Hi folks. It’s been a minute, no? But I’m back to deliver the first part in a series called “Only in New York.” Installment 1…
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So today, I was on my way to the Brooklyn Public Library, where I go rather often to write. I was sitting on the train, minding my own business, when this lady came and sat down next to me.
“You are so beautiful,” she said. “I love your look. Really unique.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“Ooh…what kind of novels do you write?”
“I’m a poet. I write poetry.”
“Oh, really?” she said, intrigued. “Could you spit a little something?”
My first inclination was to say absolutely not. I don’t spit. I don’t slam. I don’t do spoken word, and please don’t get me started as to why.
“No…” I said.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Spit me a poem and I’ll give you ten dollars.”
“What?” I said, laughing. She started digging in her bag.
“No, really.”
So I recited her a poem called “Our Last Civilized Encounter.” She listened intently, even laughing and remarking and widening her eyes at the provocative parts (the poem is about a lingerie party).
And then, as promised, she gave me ten dollars…
Only in New York.
Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets cute girl back
I don’t know why I’m thinking about dating so much–maybe because I’m “finishing” my book (I’ve actually started a new project that is getting in the way of the first project). I think dating blogs are ridic. How can you really talk about your experiences when people can so easily Google you and read about themselves? This is the exact reason I can’t publish certain blogs I draft.
ANYWAY, this is a post about men and women. I sometimes feel guilty writing about men and women, because I am so fully committed to the rights and causes of gay people–but I can’t change myself or my experience. ANYWAY, perhaps I should say this is a post about gender–that slippery slope of a problem that most people forget is just as an important cultural experience as race, sexuality, ethnicity, etc. The reason I am thinking about gender is that last night, like many nights, I was at a party, and I was standing around, waiting for a guy to come talk to me. I don’t know if I mean one guy in particular, or any guy, or what–but I began to feel re-annoyed at the fact that heterosexual relations are structured in such a way that women cannot approach men without seeming forward. The night before last, I was at a party and ran into a guy whom my friend had tried to casually set me up with. I remember when I first met him that I knew instantly that he was not interested–because he didn’t have that look in his eye–you know that look. It’s helpful to recognize that look in a man’s eye–but it’s ridiculous that, if he doesn’t have that look, you, as a woman, can’t still express your interest; that you will look desperate if you do.
I have so many problems with gender roles, especially as someone who considers herself to be a) assertive and b) awesome. Because I am assertive, it’s painful to have to be at the mercy of the male gaze; that I should have to wait to be picked, like this is a never-ending sixth grade dance. But increasingly, I am seeing that very little changes from sixth grade to adulthood, because we are pretty fully socialized by then. Men are taught that they have to be the instigators, and women are taught that we have to wait. We have to wait to be approached at a party; we have to wait to give our number; we have to wait to be asked out; we have to wait to be proposed to…and so many find this romantic! The only thing I like about this dynamic is that it takes the pressure off me; but it also makes me feel weak.
The other factor is my awesomeness. I can charm pretty much anyone, especially if that someone is male. Somehow, my wit turns up by a hundred notches when I’m around men, and my eyes start doing this thing–I can’t explain it. Anywho, I think there are many men, who, though they don’t find me attractive, would find me very entertaining company. But because they have already decided that I am not the Bad Chick of the Week, based on whatever they don’t like about my looks, I don’t get a chance to be like, “Look at me! I’m cool!” However, I would be remiss if I tried to say that I don’t do the same thing myself. Last night, this guy came up to me and struck up a conversation. I had initially thought he was gay–until he looked at me, his eyes taking long strokes over me. He was okay-looking, but he seemed…dull. Shy. And I can’t deal with shy. I guess he was giving off a vibe, as well, and so I tried my best to seem bored.
And speaking of shy, it wasn’t until very recently that I realized that there is no such thing as a shy, grown man. If he’s interested in you, he will a) look at you and b) verbalize his interest, in one way or another. I guess I was still stuck in elementary school with my thinking that if a man is interested in you, he will hide it, or show it in some oblique way (like punching you and running away). Actually, I was tragically stuck in elementary school. Tragically. As were many of my friends. Let’s not go into details.
I feel grateful that I am so aware of the construct of gender, but I feel like not very many people, especially men, really consider it. Why is it that women often feel forward for volunteering a number, or asking a man out? And why do men agree? I often feel that if I could just make the scholarly realm of knowledge accessible and popular to the general public, men and women, blacks and whites, gays and straights, would get along and understand each other so much better. Not to sound like a wannabe MLK, but you get what I mean. It’s these constructs that prevent people from really knowing each other, and from really understanding themselves.
Filed under: Personal? Oh, my! | Tags: being that girl, black women, bowling, desire, white men
Stick together like harmony? I don't know the words
Earlier this week, I was faced with the latter half of my childhood, all nine, unfortunate years, in a flash of three minutes: my roommate and I went to an event at Brooklyn Bowl, and when we arrived, there were only a handful of other Black people there. It was a perfect white watering hole. I figured lots of white women were probably meeting their future white husbands, or boyfriends, or Saturday night dates. I was meeting no one, because I was invisible.
I know I’m not allowed/supposed to say this, and the whole of what I have to say is very stereotypical “woman-like”–but I really hate feeling the way I do around white men. It’s complicated. I, like most heterosexual women, want to be attractive to men. So when the men who are around and available don’t even recognize me as a woman, that’s frustrating. Ready for the complicated part? I don’t date white men. I don’t and I won’t. I refuse! Which is for my own personal, separate reasons. When, by chance, they do notice me, try to strike up a conversation, buy me a drink, or in some other way express their interest, I give off the nastiest, stiffest vibe you could possibly imagine.
So what do I care if they notice me?
I have always prided myself on not being That Girl–that annoying, wishy-washy, inscrutable girl who men lose sleep over, trying to decipher what she means and wants. But try as I might, I think I am that girl. Not intentionally, but in some ways, I exemplify that stereotype of a woman–if only because I change my mind, and feel both ways (as if men do not have these feelings…) So when I say, “I want white men to notice me so that I can ignore them” well…yes, I am being incredibly ridiculous. Incredibly. But it’s not that simple. I don’t want white men to notice me so that I can ignore them; I want them to notice me because I’m human. It’s one thing when someone doesn’t find you attractive; it’s a totally different thing when they don’t even see you. The same thing happens with co-ed groups of whites…and me. And other Black women, I’m sure. You get acknowledged–it’s not like you’re a hologram–but it feels shallow. Like no amount of anything could intrigue them to even ask you your name.
Something similar happened once with this Black guy I know. He was a graduate of Morehouse, and a writer, who traveled in many of the same circles I did. So when I met him, and I realized how many of the same people we knew, and how similar our life paths were, I expected he would be equally interested in me as a person as I was in him. WRONG! It wasn’t until I met his half-Asian, half-white girlfriend that it clicked: he was not interested in Black women. No amount of common experience could make him.
I ended up writing a play based on my experience with this young man. Before I thought of a title, I referred to the play as “Recognition”–because that’s what it comes down to. Sometimes, people recognize your light, your humanness, your personality, you. And sometimes, they can walk right past you without a second or first glance. Maybe we are socialized to only see people we want to know. I certainly have been. When I was at Columbia, I would desperately search crowds for brown faces, familiar or not. One day on the street, this girl, Hilary, who was white, was trying to get my attention, but I didn’t see her. I ran into her later in my dorm, where again, I did not see her. When she finally got my attention, she said she’d been trying to say hi earlier. I was pretty distraught that semester (lots of racism, lots of white people, lots of racist white people), but did that excuse my unwillingness to recognize her or other whites? Yes, they have social privileges we don’t–but am I allowed to ask to be seen when I will not see?
It took me a while, but I finally jumped on the Amy Winehouse bandwagon. You know me: I don’t like anything that’s popular. Are tweeny-boppers listening to it? Did it get nominated for a Grammy? Then it must not be for me. Amy Winehouse, like Norah Jones and others, is an exception: a popular musical artist who is actually an artist–a thoughtful individual not just trying to churn out quick hits for big bucks, but to make music that will last.
I gave her a listen only on a whim. I had been given both her albums–Frank and Back to Black as gifts in March, but it wasn’t until late May that I buckled down and listened. And was very pleasantly surprised. Who knew that anyone out there still cared about lyrics? And who would have ever thought that irreverence–but not vulgarity–could be such a winning talent and skill? On the opening track to Frank, “Stronger than Me,” Amy laments a wimpy boyfriend whom she thinks should be stronger, more manly, etc. (disclaimer: I do not agree with her sentiment. Being male does not mean you have to conform to traditional notions of manliness). She sings, “You always wanna talk it through / I’m okay / I always have to comfort you / Everyday / But guess what I need you to do / Are you gay?” It’s one of those moments in which you’re not sure if you should laugh or shake your head, offended.
Amy is the Queen of Contrast, as I call her. Take a song like “I Heard Love Is Blind,” a song explicitly about a one-night stand set over beautiful major seventh chords and other lovely jazz harmonies:
I couldn’t resist him / His eyes were like yours / His hair was exactly your shade of brown / He’s just not as tall / But I couldn’t tell / It was dark and I was lying down.”
The juxtaposition of jazz and sex isn’t new; but stating it so outrightly is. That’s what makes Ms. Winehouse so great: her brashness, her confidence with subjects that go untouched in the mush that is contemporary pop and R&B.
I don’t know of very many artists whose music and lyrics work together as well as that of Amy Winehouse. Many times, when I listen to indie rock, I think, What great lyrics, but this is boring white people music; and many times when I listen to contemporary soul, or funk, or hip-hop, I think, What a great track, but this is boring Black people music. It’s so rare that both parts seem essential to the story, to what the artist is trying to say.
I especially love Amy for her humor. She is as wry as it gets. It’s evident on “I Heard Love Is Blind,” “Fuck Me Pumps,” “Amy, Amy, Amy,” and others. “Fuck Me Pumps” is the most interesting of these tunes, because it paints a portrait of women that is simultaneously hilarious and tragic. The bitter way in which many women hold on to youth is penned perfectly by Amy. She has a keen eye and ear for interpreting pain, also evident on the song “Love Is a Losing Game” on Back to Black. On this track, her sardonic wit takes a backseat to heartbreak, to hopelessness. I love the lyric “Memories mar my mind,” for both its meaning and sound.
And that’s what it really comes down to: meaning and sound. “The cross between meaning and sound” is a common definition of what poetry is, and Amy exemplifies it perfectly. The meaning of her lyrics crossed with the sound of her music–sometimes hip-hop, sometimes Vandellas- and Supremes-eqsue, is original and it’s striking. Kyla approves.
Filed under: Making the Book
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.
Filed under: Making the Book
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.
Filed under: Observations and Ideas | Tags: dorks, lil wayne, nerds, swag, will smith
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.
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.
Filed under: Personal? Oh, my!
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.
Filed under: Personal? Oh, my!
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.
