A Cop and a Southern Gent walk into a Starbucks.

A police officer. White male. Decent looking. Walks into a Starbucks in Charlotte, NC. I park my car, get out and enter the Starbucks behind him. I find him online talking to a “Southern Gent,” the kind that might rave about his time at Ole Miss over mint juleps on a Sunday afternoon. They are mid conversation. Sounds like their talking about the dangers of being a cop and how effective the vest can be. I only hear them mocking Michael Browns death. The Southern Gent thanks him, then buys him a coffee for all he does for all of us. By that time, I’m seething. I am literally shaking in anger. I watch the Southern Gent condescend to the all Black staff like they are simple minded Darkies who need looking after and clear simple direction if they are to understand the complexities of making a latte.

He and the Officer continue their chat. They talk German Shepherds and kids. I think about how my kid would not likely be safe from a German Shepherd they were holding the leash of. The cop gets his coffee and he leaves. I’m so angry I can’t see. Did they do anything to me? Nope. Was I justified in my anger? Probably not. My anger stems from having to view the world through the lens of a Black woman for 38 years and a Black mother for 15.

For those who feel I’m racializing things when I don’t need to,  please give me another way to see the world. As it is not one bit of fuckin’ fun living with this bubbling just underneath the surface, this fearful cautiousness that has me on edge when I’m around my white friends drunk and scared to death their gonna say something stupid because I’ve made them feel comfy, or when that rage crashes to the surface after a knowing look, the sound of a certain southern twang, the sight of a police car when I’m on the road alone at night, when I’m in a room full of white men and I’m the only Black female; even when the men are ones I know, love and trust. I NOTICE it. And I wish like hell I didn’t, but I do.

Post-racials, I’m begging you, PLEASE give me a solution that isn’t grounded in guilt, denial and which includes you actually owning up to the fact that racism is as alive today as it ever was.  If you can’t, or if you continue to perpetuate the lie of post-racism and victim blaming, then the La-Z-Boys are in the back … be seated, and be grateful that I have enough self awareness to understand that I don’t have to act out on my anger/frustration because I feel it. If Darren Wilson had been a little more self aware and a little less hell bent on acting out on his privilege maybe Michael Brown would still be alive.

Rosie.

Funky Town.

I’m in a funk of my own creation.
So I heads to a meeting,
To find a sum
Piece of mind
Cause clearly
I’ve lost it.
On the way, I stumbled upon
The Projects
(or A projects as it were.)
It was an eerie
Regnägleppod : Doppelgänger
Of the one I’d grow’d up in
It felt foreign
Yet familiar
Like an old shirt you find
Years after you’ve outgrown it.
I thought about how

My life was then
How futile any attempts to
LEAVE
Seemed.
And then the gratitude reigned down
In sheets
And I was grateful
And I was grateful
And I was grateful

Rosie.

Year One: Thank you. Thank you.

At approximately 3:05 pm on this day I completed my first year of graduate studies at NYU Tisch School of the Arts.  Almost immediately I began to feel this huge sense of gratitude  for the road that got me here and the road ahead.  I wept on the train for happy reasons this time (v.s. my in ability to tolerate one more round of “show time” on the 2 train). None of this was on the trajectory for me even 3 years ago, and even when the blips did start to show, I was very doubtful of my ability to get accepted to a “reputable program” and excel in any way.  The truth is I wouldn’t be here had I not had the kind words, good deeds, financial support, and sweeping generosity of others.

To my family: You’re the greatest. Thanks for supporting me even when you didn’t quite understand what it is I’m going after. One day it’ll all make sense.

To my friends: Your love, light and laughter keep me going on sooooo many days.  You have no idea how many times I look back on our text conversations/emails or listen to voice mails just to feel connected when I feel like an idiot or like I’m all alone in this thing (yes, this makes me weird … and a little stalkish, but you knew this about me already.)

To my classmates: My special group of comrades in the trenches, who get how emotionally crippling it can be when plot lines don’t make sense, or your protag doesn’t have a proper antagonist, or when your story doesn’t have a dramatic arc, but by god is it fucking funny. Thank you for the time spent looking at my work and sharing your opinions in an effort to help me make it better.

(and to my Tisch Asia crew … YOU MADE IT MUPHUCKAS!!!! Party up!   I look forward to growing long friendships with you all that with any luck leads to us swimming in a sickening amount of cash … that we can then hand over to the government for our student loans.)

Ok, this is getting longer than I wanted it to be and I don’t want it to come off like some douchey acceptance speech, but I do think it’s proper to stop, observe, and give thanks because I definitely didn’t make it this far on my own.

Salute!

Rosie.

p.s. If you’ve stumbled upon this blog at a point in your life when your deciding whether or not you’re good enough for … whatever … fuck that. You are. Just do it. You never know where it might take you.

and this … cause dammit it’s inspiring

Judgement Day.

I was struck by this bit of Divine insight while journalling about my meditation today and thought it could be helpful to other creatives or just human beings:

When taking critiques of our work (whatever your work is) it might be helpful to think of yourself as being an observer from the inside of your house during a powerful storm. You see and hear things you think are “good”.  You see and hear things that you think are “bad” but overall you won’t be consumed by them.  When the “storm” is gone and the notes/recommendations are given. You allow yourself time to recover from what you heard and saw, then open the door, go outside, and start cleaning. Consider the notes/recommendations as you clean and hold on to those things that you feel in your gut to be truth of your work regardless of what the notes/recommendations are. Let go and follow the bits of advice you know to be true even when your ego is telling you otherwise.

All right.  I’m done channeling.  Happy working y’all.

Rosie.

Manifesting Destiny.

We’re about to go on a quick trip from attachment to detachment in one post.  Ready?  I’m not sure I am, but here we go.  Ever since I was … a zygote … I have lived and breathed for the approval of other people.  I have existed to make people proud of, in love with, or enamored of me.  It is an addiction that lives in a house in my chest with all my other addictions (active and otherwise).  I have fed these addictions with actions done in expectation of the reward, the pay off, the acceptance, not realizing that  it’s a temporary thing and soon … likely very soon after the pay off the other person will move on to the next thing.  The next focus. They will return home and feed their own gluttonous needs and wants.  When you are not serving up the soup of the day that their inner glutton craves, they move on, or worse, they get angry at you.  They may even hate you.  These little monsters are ravenous and they don’t have time for you if you’re not feeding them.

I know I’m rambling.  I didn’t say the ride would be easy or coherent for that matter.  So, this morning I got a phone call.  A simple enough phone call, it was my Mom, there’d been a miscommunication that was in the grand scheme of things pretty minor.  I was yelled at and as per usual accused of being selfish. This is a recurring theme in our relationship by the by, and part of the reason why no matter how successful I’ve been or may become why I find it so hard to enjoy.  My choice to be a writer the majority of the time has felt ephemeral, insubstantial, and extremely selfish.  There’s this little fucker that runs around in my head saying: “How dare you go around here pretending that living this dream is ok, living this life you’re living is fair to anyone else! How dare you be enjoying life on your terms, you selfish bitch!”  And I would gladly smother him with a pillow if I could find it in my constitution to consciously and subconsciously disagree with him consistently.  He’s my absorbed twin that never got to manifest in body. He has lived with me since I was that zygote.

If I am to have the life I want, and honest to God I can’t even figure out exactly what that is cause he won’t shut the fuck up, I have to abort.  I have to abort all people, places, things, thoughts, and ideologies that implant doubt in my ability to achieve anything an everything I want to believe in this life. Even if that means I have to create distance from those whom I love very much. And that hurts, it feels like a literal ripping apart of myself from myself.  The person I knew myself to be and the person I am becoming cannot live in the same place.  One must die for the other to live. Because it’s not about whether or not I’m a good or great writer. It’s about what I believe  myself to be, and I will never ever ever ever believe in myself if I continued to be caught up in the sub par desires and expectations others have for me.

I think we’re almost there. The twin wants to have a word to ensure that I don’t isolate people … always the worrier he is.

None of this is to say that I’m cutting people off or doing one of those obnoxious “Facebook cleansing” were I get rid of my haters/detractors.  I don’t think I’m that pretentious … yet. What I am purging is the value I’ve placed on people’s expectations of me and my limited thinking. The fear that I have of aspiring to whatever the fuck I want to because it seems some how “wrong” or unattainable,  is a cancer, and if I have to gut myself with knife and rip it out  along with every fucked up thing I was raised to believe or told to believe about myself I. Will. because goddam this is my life and I’ve only got one shot at it. It’s hard enough trying to be somebody without being simultaneous made to feel like the somebody you want to be is wrong or unfair to others.  Fuck that.  Yes, I do think I’m good enough to achieve any accolade you could name for my writing, but I won’t even have the capability to be in the running if I don’t cut all this self defeatist bullshit out of my life. And none of the accolades matter anyway if I’m not doing this for myself because I must, because it was implanted in me to be this person before I was a zygote. It’s my destiny. Yup, I’m over here manifesting destiny.  It’s harder than childbirth, but it is the only true freedom.

Ok, we’re here. I’m done. For now.

Rosie.

 

She wanna or In Trans-it

She wanna
Eat a man alive
Make him
S C R E A M
cum
vibrate
On his
In
Sides.
She wanna
Conquer
unnavigable waters
S/W/I/M
in
FORBIDDEN
seas.
She wanna
ramp wid him
inna rubba dub
STY-LE.
She wann-
Attention
And her
Name
Mentioned
In a list of lovers that he will
Never
Ever
Forget.
She says all this
With the
Flick
Of a sour straw gainst
Her tongue ring.
Sour seduction,
Lookin’ for trouble.
She gonna
Find IT.
If she wanna.

It’s Oscar season.

9/18/2013 I am not sure if I have ever been this moved to anger by anything.  I didn’t just see Oscar Grant on that screen.  I saw my brother, my nephews, [my ex-boyfriend], every black man that I have loved or thought to love.  My heart is broken into a million pieces about the cheapness of a black life.  It isn’t right.  It’s far from just and it was never meant for us … this American life.  It has served us in no tangible way.  We remain entangled, snared in our own weaknesses and short comings.  Constantly kicked in the stomach, but told to get up.  I am [resentful] at and for black men everywhere and I am choking on the words.  My fingers can’t write them and my mouth can’t speak them.  I am burning with anger.  God please help me find a way to express this to the goal of healing rather than self destruction.

I wrote that on the subway ride home the night after I’d seen Fruitvale Station.  I have not ever in my life reacted so strongly to a film.  From the opening scene, footage of the actual murder of Oscar Grant, to the last moments of the dramatic re-enactment on film I was destroyed.  I sobbed openly and out loud as if I’d seen my own son murdered. I exited the theatre and walked Third Avenue mad enough to strangle someone.  Not a White person, not the Police … anyone. Even the next morning, when I looked back on it, I still harbored residual anger.  How could any human life be so worthless? Why are incidents like this treated so nonchalantly?

These questions danced around in my head for the proceeding days. People were talking about this film everywhere.  I didn’t run across one person who’d seen it and not walked away feeling gut punched.  This is what I want my work as an artist to do, I thought, rattle the consciousness of people, and maybe … just maybe … affect change.  Surely, most people speculated, This film will do well in award season.  Even I, knowing better, allowed myself to dwell in the illusion that the power of this film and the issues it raises would have to be acknowledge by the artistic higher ups.

As we know, and should not be too shocked by, Fruitvale was summarily snubbed by the more illustrious award granting bodies (Oscars/Globes).  I could spend the remainder of this post bitching about that, citing my issues with films of inferior quality/content that were nominated, but I would be missing the point.  The lesson or I should say the reminder, at least for me,  is this: Film is film, a  subjective art form made by an endless variety of creators for an endless variety of reasons.  There are a million and two reasons why certain films, actors, and directors are (or are not) chosen for esteemed awards.  I’d lay the cost of my Tisch tuition on some of the reasons having little to do with the quality of the work. That’s neither here nor there.  What I need to remember is that if I choose to participate in this industry (and it is a choice) I must lay to the side any expectation of glory and tell stories because I want to or because on some cellular level I  need to.

Most of the time I try to tell stories that set me on fire. After all, I am a Black female writer and mother of a Black Son.  I am creating during Oscar season, and I speak not of the award, but a time when it appears to be open season on young Black Men like Oscar Grant, Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis … etc. etc. It is imperative that these stories are told and retold as America has a nasty tendency to forget what she looks like and needs to be reminded every now and again, by bold artist unthreatened by the withholding of “head-pats” and “atta-boys”. (See: Spike Lee)

Now, I know, every film can’t be Fruitvale or Milk or a political diatribe meant to raise awareness about x to y so that z can be forced to change its evil imperialist ways, nor should it be.  I mean where the fuck would I be without Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or Dumb and Dumber ( especially the scene where Jim Carey slaps dude in the legs with the cane)  to rescue me from the madhouse between my ears and the debacle of George Zimmerman’s budding art career.  What I do want us to remember as we huddle around the television and pick apart red carpet fashion do’s and don’t this evening is that film has greater power than any one evening of pomp and circumstance can contain.  It sent me out of a theatre a screaming crying mess ready to write all that was wrong with the world.    That’s great shit.

Rosie.