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
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Living or just alive?
Monday, August 04, 2008
I Had a Dream
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
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
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Other One
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)
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
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Route One
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
Sunday, January 20, 2008
(Second) First Post
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 Read More......
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Fresh ink
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
What a midday nap can do
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
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Mic check
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
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
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
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.”
Sunday, August 12, 2007
They must not know
There are places where you can sit down for two hours:
The bookstore.
Your couch.
Dinner.
The movies.The park.
An open mic.
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.
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.
Read More......
Friday, June 29, 2007
She's bleeding again
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
Thursday, June 21, 2007
(Don't) Honk if you're angry
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.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Well, excuse me!
Knock knock. *Slowly opening door, peeking in* Ahem. Remember me? Good. 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.
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...
Monday, March 19, 2007
Misty Blue
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
Monday, February 19, 2007
Another One
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
Friday, November 17, 2006
A bird with one wing...
...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.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
A small chip off the ole Block
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.
Read More......
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Warning!
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
Sunday, July 02, 2006
The Birthplace of AlieNation
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
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