Good Grief.

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Today my city lost a well known and well loved visual artist by the name of Carlleena Person.  I had, unfortunately only gotten to know her briefly.  I was planning a show that incorporated various art forms that centered around hip hop.  Carlleena contacted me on Facebook to let know that she was quite interested.  Her enthusiasm and willingness to jump in on my random ass project without even knowing me and without any solid guarantee of payment let me know that she created out of the pure joy of doing it which, in turn, instantly endeared me to her.

We communicated via Facebook and email in the days leading up to the show.  The piece she created entitled Have U.N.E. More Pull was a retelling of a Black Sheep song by the a similar  name. It is beautiful (see below).  I was in communication with her the day of the show, and she said she’d be dropping the piece off.  As fate would have it, she had a car accident that day and gotten banged up pretty badly.  When I contacted her to check on her, the first thing she did was apologize for not making the show. Amazing.  I immediately hushed her, and shared with her the story of my broken ankle encouraging her to rest. She told me how truly grateful for my concern she was and said that we would meet in person soon. We never did.

Hearing of her passing today was like a blow to the gut, and I barely knew  her. For me, the pang of grief comes from knowing we have lost someone that was such a light of optimism during these cynic riddled times.   I cannot fathom the grief being felt by artists who knew her and worked with her directly.  What I do know is that this process,  this grief process that we’ll move through as a community of artists can only make us stronger.

We artists are such emotional beings.  We can’t be anything else because it is that which allows us to create work that touches the emotions of other people.  Some of us run from our emotional side. Some block. Some hide, but it’s always there waiting for us, and it sometimes takes the nuclear blast of death to force us to feel. Grief deconstructs and reconstructs simultaneously. It excavates all the shit we no longer need (resentment, doubt, anger, and fear) and sets it out for us to face. Then wrestle with. Then accept.  Then we rebuild (hopefully) on a new foundation with a renewed respect about the frailty of life.

Carlleena will be sorely missed, not only by her family and arts community that she left, but by the planet that she help to light with her art work and tremendous spirit.

Rosie.

“Have U.N.E. More Pull” by artist Carlleena Person

Mom too much?

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When I gazed upon the recent cover of  Time Magazine, my initial urge was to vomit.  The churning of my guts was not however due to the overgrown child latched firmly to his mother’s teet.  That was unsightly enough. No, my disgust was brought on by the title of the cover story “Are You Mom Enough?”

Hell, on most days I wonder I’m human being enough, now I have to worry about if I’m mom enough?! Geez!  Okay Let’s see:

  • I don’t cook for him nightly.
  • I DO provide unhealthy fast food substitutes. (*wonder if I should just breast feed :/ )
  • I use foul language around him.
  • BUT I use that language in complete sentences.
  • I’m short tempered with him.
  • That temper usually flares up when he’s not doing what he should in school.
  • I’m ALWAYS busy.
  • I’m ALWAYS willing to drop everything when he needs me.

Well mom judges,  How am I looking? Did I mention I’m a single parent?! That’s gotta get me a bye!

Dammit! Motherhood has been turned into a high stakes game with no clear winner. Do I win if my kid goes to college? If he doesn’t go to jail? If he does both? If he goes to jail, but comes out and is a productive citizen there after? If he goes to college, but his entire life is meaningless? There are just too many damn variables.  I love my son dearly, but I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this Motherhood Hunger Games shit.

So here’s what, I hereby advocate for self honest guilt free parenting (okay… maybe guilt lite).  I don’t need detailed instructions from a some highfalutin MD either.  I’m going to raise my son to the best of my abilities. I will make mistakes, but try my best to avoid the biggies (e.g. neglecting to feed, clothe, or nurture him). Even if I fall on my ass I will vow to get back up and continue giving him all the love and support that a selfish self centered letch like me can :).

Rosie.

What are you afraid of?

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When I was a kid, I had asthma. The kind of asthma that kept my school nurse’s itchy dialing finger pointed toward the phone in anticipation of having me carted out of the school via ambulance … again. I breathed thin and narrow. One wrong move. A twitch, an overly ambitious fit of laughter could send me into the throws of throat narrowing brochospasmodic suffocation. My childhood existence was racked with anxiety and the fear that my next asthma attack would be my last.

As I got older, my asthma got better, but my fear never strayed too far. Most of my young adult life through my early 30s, I lived my life based on fear and made all decisions accordingly. Change is indeed possible though, and growth is necessary if one is to survive a fear based existence. Much of my “healing” came through art and written expression. My Poeish existence did serve to enhance my imagination and to some degree has made me the theatre artist I am now. A fairly cool trade off I must say.

Tomorrow, if you are anywhere near my fair city (Charlotte, NC) you can check out the programing at The Mint Museum of Art as some of my favorite arts folk (John Hairston, Antoine Williams, and Quentin Talley) answer the question “What are you afraid of?” through visual and performance art. Enjoy! 🙂

Rosie.

(oh did I mention it’s FREE)

;

Stardust Melody

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“Baby?”

“Yes, Nana?”

“Did I ever tell you about the time yo grandpa played clarinet with Glen Miller.”

“Only about a thousand times.”

“Glenn Miller said that your grandpa …”

“…blew that clarinet like nobody he’d ever heard before. One minute it’s Glenn Miller, the next Count Bassie, Louis Armstrong. Nana, are you okay?”

“What you mean am I ‘ok’?  I’m fine.  I’m trynna tell you somethin’ and you keep …”

“You need to eat.”

“Go in the top drawer over there and fetch me out that box of pictures.”

“Nana, you have to eat.  I’ve been here two days and you haven’t eaten more than a cup of ice cream.”

“I like ice cream.”

“Can you please just eat this applesauce? Please?!”

“I’ll eat every mouthful if you go over there and get my box of pictures out that drawer.”

She goes to get the pictures for her grandmother

“Here.”

The old woman fumbled through the box of photographs and pulls out the one she’s been looking for.

“There he is!”

photo courtesy of http://waheedpix.tumblr.com/

“That’s grandpa?”

“Yeah! He was just a youngin’ here.  Handsome.  This couldn’ta been too much more before I met him. I sure loved him in that uniform.”

“I …”

“You look jus like ‘im. ‘Specially when he was young.”

The two stare at the photograph, lost in their own thoughts.  Her grandmother begins to sing.

“ ‘Sometimes I wonder why I spend such lonely nights …

“I got the pictures. Now we eat. That was the deal.”

“ ‘The melody haunts my reverie. And I am once again with you.’ ”

“Nana.”

“Come on sing wit me Baby.  I know you know the words. ‘When our love was new–”

“ ‘Each kiss an inspiration.’ ”

They both sing.

“  ‘But that was long ago, now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song
Beside a garden wall
When stars are bright!
And you are in my arms
The nightingale tells his fairy tale
A paradise where roses bloom’ ”

Now there is only one voice.

“ ‘Though I dream in’ … come on Nana this is the best … Nana?”

Silence.

“No. No. No No No No No. No. Nana wake up please. Please wake up.”

Silence.

“Baby. Finish the song.”

“I can’t. Don’t leave me, not now, I need you.”

“I ain’t neva goin’ nowhere. I’m gone always be here.  Now finish it.”

Silence.

“ ‘Though I dream in vain
in my heart it will remain
My stardust melody
The melody of love’s refrain’ “

They are together. Now one life.

Rosie.

Gorgeous 🙂

Beach Boys

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“Man to hell wit what you talkin’ bout!”
“I’m serious now.  I tell you there ain’t nothing like a woman with great big legs.”

“Oh yeah, Lena Mae got great big legs, and a great big ole ass, and stomach.”

“Big women treat you good Marsh, and they cook!”

“I ain’t nevah met nobody fulla more horse shit than you Octavius Greene. I declare. If you wanna talk to her friend, go on over there and talk to her and leave me out of it.”

“Women team up.  I ain’t gonna get two words outta that gal unless I bring you with me to keep Lena busy, you know that.”

“Take a sandwich over there.  That’ll keep her busy.”

“You ain’t worth a damn. What you got against Lena anyway?  Seem like I can recollect last summer you ain’t have a problem with Lena being plump at all. Seem like what I remember is you liked that a whole lot.”

“Man hush.”

“She put you down didn’t she?!”

“Get on away from me Octavius.”

“Marshall Chesterfield let a woman put him down! LAWD have mercy! The dignified educated nigger himself!”

“I said be quiet you red sonofabitch!”

“Marshall, what’s the matter with you man?! I was just joshin’ with you.”

“She said I was too black.”

“Lena Mae?”

“Yeah, said we could fool around however much we wanted to, but she couldn’t marry me.”

“You wanted to marry Lena Mae Taylor?!”

“Shit yeah man, the Taylors are a good family.”

“That why you wanted to marry her?”

“Yeah! Her father could get me a real good job when I get outta school. I had it planned out.  After you left last summer.  I courted her … boy I tell you, I bought that broad flowers, took her to the pictures, we was gettin’ pretty hot and heavy, then she laid it on me: “I like you a lot Marsh, but my daddy won’t let me be with nobody near as dark as you, plus you don’t really come from nothin’ ”

“Marsh, you know them Taylors.”

“Yeah, I know em. Hell with ’em.  I’ll make it just fine on my own. High yella niggas.”

“I ain’t gonna hear too much more a that.”

“What you gone do yella?”

“I’ma beat yo black ass is what I’m gone do, but I gotta do it before sun down else I won’t be able to see you.”

“You a fool Octavius.”

“Yep, a fool looking for a good time.  Now you gone go over there with me so I can get the first shot at this fine new gal or what?”

“I s’pose so.  Lena always up for a good time.”

“You rascal!  Look they wavin’ at us. Lena even got a camera. She gone take our picture.”

“I sure hope you show up in it.  It is daytime you know.”

Throw Stacey On The Plane

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Dearest From the Rose’s Mouth followers and random finders of my writing,

I have been accepted to NYU‘s Tisch School of the Arts Asia for dramatic writing with a concentration in playwriting.  This would requite me to relocate to Singapore for two years, an extremely exciting yet extremely expensive endeavor.  You can help me get there!  Besides getting my tuition covered – a scholarship and loan are helping with that, my next biggest hurdle is affording the trip over.  I’ve set up a fund to cover the cost of travel to and from Singapore for the duration of my time there.  Any little bit that you can give would help tremendously! Also, PLEASE feel free to pass this along to any giving soul you know!

Click here to Throw Stacey On The Plane

Rosie.

Here’s a funny thing to watch! Written and directed by me :).

It’s in (here)

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I want wake up one day and get faith.  I want to be wildly optimistic and accepting of my path.  I want to be able to have a direct line that that thing that it that entity that lives in me that I catch peripheral glimpses of when I’m playing with my nephew or laughing with my friends, or holding someone’s hand while they are dying, or comforting someone who has lost.  That stillness. That sureness that what I’m doing is right.

I want the faith in me and my abilities that others have.  It’s as if there is another Stacey Rose that I can feel just there in the shadows but who disappears when I turn to look her in the eye. I want to be emotionally and spiritually self sufficient. I want the well wishes and compliments of others to accentuate a knowing that I already have instead of being the foundation for what I know and believe about me.

Don’t try to sell me on religion, cause I ain’t buying. Every spirit speaks in a different tongues, and mine just happens to be multilingual. Just pray, in whatever way you do, that I find it.

Rosie.

Singapore Girl

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I’ve been a lil silent here lately. It’s mainly been because I was locked in crippling fear about my future.  Now that I know to some small degree what the next few months hold for me, I’m paralyzed in fear.  At least when I was crippled I could wiggle around a little bit.

Okay, I’ll stop being vague now.  I was accepted into the Dramatic Writing Program at NYU‘s Tisch School of the Arts … in Singapore.  The idea of me relocating to Singapore was not some grand pre-existing life path I’d put my self on. It actually thinly presented itself to me as a simple check off box in my NYU Tisch New York application.

“Would you like to be considered for Tisch Asia?”

“Sure!”

I thought.

“Why the fuck not? Since I’m applying to grad school why not just balls it all the way out!”

I check the box, complete the application and submit all the required hutzpa by 11:59 pm 12/1/11. Then I proceed through four months of self induced torture, applying to grad school after grad school only to have my spirit swallowed whole and shat out by the  Ivy’s, The “First Choice” school, and even my shit kicking “safe school” (those bastards rejected me FIRST – there will be blood.)

The only institution left was NYU, and it wasn’t looking too promising.  I’d sent the app four months before and heard not word the first. Then …

“Dear Graduate Dramatic Writing applicant,

Greetings.  Your application has been selected as part of a small group of semi-finalists under consideration for the M.F.A Graduate Dramatic Writing program at NYU Tisch School of the Arts Asia in Singapore.  We would like to request an interview with you regarding your admission to our program.”

My sphincters tightened. My mind raced. I hadn’t even sent my materials to Singapore as the application had called for. I was confused. It was an interview though, and after having endured a grad app process reminiscent of 300, some redemption was in order.  On March 9th 2012, I interviewed  and it was fantastic.  They liked me.  They really liked me. More important, I liked them.  It seemed as if the program was made for me and had been placed in front of me randomly because, quite frankly, I’m a coward. The idea of attending school abroad is slightly horrifying.

I then began to consider Singapore, for real this time.  I did a little internet digging and discovered the beauty of the country and how doable the transition from here to there would be. Still, after the slaughter I’d been through, I didn’t allow myself to explore much further.  I went back to life as usual.

Then I began to notice the calendar.  Days eeked by. Hours. Minutes.  I scoured the grad forums for answers.  The ones I received only made me desperate for more.  I swore the forums off, then went back five minutes later.  We were tortured souls yearning, burning, dying to be liberated from purgatory! Then it hit me.  I could call!  So, I called NYU New York and got the most loving caring rejection I’d received all season. I was reminded to keep Tisch Asia in mind and that their decisions were just around the corner.

Gently let down, and still quite defeated, I attempted to go on.  I threw myself into work, and in the back of my mind lingered thoughts of Tisch Asia.  I’d almost resolved that I wasn’t going to get in this round until …

“Dear Stacey,
 
Congratulations! You have been admitted to the Tisch School of the Arts.”

I came completely unglued, interrupting every business deal and break up chat at the Starbucks I was in.  Baristas came to check on my psychological well being.  It was fandamtastic.

Since then, the black fog of fear has settled in for what I hope is a brief stay.  Among the shit storm stirring in the fog are the thoughts:

“Yeah, you’re scholarshipped, but it doesn’t nearly cover everything.”

“Bitch, it’s Asia.”

“What are you gonna do with that boy?”

“BITCH, it’s Asia.”

“Will you have to work?! Shit, you can work and go to school in Charlotte!”

“BITCH IT’S ASIA!”

All of this while trying to live a semi-normal life over the past three days.  The good news is I know I’ll survive. The not so good is that I’ll have to re-live my middle school/high school emotions during the process. There is a hell of a lot of grown up work for me to do and it’ll suck having to do it while still feeling like a chubby wheezy nerd that Jake Ryan will NEVER ask to the prom.

Yes, a new chapter in the life of this completely sane lunatic has begun. Pull up a chair, grab some concessions, and join me.  This shit outta be good.

Rosie.

*Update:  I’ve set up a fund to help pay for my trip over!

“Throw Stacey On The Plane!”  make it rain please.

gracious thank yous!

Oddly this was one of my favorite commercials when I was a tyke.

Black Mom’s Burden.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

I am the mother of an intelligent, articulate, talented rambunctious 13-year-old boy.  As a mother my natural expectation, barring any unexpected illness or accidents, is that I will see him grow, get his heart broken, break hearts, learn to drive, graduate high school, go to college, start a career, get married, raise a family, raise children … in short my son should bury me; not vice versa.  An inconvenient truth in these great United States is that as a black mother of a black son there are other things I have to factor in like:

1. Getting him through a public school system that does not instill in him any cultural sense of self and within which I have to do battle to ensure he receives the basic knowledge he needs to survive adulthood.

2. Teaching him the realities of institutionalized racism.

3.  Keeping him out of the back of a cop car.

4. Preparing him  for the reality that he may end up in one any way because he “fit the description.”

5. Keeping him ALIVE in a society where black boys like Trayvon Martin can be murdered simply because he fit the fear based convoluted description in someone’s head.

… and this is the short list.  I have to fight this fight within a society that refuses to acknowledge any of it or either chooses to lay the blame at the feet of the “black community” and its “leaders”, whoever the hell that homogenous group of folks might be; this society that views the election of a black president as a “game over” for racism, all the while ignoring the rise of neo-racism in the form of “ultra conservatism” that has resulted from that election.

One foot in front of the other, one day at a time; I’m am raising a self sufficient, independently thinking black male that can not only be a productive member of society, but who can also be a vital asset to any community he chooses to be a part of. I pull from as many resources as I can to make sure he gets what he needs. I do everything in my power to instill in him a base sense of morality. Damn it, I am doing my part. It is so fucked up and utterly frustrating that I cannot rely on the society within which I live to do its.

No matter how  hard we as black moms of black sons try it seems we’re still behind the eight-ball. It’s the reality of our situation, but it is by no means a reason to sit in victimhood.  We have to continue, along side our men and any others who would chose to be a part of the solution, to engage and empower our boys. We can only hope and pray that one day society will catch on.

During our ride to school chat yesterday I asked my son how he felt about it all. Unfortunately this type of racism did not shock him. What did bother him, and me for that matter, is the rising level of “anger” and threatened violence surrounding the situation.  To use his words, “What is fighting gonna do? If they wanna get angry and do something there are plenty of other things they could do besides fight somebody.” So true.  I cannot begin to fathom life without my son. Today, Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin have to.  They have my deepest sympathies.

Rosie.