I'm a pretty private, to myself person. I take in small groups of people at a time; however I couldn't count the number of people whom I know and who know my name. It's what happens when your byline is printed every week.

But I digress.... This conference is in response to the nature of emails from people who think they know me. As said before, I'm reticent about this whole all-access thing. So if someone should see my name or business card, or read this blog and think, "hey, I know her!"--that is okay with me. However, if that someone would like to contact me and find out if I am who he/she thinks I am, I only ask ONE THING:

Please do not email me with cryptic questions. Do not ask me who I am or where I've been or ask me to disclose anything about myself without first introducing yourself. It's a rule in the game I play 9-5: when calling to ask a person a whole bunch of questions, I must first identify myself and my business affiliation. Otherwise it makes people (like myself) feel invaded, defensive, and I'll even admit, paranoid.

Granted, as a good blogbuddy of mine knows, I have ventured into the whole idea of "reconnecting" with an old friend. It takes guts, and a lot of energy, to do. But as I said before, I always say who I am and why I'm calling before I go any further. Because, a person is going to be a little thrown off by a random message or phone call as is; no need to be all spooky and leave cryptic and suspicous information. Being honest upfront totally increases receptiveness, and lessens the chance that the person will think of you as a psycho.

That being said, I would on many levels like to continue this blog in 2005. Hey maybe even post more than twice a month, you know? This world we live in is strange enough on its own, with identity theft and the countless other wacky things people are capable of. Thus, should I continue getting messages from people who do not identify who they are but want to know a whole lot of stuff about me, the shop will close.

Until then, toodles!

Destiny, or fate?

2004-12-13T18:10:00.000-05:00

"Call me a hater, but don't call me jealous."--Me.

I will be the first person to say it, and I have stood by it since 1998: I do not like Destiny's Child. Their first single had to be one of the most irritating tunes I have heard, and then they went and made the sequel and then the remix. It never ended. "No no no no no!" Just when I thought their 15 minutes of fame were over, they went and re-arranged, and then re-rearranged, with only cousins Beyonce and Kelly remaining the constant.

And as goofy as some people think this may sound, I do not dislike each individual "artist." I was impressed with Beyonce's solo venture. I can name a few songs I really dig. Kelly was a'ight. Michelle did her gospel thing, and she has a nice voice (but really, she looks like a fish out of water doing the booty hop on stage). It is when they come together as a group that their individual talent is diluted in silly repetitive tunes and catchy phrases. Their work as DC is to say the least, trite and weak. But I will buy a Kelly Rowland cd before I ever let someone burn me a free copy of "Survivor."

Back to the quintet-that-became-a-quartet-and-is-now-a-trio. It was then "Independent Woman." All the ladies, if you're independent, throw your hands up with me. Rah rah. And of course, "Bills, bills, bills." You trif-aling, good-for-nothing type of brotha, oh silly me, why haven't I found another. I breakout in a rash remembering the nonsense. Of course, I saw right through it all; if you're so independent, you don't have to do make an anthem about it and dance to it. Everybody who meets you will pick up on your "independence." I was called a hater, but I still said, thanks but no thanks.

However, Destiny's Child (aka Beyonce's Destiny) has revealed their true image with their third album. Case in point: "Soilder" featuring Li'l Wayne: We like dem boys that be in the LEX leanin'. Open their mouth their grill gleamin'...They always be talkin' that country slang, we like. They keep that beat that be in the back beatin'. Eyes be so low from the chiefin'. I love how he keep my body screamin'. A rude boy that's good to me, wit street credibillity.

Oh, but it gets worse. Here comes some of the chorus:

If his status ain't hood, I ain't checkin foor him.
Betta be street if he lookin' at me.
I need a soldier that ain't scared to stand up for me
known to carry big thangs
if u know what i mean.

Obviously here, at one point or the other (or maybe never at all and they're all just puppets regurgitating whatever's thrown at them) someone else was doing the writing between The Writing's on the Wall, Survivor and Destiny (un)Fulfilled. I don't know and I really don't care who wrote what, but the blatant demotion of principles here is embarrassing. How can they promote an album where they chant about needing a thug to take care of them, after calling the same brothas trifling three years ago? That's not growth, that's degeneration.

But I'm not the only one here who finds "Soldier" to be a slap in the collective female face. Radio listeners here in Philly have complained, as have most of my female friends. And while I know that there is no such thing as a role model, at least in 2001 the lyrics were marginally empowering. Now young girls who already know how to get their "eagle on" by age three will also grow up thinking that a real man is gangsta. Oh, I hope Destiny Fulfilled means this charade is over, because I've had enough.

A little pre-holiday foolishness

2004-11-24T19:23:00.000-05:00

There sometimes are no words to express my wonderment when reading articles like this:

The Minneapolis Star Tribune reported:

LITTLE FALLS, Minn. -- He's big, he's yellow, and he's missing.
Police in Little Falls are searching for a blow-up figure of SpongeBob SquarePants, taken from his perch atop a Burger King restaurant.
The popular cartoon character was plugging his new movie in a joint marketing deal with Burger King.
Police found a ransom note which reads: ``We have SpongeBob. Give us ten Crabby Patties, fries and milkshakes.'' It was signed by SpongeBob's nemesis, Plankton. And the note had this postscript: ``Patrick is next,'' a reference to SpongeBob's starfish buddy.

This is so silly it's pathetic.

How Rude!

2004-11-14T18:56:00.000-05:00

I admit, I grew up watching Full House on ABC's TGIF like it was nobody's business. Watching Stephanie Tanner say "How rude!" whenever her sister told her to go away. As I am inundated with rudeness on my day-to-day encounters, I think Stephanie hit it on the nail: how rude!

Philadelphia, "The City of Brotherly Love" is anything but. They say you can make it anywhere if you can make it in New Y0rk, but I beg to differ. I met some of the nicest people on the streets of the Big Apple when I went to school there. People who actually stopped to give me directions. People who told me where the nearest Wendy's was. But here, where I try to give the best directions (sometimes to a fault, as I often talk with my hands---all that circling probably is annoying); people are so nasty. So nasty they ought to be ashamed.

My coworker recently moved from upstate New York to live here. One day she was left behind on an assignment, which was luckily within walking distance of the office. On her walk, she asked a passerby where the Broad Street subway was, to which the jerk responded "there ain't no subway on Broad Street." There is one and only one subway in the whole city, and it's on Broad Street! I bet if you offered $20 for directions Philadelphians wouldnt give you a right turn unless you upped the pay to $50. Just pathetic.

Among the other rude things "we" do here (hey, my neighbors in Filthydelfia actually booed Santa and the Mayor) we have a real problem with respecting others in large groups. Metropolitan areas are ones where there are many social events that are free, and thus attract thousands of people at a time. Nevertheless, people have no consideration for others with small children, and gee, strollers or wheelchairs. I've had doors slap me in the shoulder by jerks who dont hold the door when I'm pushing my daughter through a doorway. I've been walked into, and several attemps were made to walk through me. Now, I realize I am on the short side, but I still have personal space. I deserve to walk in a straight line as much as the next person. But people will walk into me, cut me off, shove me, you name it.

But when you have my child involved, you best be expecting fisticufs. For real. I may not be from the hood, but that's a rumble where I'm from. Don't disrespect the stroller. The new thing to do is leap over the stroller, as in hurdle it. You read me right; leap over the stroller. I didn't think it was a trend when a 70-something man lept over my stroller after a theatre matinee on Broad Street (irony anyone?), until yesterday.

At the Philadelphia International Art Expo, where artists, craftsmen, and talents from around the country displayed and sold their gifts, I was pushing my daughter to my job's vendor table, and just as I reached the table, this woman ran and cut me off. Adding insult to injury, the heifer actually jumped over my stroller when she turned around. My coworker as my witness, she jumped over my stroller, and God help me for not nudging the stroller forward just enough for an unfortunate accident to happen. Ooooooooh I wanted to trip that woman and watch her fall just for the audacity of treating my daughter like a like a track obstacle.

This all happened after a day of being shoved, walked into, cut off, and generally treated like I was in the way as I tried to expose my child to some culture amidst some of the most disgusting people on the planet. After over two hours of this, it is easy to understand why I was so tempted to give that woman what she deserved. And you best believe that I did run up behind that old man on Broad Street last year and ram his heels. He deserved it.

For all the culture and rich history, this city is seriously lacking in class. I've had it to HERE. I remember being pregnant and on the bus as a dozen men watched me stand. And I've seen it happen to other women. It's not even about chivalry--which is six feet under here--it's about courtesy. In Philadlephia, to even expect it is to expect disappointment.

2004-10-23T00:15:00.000-04:00

That's Philly for you. Don't say we didn't warn you.

Couldn't have said it better....

2004-10-22T23:19:00.000-04:00

While I am fashionably late responding to the beef between MJ and Eminem over his latest video, Just Lose It, I did not hear about it late. I went as far as to seek out a copy of the transcript but my sleuthing skills fell short.

Nevertheless, Ambra Nykol, whose blog I have admittedly fallen short on reading/commenting, said just about all there was to say. I do happen to like Eminem, because he is one thing people are squeamish about admitting: entertaining. Call him what you want, the man knows what he is doing. He knows that this whole farce of a sham is going to increase his fanbase and sales, no matter what. He's been the media's "epitome" of controversy since 1999.

That all said, I am befuddled by this whole nonsense, because I don't understand why Michael Jackson is such a precious icon that we must ignore his shortcomings and just plain ole 'not-rightness' just because he's black. In the words of Star, don't patronize me with your silly tribalism. What, am I supposed to support (dry heaves) R. Kelly even though he is a friggin pedophile, because he's black and so am I? Give me a break, really. So BET has decided to keep airing UnCut (read: the porno versions of videos) but has pulled Em's video just for the MJ satire. How predictable. And, since I mentioned R.Kelly, how many of his videos have been pulled at BET, you know the ones with barely legal girls clad in handkerchiefs and liquor a-flowin?

I just don't understand the whole logic behind this. So, Chris Rock can joke about Michael ("I'm handing in my glove!"), Saturday Night Live can satirize him, and newspapers can even call him "Jacko" but for whatever reason Eminem is a no-no? And...whatabout the other people he mocks in the video? Hammer? Pee-wee Herman? Paris Hilton? Madonna? Who hasn't the man mocked? Why is this even an issue? Because, he's white, and it's always a race issue if a white person happens to have commentary on something that a black person may have done.

I'm torn between what is worse here: that we are expected to ignore the obvious failings of our "icons" simply to promote and unite the "black race," thereby skirting the core issue (eg. these men need help); or that it is unrighteous for folks who are not black to chirp one critical word about our people, lest they be deemed racist.

And, as a journalist, I question the merit behind Steve Harvey's interview(s) with Michael on the Los Angeles' The Beat station in the first place. Since when can you even interview your "friends" anyway? Ahem, ethics anyone?

A New Low

2004-10-14T22:56:00.000-04:00

What has it all come to? I've seen cars 10 years old with rims, even a minivan with spinners. But this is just unacceptable. Spinners for your FEET? For the record, I have to say as a woman that any man who has spinning rims and lives in the hood does nothing more for me than illustrate how frivolous and irresponsible his spending is. I ain't a financial saint, but the line must be drawn somewhere. The spinners for shoes? Done.

***But wait! There's More! Click Here for your very own Pimp Cup!***

(Don't) Just Do It.

2004-10-10T01:10:00.000-04:00

Since I did an article about this organization that recently received a $2.4 million three-year grant for abstinence education, my flame has re-ignited. I said this in high school and it remains my belief: Abstinence is NOT a form of contraception.

The Random House Websters College Dictionary defines contraception as: the deliberate prevention of conception or impregnation by any of various drugs, techniques, or devices; birth control.

Therefore, abstinence does not fall under that definition. I say this because it literally makes no sense. It made no sense when I was 16 and it still doesn't. You can not go to the clinic, or your ob-gyn, or the drug store and ask for a prescription for abstinence the way you would for the Pill, injections, and condoms. Birth control is what is used to prevent STDs and pregnancy when a person has sex. You can not "use" abstinence when having sex to prevent the transmission of disease. The total inaccuracy of this education bothers me (likely why teens who pledge to abstain from sex have high STD infection rates), but it also bothers me when people say that abstinence is in the same rank as birth control methods-which are all physical, tangible preventative techniques-and not think twice about it.

We need to stop miseducating our youth. Rather than totally avoid discussion of sex (read: Abstinence-Only Education) or the reproductive system so that 18 year old girls don't know what a cervix is, we should instead inform them about their bodies, and arm them with as much information as possible. Teach them about abstinence, but only as an "alternative" to sexual intercourse. Birth control is the contraceptive method for sexually active indviduals; therefore it nullifies the concept of abstinence=birth control. Clearly it's not effective in practice, when teens who are only knowledgable about abstinence don't know how to use a condom. It's just plain silly to even entertain the thought that showing a teen how to use a condom, or what a female condom looks like is going to "encourage" them to have sex. And in any case, they were probably already going to have sex anyway so at least you have given them a way of protection. Much like the woman from Advocates for Youth whom I interviewed for my story said, to believe that sex education leads to sexual deviancy is likened to saying giving out umbrellas will cause it to rain. Just foolish.

Much like you cannot apply abstinence as a form of birth control, you do not see women walking around wearing diaphrams for GP. I deliberately omit the Pill in this part of the discussion because it can be prescribed for women who have other female health issues (a two-fer!). But the point remains: just as you can not have abstinence as your method of contraception when having sex, you do not see men walking around wearing condoms just because. One implies the other. Abstinence is the opposite of sex. It is a choice, not a contraception method.

Therefore when we teach our children about sex, we should inform them that they either choose to engage in sexual activity, or they choose not to; however should they choose to have sex, comprehensive sex education will prepare them with contraceptive methods. Abstinence not being one of them.

I must explain myself

2004-10-10T00:45:00.000-04:00

It appears to be true that I haven't written in 17 whole days, which is rather embarrassing for a so-called blogger. And for that I am sorry. My excuse: well, I work at a job that requires constant brain-power, where I'm writing, thinking and writing. When I am not thinking or writing (or sometimes while I'm doing it), I am on the phone. Good grief, if someone had told me that being a journalist meant talking on the phone to people I would have stayed an English major. Such is life. All this to say is that my 9-5 is pretty demanding on the brain. Not to mention that my beautiful eyes (20/17 i think it was last checked) are being ruined from looking at a computer so much. So many times when I get home I don't even want to think about thinking, let alone writing.

There are things I have wanted to write about, like the Los Angeles Sentinel last week publishing on the front page a picture and story about Kobe's accuser. Or even Beanie "I'm a Moron" Sigel being sentenced as "state property," but acting like he's a changed man even though he still faces attempted murder charges. I even want to write about the manifestation of a person's stupidity from behind the wheel. And how could I forget, I always want to post my poetry.

But in addition to my (sigh) job, I have another, equally demanding job: Mommy. That job alone makes it hard to crank out daily blog entries. Try writing a story, a poem, or even an email with "mommy I want some ju-u-u-uice!" ringing in your ear for an entire hour. This also explains why my posts will most likely be during the average blogger's "off-time"--the weekend. And why I'm in front of the computer after midnight during the weekend. So right now, my blogging is minimal, but I am hoping for a more balanced day in the future, so here's to it.

2004-09-25T23:39:00.000-04:00

Me and my Buttercup.

Guilty Conscience

2004-09-25T23:25:00.000-04:00

we used to walk the fine line
that divided our world between
simply existing and living life.

we were easy with one another
choosing not to implant
expectations or responsibilities
on our companionship
and relishing the ambiguity;

we used to wax
poetic.
philosophical.
rhetoric,
politicking
beneath the ambience
of Columbian beans
and Cinnabons--

but now I'm missing you.

I never had to plead you
to understand me
because you knew
the most tacit language I spoke;

you acted as if I were the sun
to nourish your stem,
the chlorophyl to green your leaves,
when you listened,
never judging or teasing
my eclectic sense of humanity.

We, as we exchanged poetry,
literature,
and just plain old conversation,
were like spirits familiar
from another world.

At your convenience,
I was able to escape the din
my life clanged in my ears.

But now I find myself missing you.

I'm guilty
because I love him
but I'm missing you--

because with you
I never had to explain myself
unless I chose--
because with you I never had to
presume American literature
an absurd pasttime--
because with you
I never became a freak
because you knew and understood
that "I'm an artist,
and I'm sensitive about my shit."

(c) 2003, j.g.h.

Welcome!

2004-09-25T23:18:00.000-04:00

Well, I must say first thanks to memer for telling me about Blogger.

I've ventured on from my LiveJournal site. I'll keep it up until I figure out otherwise. But my new home is here, and I hope you make yourself comfortable.

Here you will find my poetry, rants, tales of motherhood, and whatever I may decide to post. I don't do politics, it gives me hives. So if you're looking for politics, sorry to disappoint.

Feel free to comment. I generally don't bite. Generally.

1-2-3

2004-09-22T22:42:00.000-04:00

Hmm. Seems easy enough.

I think this may work a little better for me. We'll just have to see though. I must admit, this is certainly User Friendly enough for a UCFU (User-Friendly Computer User) like me.