Making the Book: Part Two

As I mentioned in Part One of this series (sounds so official!), I am writing a lot of poems about interactions with men. Of course, I do not cite these persons by name, but I’m sure there are several who, if they read the book cover-to-cover, would recognize themselves in the pages.

This presents me with something I can’t call dilemma, but that is also not so simple. I’m writing very personal poems–not confessional poems–but poems that are almost all about myself and my life. And anyone familiar with celebrity biography, or in this case, personal poetry, knows that this can cause trouble once the manuscript becomes book.

What you don’t want to do is call people out or hurt their feelings. You don’t want to accuse. But what if some of these people deserve a “lyrical lashing” or two? Even then, you can’t just toss insults around. I wrote a line the other day that could be used in an author’s note, if I decided to include one: “This is about art–not revenge.” I’m not attempting a crusade against my childhood or adolescence, or trying to put anyone on poetry trial for being mean to me. That’s why a poem about a certain cruel one came out so terribly, even though I was no longer angry–because I was indicting him for What He Had Done to Me. Though there were nice moments, the poem was essentially inarticulate, and just, well…angry. As I’ve often said about spoken word, the reason it doesn’t work for me is because it’s more about the expression, or outpouring of emotion rather than the articulate, particular shaping of it. Anyone can get on stage and talk about their bad day or bad man; but who can shape that language into something really lovely?

So as I write these poems, that’s what I have in mind: that I can’t just talk about what went wrong, or how I felt; I have to really say something, and say it well.

Making the Book: Part One

If you’ve ever read more than one of my poems, you’ve surely caught on to the fact that I write almost exclusively about men. Men I know, men I love, men I almost loved, men on the street, men at bars, and men from school. More than one person has pointed out, however, that these poems whose subject is the opposite sex, are really meditations on myself, and my growth as a woman; and sometimes on my disenfranchisement and disillusionment.

I could go into the perils of sexism, but I won’t. Instead, I’m thinking about how little I know about nearly every guy, man, dude, brother, or bloke I’ve written about. Legendary in my circle is the poem “The Man with Arms Too Brief,” about this fellow with malformed arms I saw one time at a bus stop in Atlanta. I never met him, yet created a whole narrative of his life entwined with mine in the scope of the poem. And then there is my poem “Free Drinks” about a night out, well, getting free drinks. The subject of that poem was someone I met only that night.

I guess I’m wondering why there are some people who occupy significant space in my mind whom I’ve never written about, and some, whom I’ve met only a few times who become my entire oeuvre (I wish I could name names and tell stories, but we all know that’s in poor taste). As I shape this manuscript, it’s becoming stranger and stranger to see that there are people who have more than one poem about them in the book, but who played such a small role in my life…or at least, a seemingly small role.

I’m also wondering how this book will turn out with such specific subject matter at its core. I’m not writing about dreams, or politics, or nature–I’m writing about Black men, specifically how my experiences with them have been colored by my fatherlessness. I don’t think anyone else is writing about this in poem-form (not including spoken word), and that’s kind of cool. I hope I’ll carve a niche for myself.

N.E.R.D. – No One Ever Remembers Dorks

I have recently realized how much I hate nerds. My roommate claims she loves them: swaggerless boys with glasses, skateboards, and an addiction to social networking media. At least that’s my sketch of a nerd–someone who connects more to things than people; who feels uneasy engaging in classic methods of communication with his peers, particularly female peers.

Like many Black women, I am addicted to swaggafied men (and living in New York, they’re everywhere!). Swag can mean slang, swag can mean nice clothes, and swag can also often mean a cool disposition, or a cold shoulder. And in case you haven’t caught on, nerds do not have swag (Pharrell is not a nerd, don’t listen to him).

Recently, I was having a conversation with this guy concerning swag, with Will Smith and  Lil’ Wayne as subjects. Not about their lyrical prowess, really, but about how women perceive them. I was like, “Lil’ Wayne may be a short lil’ dude with an ugly face and a foolish mind, but he has swag. And he’s kind of sexy.” But this guy, however, favored Will Smith over Lil Wayne as a person and rapper, in part because Big Willie Style was the first album he ever bought as a youngster (cue collective audience sigh). But also because he feels Will Smith has gotten an unfair rap (npi); perhaps too good a rap.

I have never thought that Will Smith had swag. Maybe it’s his ears, or his PG-rated songs, but I have always perceived him as corny. “Gettin’ Jiggy wit’ It“? Okay, so “jiggy” made it into the Merriam-Webster Dictionary or something, but that does not a swaggified man make. Look at that video. He’s wearing a poofy coat. He can’t dance. He also has poofy ears. In sum…he’s lame.

All of this was unwittingly in my subconscious…hence the word subconscious. This young man with whom I had the Wayne versus Will conversation, wanted to know why a guy who impregnates two women at the same time, is on drugs, is misogynistic, etc., etc., is sexy, but the clean-cut guy who got into M.I.T., doesn’t swear, writes grammatical songs (yessss…) sets a good example for kids (young Black kids!), etc., etc., is considered corny.

Well, we all know the answer, and it’s not a revelation. Everybody knows that girls like bad boys, jerks…even ones they don’t know personally. I myself had a long stretch of liking guys who didn’t treat me well (I would say “You know who you are!” but I’ve removed them all as Facebook friends…). Almost every heterosexual girl goes through this stage, just like almost every heterosexual boy goes through his asshole stage. But I have pretty much overcome. Even if I don’t own Big Willie Style.

A Culture of Ideas

I am a writer. I write poems, blogs, an occasional article, and today, I’m starting a screenplay. Yes–today is day one of the rest of my life (Or the rest of my misery).

Writing a screenplay sounds like fun, right? Well, I suppose it is, once you get going. My problem, however, is the getting going. I’ve been patiently waiting for the perfect idea to strike me, despite the warning from just about everyone that you shouldn’t wait for inspiration. In fact, to quote Jack London, “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.”

However, we artists know that sometimes, you do have to wait for an idea–that you can’t force quality; that sometimes, it is just dropped in your lap from the Idea Gods. But an idea will never come to you if you’re not in an environment that supports and cultivates ideas; if you don’t create what I call a “culture of ideas.”

I just finished a residency at the Vermont Studio Center, a colony for visual artists and creative writers. Because there was literally nowhere to go and nothing to do up in Johnson, and because everyone else was constantly working, and because it was just so damn peaceful, I found myself writing like never before. I wrote 8 poems in one month–8 quality poems, no less–and began a poetry manuscript that I hope will be finished by the end of the year. But the reason I was so productive was because I was immersed in a culture that was conducive to artmaking. I was with other artists, I had a studio–not the same as my bedroom–and did I mention it was quiet? It was a culture and a community that supported, both vocally and tacitly, the work I was doing. How could I not be inspired?

Now I am in one of the most stimulating places in the world, New York City (skyscrapers and everything!), but not getting much done. Admittedly, I am writing, and I have even produced one new poem…but mostly, I am avoiding my work in favor of fear and ‘net surfing. I’m not immersing myself in a culture of ideas, if only because IT’S SCARY. That’s my real problem. I’m scared to write this screenplay, because I’m scared it will suck. I’m also stupidly waiting for the perfect idea, but, as the old saying goes, “the perfect is the enemy of the good.” (I learned that from the remarkable text Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland).

In order to submerge myself in a culture of ideas, I first have to overcome my fear of failing. That, dear friends, is the biggest obstacle.

Eating

I live in New York. I just moved here. It’s my first time out on my own. And eating–this multiple-times daily necessity–is becoming an ordeal.

Every single day, I have to figure out how and what I’m going to eat. Not because I’m poor, or have no access to a grocery store (when I lived in Atlanta two summers ago, I had no access to a grocery store, and that was a true ordeal), but because I have to buy groceries to last a long time, then–get this–COOK them!

We made chili the other night, which, with three people living here (we’re a rittle famiry…:) only lasted two days. I bought this Thai Kitchen homemade Pad Thai joint, that was SUPPOSED to serve 3-5 and really just served little ole me.

I cultivated an appreciation for eating out a long time ago. My dear mother doesn’t like to cook (and neither does her mother. It runs in the family, I guess), so we just ate out all throughout my high school years, and when I came home for breaks from college. But I can’t eat out very much here, because it’s too expensive.

Every day, I eat. But I have no idea how. I guess, as a friend who didn’t cook the latter three years of college once told me, there are random foods. But I have to live here for a lot longer! It’s only been 2 weeks!

Pray for a sista.

Blessed and Highly Favored

Today, I found out I may not have a job. Not because of the recession, necessarily, but just because the job I found was already pretty unstable–a tutor for a tutoring company, that advertised on Craiglist. They were looking for a lot of tutors, and found a lot–meaning there’s fewer students needing assistance to go around. Whereas before, I thought I’d be working up to 40 hours a week tutoring, now it may be none.

But this doesn’t change how happy I am, and how incredibly fortunate I am. I live in New York City, where I’ve wanted to live my entire life. I came here from Spelman, the perfect school for me, my mother’s alma mater, where I had a four-year partial scholarship, made great connections, and had the best college experience I could have hoped for. I’m not currently working, but I have amazing friends, a wonderful apartment, and the prospect of greatness ahead of me. I have a knot in my chest–I feel the pangs of panic–but I am happy, and that is not something that everyone gets to be in life, certainly not to the extent that I have been. So I will stay relaxed, and best of all stay happy.

The Clark Sisters sing \”Blessed and Highly Favored\”

On Being a Shawty

I live in Brooklyn. I just moved here last week, and already, it has begun: the catcalling. No matter where I go, I hear, “Sweetheart, you look amazing,” or “You’re beautiful!” or “Goddamn, I love Afros!”

I’m used to this, of course, having just left the West End of Atlanta. But there’s one difference between the way men speak to me here, and the way they did Down South–and it’s the level of respect.

My roommate once had a guy say to her, “Whatcho name is? You suck dick?” While this is on the extreme side of approaches (or propositions, rather), it is generally how women are spoken to in Atlanta, at least Black women. The difference is, though, that if I choose not to respond to these various Black and brown men, they won’t snap, “Okay, you bitch-ass heifer!” and storm off, just because I wouldn’t acknowledge their inappropriate advances.

But not responding can be awkward. Because the men up here are so respectful, it seems rude to ignore someone who tells me I’m beautiful. He did not say, “Damn, girl, you got a fat ass!” (I don’t). He was admiring me. And for that, he should at least get an upwards head jerk…right?

Stay tuned.

There Will Never Be Another You

Michael Jackson died last week, and his death has sent a ripple–a tidal wave, really–around the world. Memorials have sprung up everywhere, on TV, the Internet, and in public places, all to celebrate not a president, not a diplomat, but an entertainer. That in itself is something uniquely American; but more remarkable is the phenomenon of Michael in life–the fact that one man, in his heyday, and even afterward, was that ubiquitous.

A number of articles, one on Slate, and one on NYTimes.com, have noted that what we know as Michael Jackson–the universally famous pop icon, whom nearly every single person, old or young, knew in some capacity–can never happen again. The timing, the circumstances, the conditions just aren’t right, and can’t ever be again, when any Joe Blow can have his own website/blog/newspaper, or his own recording studio, or his own video camera. The game has changed.

February of last year, I heard Cornel West speak at Morehouse College, and he said something similar to what the Times and Slate said, but he said it about Sarah Vaughan. She, of course, was not a pop icon, or nearly as famous as Michael–but she was perhaps the most gifted jazz vocalist who ever lived. No, she wasn’t as big as Ella (who got famous off of a Memorex commercial), but she was just as talented, if not more, and better-suited to sing certain jazz forms. Dr. West knew that the conditions to foster another Sarah Vaughan could just never be recreated. She recorded dozens of quality albums. She worked with Miles Davis and Clifford Brown, and so many other jazz greats who are now long gone. She maintained her integrity as a woman and an artist through the extent of her career (and by that I mean, she never decided to do a show topless, or cover a Cyndi Lauper song). But even with contemporary jazz artists whose talents and skills rival those of Davis, Brown, et al. on a technical level, the point Dr. West was making is that the conditions will never be the same. We are no longer a jazz nation, just like we are no longer a CD-buying nation (which is why no album will ever sell like Thriller ever again). Sarah Vaughan blossomed in an environment in which her peers were legends or future legends. They all lived in the same place. They all worked and played together. In what arts community are stars born among so many other stars?

Michael’s success reminds me of something: The Big Bang. The way everything–the heat, the pressure, the explosion–had to be just right to create a universe, bigger than anything, that can never be created again.

Here We Come

I went to the movies today, to see the new Sam Mendes film Away We Go. It didn’t exactly live up to my expectations in terms of its quality (or believability), but it got me thinking–when will Black folk be the mainstream? The movie co-stars Maya Rudolph, who is half-Black (her mother was Minnie Riperton), and numerous times, the zany characters make reference, if inappropriately, to her race.

But that doesn’t equal “mainstream.” I watched an interview with Toni Morrison once in which she was asked by this British white woman if she hoped one day, Black people would become the mainstream. Good ole Toni practically eviscerated the poor girl, saying that she, the interviewer, had never considered that Blacks already were the mainstream.

But I don’t think we are–not in the traditional sense. Many of us have white minds, and by that, I mean that it’s hard for many of us to imagine ourselves in non-traditional roles. Think about the classification of sports, foods, clothing, behavior, and parenting styles into “Black” and “white” categories. Think about how Black gays are hardly accepted into the “mainstream” heterosexual culture. Think about all the little girls who prefer to play with white dolls.

I was one of those little girls, in a sense. I lived in racially diverse neighborhoods until I was nine, and then from nine to eighteen, until I went to Spelman, I lived in completely white neighborhoods and environments. It became nearly impossible for me to imagine myself as the standard, as someone who could be a protagonist, a star, and not “other.” Even before I left Maryland, I was affected by the disproportionate number of whites I saw doing great things to Blacks doing great things. I remember in the second grade, we had a coloring assignment, which was to color in an outline of a New Year’s baby however we wanted. I got out a peach crayon and colored mine…flesh-tone. “Why you colorin’ that baby white?” my Jamaican teacher, Ms. de la Penha, asked. I didn’t know, not until much, much later.

Now that I have some perspective, and now that one of my goals is to heal Black people (not in an Angelina Jolie type way, but in a practical way), I’m trying to imagine a way in which that scenario won’t have to happen to any more little Black girls.

I asked a screenwriter friend of mine if she wrote about Black people, and if that was an obstacle in getting her scripts produced. Part of her answer was that most of her stories were not about Black people. I thought, “That’s nice” but not for me. I simply can’t add to the madness of film after film after film about quirky white people and their quirky problems, as if that is a quality they own; and then continue to patronize Tyler Perry films like that’s our call, our response, or our answer. Images are powerful, whether the image is fictional, like a movie, or real, like the faces of all of our U.S. presidents save Obama. And if I can do anything tangible in the world, I want to make those images kinder to the people I belong to.

Elitism. Wrote a blog about it. Wanna read it? Here it go.

I’m no stranger to elitism. As a student at Spelman, many people were convinced that we were the “Black Ivy League,” (which I always took issue with, since Wellesley never calls itself the “white Spelman”), the “talented tenth” (which is silly, considering Du Bois renounced that concept late in life), and in general, just the shit everyone should know about. There’s this t-shirt called “The Apology” that many AUCers sported while I was there. I can’t remember exactly what it says, but it’s something like, “I’m sorry I’m better than you, it’s not my fault you suck at life, etc., etc., etc.”

While I, too, have said such things (in my head, not on a t-shirt), I have always taken issue with the elitism I witness so often. The most recent cases of upturned-noses have been in my job search. I keep seeing, as a qualification for various jobs, “Bachelor’s from competitive college,” or as I saw today, “IVY LEAGUE DEGREE REQUIRED.”

This, colleagues, is freaking ridiculous. And for so many reasons. It’s not that a degree from one of the eight ivy league schools is not valuable, because certainly, it is. Academics are top-notch, as are the faculty, resources, and above all, the reputation. But the term “ivy league,” when you look at its history, had nothing to do with the quality of the schools, and everything to do with the actual sports league in which the eight schools competed. The connotation of superior academic quality was not always present (nor was U.S. News & World Report).

But even if the Ivy League schools were objectively the best schools in the nation and world, not everyone can attend. Harvard’s acceptance rate, last time I checked, was 9%. Do you hear that? Nine. As in a single digit. I can’t remember how many applications they receive, but it may be in the tens of thousands. And the amazing thing about those tens of thousands of applicants is that, for the most part, they are very smart, and very qualified to attend an academic institution of such high regard. This is why Ivy League admissions are notoriously arbitrary–everyone’s qualified, so how do you choose?

Beyond the issue of talent is, of course, MONEY! I was fortunate enough to be admitted to my first choice college, which is my mother’s alma mater, and to receive a partial scholarship from the school. But most Spelmanites, or budding Spelmanites, are not so lucky. Many people cannot attend, or cannot stay once they’ve enrolled, because they, nor Spelman, have the money.

And so these unlucky young women are forced to return to state schools, or to begin and finish at a state school, or–dare I say it–a community college.

There is no prestige in attending such a school.  But it doesn’t make you any less smart, driven, or qualified to do a job…and yet some people really believe so. For that, they go on my wall of shame. I’d rather have no job than be a snob.