The Words of the New American
I walk down the street in my flowing Ghanaian print dress. I am on my way to my favourite Eritrean café to journal about my swearing-in ceremony. I am sentimental. I want to shout out, and then grin broadly while I tell everyone I meet, “I am a US citizen now.” I smile broadly at some folks. Most of them, white men, stare some place above my eyebrows and don’t acknowledge me. I want to say I am one of you now, but somewhere deep inside I know this can never be true. I have lived in this country long enough to know this isn’t the whole narrative. I continue to walk and smile anyway. A Black woman and her daughter stop me to comment on the African fabric; they make small talk. I contemplate sharing my good news. All of a sudden I’m shy.
Earlier as I sat listening to the many levels of ceremonial rites, I penned a few words on the blank portions of my program. Some are mine, others are what some speakers said, yet others are reflections from what my fellow citizens said:
The theater is packed full with family members and well-wishers seated up above in the mezzanine and the new citizens down in orchestra. I feel I am standing on the edge of making history. Goosebumps take residence on my skin and refuse to move on.
Pictures of the White House, Mt. Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the Washington Monument flash across the screen suspended from the ceiling. In the historic Paramount Theatre in downtown Oakland, California, about 2000 people are gathered to celebrate.
These flashing pictures are interspersed with black and white and sepia shots of the millions of immigrants who have rolled through Ellis Island over the centuries. The pictures show them waving mini Star Spangled Banners. Tears fill my eyes despite my resolve not to ruin my rarely made-up-but made-up-for-the-occasion face. That mascara was applied after ten minutes of fretting.
The steady scroll of pictures begins to switch to our own locale. I see the Golden Gate flash across, followed by the Bay Bridge, then the Redwoods and numerous mountainscapes, lush with greenery or red desert dirt. I live here! My heart skips a beat. I dab my tears quickly as they roll down my cheek. I imagine the trail of salt it leaves.
Names of countries flash across the screen. Flags follow. I try to test my knowledge by matching country to flag. Countries whose former citizens are being sworn in. I smile sadly as Ghana and then much later, my red-green-yellow dotted with the black star, appear on the screen. Another tear rolls down. Would this be termed a betrayal? I wonder how many other Ghanaians are in the room. Are they and other citizens feeling pangs of guilt?
As my guilt slinks into the corner, country names are called out and former citizens stand. I discover that of the 111 countries amassing the 1206 immigrants represented in the room, I am the only one standing in for Ghana. Contrary to popular belief Africans aren’t dying to give up their allegiance to their countries. More tears. This time I give up trying to wipe them. I try to smile through my tears satisfied that we have proved them wrong, at least for this event. China, Mexico, and a handful of European countries actually have the highest number of immigrants present. Go figure!
The MC thinks he’s funny, making jokes that get a stilted-clapping response at best.
“No more waiting in lines at ports of entry. Your blue book waves you through and buys you a smile.” Yeah right! I will test this theory when I return from Ghana in the fall.
“Your passport is a valuable document, use it in good faith and protect it. It gives you the freedom to choose your path.” This, I myself know to be true. I couldn’t be an “aimlessly” wandering academic back in my home country; the pressure would have had me conforming by now.
“America is better for all 1206 of you deciding to become citizens.” Really? Do you mean that?
A past immigrant of Asian descent gives the formal address. Ironic that they would pick one of the model minority. She is proud as she says:
“Value family because that is the foundation of this country.” Oh Lord here we go!
“One of the first and most important things to do is to learn English.” I wonder if anyone is chuckling in their heads. This from someone who has obviously mastered the language enough to be given a speaking part. I roll my eyes. I wonder how much of her speech is doctored.
“You are not foreign anymore!” This pronouncement makes me almost guffaw forgetting where I am. We, all of us with our blended accents and difficult-to-pronounce names, will always be foreign.
The ideals we espouse in this here ‘land of the brave’ are tantalizing alright. The packaged U.S we sell to immigrants is attractive. Having lived in this country for 17 years I know living up to these ideals is where the real work is. It’s where we as a people very often fall short.
Later, I wave my mini banner and sing, “O Say Can You See…” The harmony is touching. I reflect on all the journeys that culminate in this theatre. More tears. I think on my own journey and my reticence to make this particular commitment. Have I failed in choosing access? Much later, I walk the streets bordering Piedmont and Emeryville wanting to shout “I do!” to anyone who cares to know. I have bought this package with all its flaws. Now what can I do about it?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Kashka & Kuukua: A Celebration of Friendship & Love
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Earlier on today I wrote My usual attempt To order my world Make sense of chaos As I wrote I thought This relationship of ours has Grown Progressed Morphed **** From the days We just said “Hello” And went on campus ministry trips To spending time at that “Dominican Connection” retreat with mutual friend, KR Laughing so hard, Letting go of all defences Just being **** Sometimes I wish you had come with On that other “Dominican Connection” weekend in New York Or to Ministry in the Mountains In Colorado Springs where we could have gotten to know each other better ****
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I’m sure there’s a blueprint for our Relationship lying somewhere in God’s house and at those times We were not destined to be that close, Not yet at least **** I remember the time when Yaye Marie and I were teaching you steps to Your first African interfaith dance; How did you get coaxed into that? And later pigging out in the Colonial Room during the international day festival And continental fashion show **** I remember you coming to my numerous African family celebrations, my graduation, my 25th birthday You were slowly building up your Tolerance for spicy African food **** |
An incident of a bright, red face comes to mind That night mom cooked fufu You had had your first taste a month before But this time the pepper was too much Plus it had pigfeet Which from the look on your face You had never tried before I gotta give it to you You are one brave Diva! Never hesitating to try something new **** I remember losing touch after my graduation Then seeing you at your graduation in The summer I went back to Ghana for the first time Don’t recall what you did that summer Or how we got back in touch again **** |
I recall my first semester of grad school I don’t know how much of the difficulty of my first year struggle with theology you knew about Looking back now… It probably wasn’t so much the theology Although I’m sure it played a part But rather my depression that made it such a difficult time for me **** I signed up to lead that trip to Haiti Returned a changed woman You helped me move that summer In between Haiti and Morocco Me driving 50 miles on the freeway Getting stuck behind semis and all the while You patiently driving ahead I left for Morocco with contact only through email that summer Upon my return from Morocco it was an even greater transformation! The beginnings of the woman I am today An amazing adventure **** |
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That July 4th weekend The infamous and dramatic phone call to my boyfriend That ended a 5-year co-dependency I remember you being there for me Encouraging me to come out dancing with the ladies that night, me refusing Choosing instead to Wallow in self-pity for Not being a true black woman Not making that man love me enough To marry me **** Determined for me to get my license that summer you lent me Your time with an ample supply of patience In July of 2002, 6 years after moving to the US I finally did it! **** I tried to finish up teaching and grading Freshman Comp You finished up too Both of us anxious to be done with grad school You looked at jobs I looked for tickets to visit Ghana You interviewed I booked You got the job I confirmed the tickets I was leaving for home Second trip in seven years *** |
Excitement built up as I turned in my final Thesis and drove home The phone call came Relayed the news Tragedy had hit; Disappointment took root Disappointment led to grief I had lost a parent **** I got ready for my trip back to Ghana To bury my father We met at Panera’s that morning It was a sad parting You were moving two hours north to Start a career I was returning home to bury a Father I had barely known Yet knew I would miss We wrote email You called twice and each time I felt hope After talking to you This too shall pass Promised I’d survive **** Blending, bonding, spending time together Time spent watching “Kissing Jessica Stein” Or “The Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” Or falling asleep during “Runaway Jury” Or reading Iyanla Vanzant in bed together Or journaling side by side ****
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Us loving and caring for each other Us sharing our deepest fears: Mine, my inability to remove race from the conversation Mine, worrying about fitting in with your white peeps Yours, your constant struggle with Feeling the need to sound smart all the time around me Yours, your lack of knowledge about your “invisible knapsack” **** Valuable time spent with each other Time spent with each other’s families Each moment building on the next Connecting us Grafting us slowly into each other’s lives Once separate and individual No longer so Blended, bonded That’s us **** We–you and I have come a long way And I guess that’s what makes us so close Makes us friends beloveds Through most of it we have been there for each other A relationship that is still Growing Progressing Morphing **** |
My Friend This is for you For us For what we have that is beyond words For what we have that defies societal restraints For what we profess That society denies For what we have been For what we are For what we will become because Of each other I appreciate you I love you Thank you for Being my friend **** Kashka & Kuukua A Celebration of Friendship & Love Kuukua Dzigbordi Yomekpe Penned Jan 12 2004 Edited October 26 2012 |
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COMING OUT MANIFESTO
“Are you queer yourself or are you an ally?”
Any other place, this question might have made me nervous and perhaps defensive. But coming from a fellow African who had been thrown in jail, tortured, and molested for being gay on the continent, I felt I didn’t have the right to be nervous or defensive. Plus it came at the end of such a pleasant evening during which I was surrounded by close to thirty queer, black men who were all very loving and supportive. It ushered me into my coming out quite smoothly.
“Yes, I am queer myself,” I had answered him.
But this morning, the question still lingers. Would I a fellow queer African still answer the question the same way if asked again. Would it depend on who was asking? Would it depend on if I was on the continent and where on the continent? Or had I reached the point of coming out no matter what, who, when, or why? Of course, I know coming out is a gradual process but it is also a continual process. You gotta keep claiming that visibility especially if you pass.
For years I have been billed as an ally, and I have just settled for that. Sometimes with some of my more precarious careers, I felt this was the best I could aspire to. It wasn’t that staying in the closet was fun. Or that I didn’t fully comprehend the benefits of being out. Or that I didn’t want to serve as a role model and help cut down on the bullying by being out and proud. It was just too risky, and even foolish on some occasions.
But on the real, how many people live and die in the closet? And I’m using the proverbial closet as a blanket for all levels of the spectrum of sexuality be it queer, trans, kinky, polyamorous, you name it. Even if you can’t name it, I am tossing it under the umbrella of the sexual desire spectrum for now. How many people never ask for what they need sexually because they are deathly afraid of scorn or rejection, have been told to remain silent, and in some cases, receive punitive action, including death? How many take their partners’ innocent lives because they live in the closet about a part of their sexuality and the side effect is a disease they knowingly or unknowingly pass on, or abuse, or…?
As a survivor of child sexual molestation, most people dismiss my queerness as a reaction to my past wounds. My best friend said, “but Mel you’ve always had issues with men!” Going on to say she didn’t comprehend the importance of my coming out. What was different now? She then proceeded to say she would pray for my soul, but that’s another story altogether. As a survivor most people immediately discount my story blaming my sexual fluidity on my history of abuse. But what if my story is just as valid as my good friend who grew up knowing that although he was in a girl’s body, he really was meant to be a boy? What if my story is just as valid as the girl child who was attracted to women’s skirts and legs from as early as age two and knew deep down it was more than fascination but couldn’t come out as a lesbian until age forty?
A month ago a friend invited me to join him and his partner to speak to a group about being gay in Africa. I didn’t feel confident about this mission. In fact, I felt like a traitor. I wasn’t queer on the continent. While I was there for those six months, family members and friends were setting me up on dates every day in sheer desperation and I stayed in the closet about the kind of person I was looking to date. How could I possibly speak on such a topic, I thought. Whatever would I say? In any case I went and ended up not formally speaking but just networking with folks to increase awareness of the issue of queerness on the continent. It turns out being immersed in a community of gay black men was just the medicine I needed. It did wonders for my spirit.
Varying shades of brown, varying presentations of gender performance, varying ways of speaking but everyone sharing the commonality of a sexual identity that was loudly and proudly proclaimed and lived out in the space. I don’t know what their individual stories were nor how they lived or performed when they were with the rest of the world but I have to say no matter all this, being in that room for three-plus hours was euphoric. We do exist! We are real despite what the rest of the world might try to do to silence or erase us. It is not that queer people in Africa are copying western cultural values and norms as the anti-gay/fundamentalist movements will have you believe, but the reality (part of it at least) is that queer folk on the continent are empowered by the strength of the movement everywhere and are finding the voice to demand their right to live a visible life. This act of transgression is what is causing folks to literally turn cartwheels. How dare they demand rights?
So is it a wonder then that I’d come out of the closet (all the way out and stop being the honorary ally) in such a space? I hear the questions. I hear the assumptions. Or perhaps it is all in my head. I get ready with my retorts feeling defensive. No this isn’t why I don’t believe in marriage. No this isn’t the reason I don’t want children. I am aware of several happily married/partnered non-hetero normative couples with kids. I just don’t know if I buy into the institution itself and what it stands for as well as how it excludes some people.
When I first came out of being a “fulltime” ally, I identified as Bi for a long time before shifting to Queer. Queer now holds the space for me to stay single, date, or not date men, women, trans and all the other representations of human in between, marry or not marry, produce or not produce…in essence, be all of my true self. Queer creates space for me to be thirty-five, a blend of African and American, oldest daughter of a mother who has yet to marry any of her three daughters off, unmarried and not looking to fulfill anyone’s dreams of the perfect life. Claiming Queer is political for me because it crosses boundaries and attempts to live at the intersections of things. It is reclaiming the use of the word in its various forms including negative ones. At this point I don’t know the ultimate partner I will end up with but in the meantime, I just need to say, I’m Queer. I’m from the Motherland. I’m Black. I am Proud! I am a Feminist. I am striving to be my truest self each day.
I know it’s risky to put this out there. I admit it’s been a while coming. This manifesto has been sitting in the closet but Whitney Houston’s death made me dust it off. Her death did something to me that words cannot explain yet. It hurt so bad that we watched her destroy herself. In society, we matter to only a select few. Those select few have the responsibility to help us reach our creator-given potential and answer our creator-given call. We failed her. Maybe not me in particular but those to whom she mattered, and who could make a difference in her life, failed her.
Why do I say all this? Addictions often begin as mini coping mechanisms when we are unable to be our truest selves. Some people create alter egos and live in virtual worlds just so they can be all of who they are. Some people write fan fiction under pseudonyms so their favorite characters can make love. Some people imbibe a whole range of substances. Some people take more wives, some take mistresses. Some molest children. I hope this doesn’t come of as a negation the universal issue/conversation around TSQIQTLBG[PKA] identity/orientation. All I’m advocating for is that people allow everyone to be their truest selves all of the time.
What would this world be like if people could be all of themselves with the people who matter the most to them? I’ve noticed that my Bipolar symptoms are generally more active when I am denying a part of myself. Not dancing when there is a beat. Not writing when my brain is on fire and my fingers itch. Not cooking that gourmet meal because I feel there is no one to serve it to (discounting myself). Remaining a silent ally when I know claiming my identity could save a student’s life. Whenever there is dissonance in my life, there are BPII symptoms manifested. In order to stay “clean” or “sober” I must remain honest and truthful about every part of who I am.
So this manifesto is for you too. I encourage you to start over today and give someone the gift of being their true selves. Or better yet, go ahead and give yourself that gift. I dare you to publish your own manifesto about how you want to be in this world!
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 13 so far )Thoughts During the Long Layover (a week overdue (blame it on costly airport wifi))
I stare down at my swollen ankles and use my hands to trace the chubbiness right from the ankles to the toes. I used to want to be this fat. The kind of nice plump that people could tell by looking at my feet, that I was well cared for. Now I know it’s not healthy to be over a certain weight given one’s specific body type. But as a young person who pretty much weighed between 80 and 100lbs until my mid 20’s, I was teased mercilessly. Complete with buck teeth, I was the brunt of many a joke in my classrooms over my entire school career, that is until I wore myself out praying to become fat, eating all things fatty, and padding my clothes.
It’s funny how a tiny act like staring at swollen feet can evoke such a powerful memory.
In any case, I had almost a four hour layover in Brussels. It’s slowly dwindling and I am happy for that. There are no shops in this section of the airport. This is probably a good thing since I am broke anyway. This trip is costing me a lot more than I bargained for. Or maybe the truth is I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I agreed to move my life to Ghana for a year. With a ticket over $1800, airline baggage fees about $300, shipping 3 barrels costing $175 each, travel to and from Cali, shopping for professional clothing and other household things, I think I am close to $5000 in total moving costs.
Was it worth it all? What happens if I decide this is not for me, and I want out? What do I do with all these things I’ve shipped to Ghana? But what if I decide, I want to stay? How many of my contemporaries return to Ghana and stay this early in their lives,l. at age 34? I know of folks retiring there after they’ve acquired their “fortunes” or amassed enough wealth to live better than they used to live when they were there. I know these folks are around my mother’s age. But what would the country look like if my contemporaries all came home in their numbers and pushed for better functioning public service systems. New public restrooms. Dual-, better yet, multiple-carriage roadways that were built in the allotted amount of time with no contractor “chopping” the money. Traffic regulations implemented and thwarters penalized. Child labor abolished and perpetrators dealt with harshly. The status of women elevated and their well-being and thriving be of national concern. What if my coming home, our coming home would aid in this process? Would I have the patience to deal with the traffic, poor cell service, filthy public restrooms or lack of, and the superiorist attitudes of men?
Lots of people commend me when I say I’m returning to my home country. Most wish me well amid comments of “there’s no place like home.” A few laugh out loud in my face saying: “no way you are going to make it. Those people will drive you nuts.” I first I saw this as some challenge. Then with sadness, as I saw my own people give up on their own developing countries. Then I saw the added layer of how they perceived my assimilation. Was I so assimilated that I was unable to return to my own culture? Then there’s my mom who says jokingly, Kuukua loves Ghana. She’s a Ghanaian through and through.” I’m usually waiting for the “you can’t take the Ghanaian out of her” part. It doesn’t come. Maybe that’s my own baggage. Is this a bad thing? Idk for right now.
For now, my swollen feet tell the story of my long journey to try out this my home country. I’m in Brussels after traveling from Columbus to Chicago, a total of about 8 ½ hours flying time but more of prep and stress. I still have about 8 more hours to go not including the layover. Ugh! Anyway, onward I say.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 6 so far )WORDPRESS INTIMIDATION
There! I’m here at the page. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think “I need to blog” but it has come to be so intimidating that I’ve been paralyzed for a while. I don’t have anything to say. Who wants to read what I have to say anyway? The list of excuses goes on. And I stay away from the page. I think the fear of not having anything to say paralyzes me at least once a week, but the fear of not posting something “substantial” (however that’s defined) paralyzes me daily. So the page remains blank night after night as I find other things to occupy my time.
So once again, a lot of time has passed since I blogged.
Life has been great for the most part. I didn’t expect AWP to have had such an impact on my life but it did!
First of all, I hadn’t been to Washington DC in almost 10 years, so I was excited to be back. It surprised me to have the Capitol steps all to myself as I strolled various parts of The Mall that Sunday and Monday after AWP was over. I used to live here! I kept thinking. It’s kind of like when the reality of the gifts you have, finally sink in. I think people there take it for granted to be in the Nation’s capital every day, much as I take it for granted that I have a 360 degree view from my workplace that encompasses three major bridges, especially the world’s famous Golden Gate.
Secondly, I stayed with my friends Anice and Reece out in Maryland instead of staying at the conference hotel. Definitely made the trip doable, but also I choose family and friends over hotels any day, on a budget or not. That way, I didn’t just meet them for “lunch” or “coffee” but I actually got to talk to someone when I got back from the conference, although, I was gone for a good 12-14 hours the first two days. Reece and Anice took me out to Mama Ayesha’s for my birthday. It was great! Nice ambiance, and the food was superb! Our Rice Pudding came with a few candles on top. I blew them out and then Anice asked me “The Birthday Questions” which were four questions that were helpful in causing me to reflect on year 33 and name my hopes for year 34. I think year 33 was tough and I had a lot of heartache so I hope year 34 will be one of relative ease.
I had a mini VONA reunion with my dear friend Willona Sloan. We were a pair of laughing, silly, girls who came alive with laughter at the slightest provocation. I was also lucky to have my MFA cohort friend Wendy Sterndale.
When Wendy joined the two of us, we were truly “ac’in a fool” and had a great time together. I didn’t know I could laugh so hard! We enjoyed the company of VONA elders Elmaz, Faith, Ruth, Suheir, Evelina, and Junot (from afar), and fellow VONAites, Crystal, Chelsea, and Daisy. We were lucky to get “stage” seats to the reading by Ruth Foreman, Carolyn Forche, and Suheir Hammad, hosted by Hedgebrook’s Amy Wheeler, and held at Busboys and Poets. For me, side events like the off-site University of Miami MFA reception and the on-site Macondo Foundation reception were more engaging than the sessions. Of course, I loved Junot Diaz’ plenary in which he challenged all of us writers to be real. I enjoyed listening to Jhumpa Lahiri’s plenary, although I wished she would have interacted with the audience. I have to say, it was amazing to have the lead keynotes be writers of color, but more importantly the first keynote be a woman! That made for a great inspiration right there!
I volunteered my time on Friday afternoon as a registration desk clerk and I had quite a ball. I was stationed at the booth marked “E-H” between two white guys who were hilarious! One of whom wrote Saving Erasmus Steve Cleaver
I bantered with them for most of my four-hour shift so the hours went by really quickly. I found out how common it was for writers to have a degree in Theology as well as an MFA. I think altogether, I have now met about 10 folks with that combination. I don’t feel so odd anymore. (Yeah right! I wish that was all it took!)
Overall, AWP reminded me that I wanted to be a writer, was a writer and author already, but that I needed to keep writing. A part of me was depressed after the third session on publishers and agents because it felt like they were saying a lot of it depended on luck and I wasn’t encouraged by this idea. Of course, it is my perception, you know?
I returned from AWP and DC and plunged right back into work and my MFA demands. It feels like I haven’t stopped moving since the Earl Lectures ended three weeks ago. A part of me knows that this is only the beginning; the other part is in denial. I am excited for the many things that are happening in my life this semester.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 5 so far )WORDPRESS INTIMIDATION
There! I’m here at the page. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think “I need to blog” but it has come to be so intimidating that I’ve been paralyzed for a while. I don’t have anything to say. Who wants to read what I have to say anyway? The list of excuses goes on. And I stay away from the page. I think the fear of not having anything to say paralyzes me at least once a week, but the fear of not posting something “substantial” (however that’s defined) paralyzes me daily. So the page remains blank night after night as I find other things to occupy my time.
So once again, a lot of time has passed since I blogged.
Life has been great for the most part. I didn’t expect AWP to have had such an impact on my life but it did!
First of all, I hadn’t been to Washington DC in almost 10 years, so I was excited to be back. It surprised me to have the Capitol steps all to myself as I strolled various parts of The Mall that Sunday and Monday after AWP was over. I used to live here! I kept thinking. It’s kind of like when the reality of the gifts you have, finally sink in. I think people there take it for granted to be in the Nation’s capital every day, much as I take it for granted that I have a 360 degree view from my workplace that encompasses three major bridges, especially the world’s famous Golden Gate.
Secondly, I stayed with my friends Anice and Reece out in Maryland instead of staying at the conference hotel. Definitely made the trip doable, but also I choose family and friends over hotels any day, on a budget or not. That way, I didn’t just meet them for “lunch” or “coffee” but I actually got to talk to someone when I got back from the conference, although, I was gone for a good 12-14 hours the first two days. Reece and Anice took me out to Mama Ayesha’s for my birthday. It was great! Nice ambiance, and the food was superb! Our Rice Pudding came with a few candles on top. I blew them out and then Anice asked me “The Birthday Questions” which were four questions that were helpful in causing me to reflect on year 33 and name my hopes for year 34. I think year 33 was tough and I had a lot of heartache so I hope year 34 will be one of relative ease.
I had a mini VONA reunion with my dear friend Willona Sloan. We were a pair of laughing, silly, girls who came alive with laughter at the slightest provocation. I was also lucky to have my MFA cohort friend Wendy Sterndale.
When Wendy joined the two of us, we were truly “ac’in a fool” and had a great time together. I didn’t know I could laugh so hard! We enjoyed the company of VONA elders Elmaz, Faith, Ruth, Suheir, Evelina, and Junot (from afar), and fellow VONAites, Crystal, Chelsea, and Daisy. We were lucky to get “stage” seats to the reading by Ruth Foreman, Carolyn Forche, and Suheir Hammad, hosted by Hedgebrook’s Amy Wheeler, and held at Busboys and Poets. For me, side events like the off-site University of Miami MFA reception and the on-site Macondo Foundation reception were more engaging than the sessions. Of course, I loved Junot Diaz’ plenary in which he challenged all of us writers to be real. I enjoyed listening to Jhumpa Lahiri’s plenary, although I wished she would have interacted with the audience. I have to say, it was amazing to have the lead keynotes be writers of color, but more importantly the first keynote be a woman! That made for a great inspiration right there!
I volunteered my time on Friday afternoon as a registration desk clerk and I had quite a ball. I was stationed at the booth marked “E-H” between two white guys who were hilarious! One of whom wrote Saving Erasmus Steve Cleaver
I bantered with them for most of my four-hour shift so the hours went by really quickly. I found out how common it was for writers to have a degree in Theology as well as an MFA. I think altogether, I have now met about 10 folks with that combination. I don’t feel so odd anymore. (Yeah right! I wish that was all it took!)
Overall, AWP reminded me that I wanted to be a writer, was a writer and author already, but that I needed to keep writing. A part of me was depressed after the third session on publishers and agents because it felt like they were saying a lot of it depended on luck and I wasn’t encouraged by this idea. Of course, it is my perception, you know?
I returned from AWP and DC and plunged right back into work and my MFA demands. It feels like I haven’t stopped moving since the Earl Lectures ended three weeks ago. A part of me knows that this is only the beginning; the other part is in denial. I am excited for the many things that are happening in my life this semester.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )For My Siblings, In Solidarity (for the anniversary)
Viva Ayiti
To My Siblings, In Solidarity
The sun is beating down mercilessly on people who are already toasted varying degrees of brown and shades of black. The skies look like those on the Simpsons TV comedy: cotton-candy blue and white, and as I lay on my back, I can almost picture the credits rolling across the endless screen and hear the familiar tune playing. The sun beats down on my left side yet the gentle breezes from the right slowly caress and ease the heat of this equator sun, making it all worthwhile. The sound of a metal bell reminds me that some people are working even on this holiday. As the sound of the bell grows fainter and shifts to the background, it is replaced by the crowing of a rooster and the barking of dogs. Other sounds have become so much a part of the environment that one has to pay particular attention to be able to decipher what constitutes the cacophony.
Where am I? I’m sure you are dying to know! For Christmas, I gave myself the gift of a second pilgrimage to Haiti, Ayiti, the beautiful land of beautiful people where the great economic divide is as visible as the night and day that marks the passing of time and where suffering, as widespread as it is, never keeps the people from smiling back when you make eye contact. I had to return to Ayiti. It had wrapped its arms around me in May 2002 when I made my first pilgrimage and it had refused to let go. So I honored it, and all who were in it, by returning.
I am sitting on the rooftop, seven floors up, at St Joseph’s Home for Boys, affectionately called “Michael’s” after the director and founder. As I bask in the sunlight thoughts of snow, thousands of light years away, in my memory, I try to absorb all of Ayiti again—yes, I loved Ayiti, just as I loved my homeland, Ghana. I had fallen in love with Ayiti from the minute I exited the plane and had to make my way to the terminal on foot.
As I lie, I absorb all the sounds that are unique only to Ayiti and some of the other developing countries I have been blessed to visit: the sound of the vendors’ bells and voices advertising their wares, roosters crowing (although I am still unable to determine the exact reason since people have been awake since 4:30 am), music blaring out of speakers miles away echoed off the mountain sides, “tap taps” (local bus system) and taxis honking incessantly, engines of cars starting up, a PSA of some sort being run from the back of a pick-up truck with a make-shift megaphone, people calling out to each other in Kreyol, cats and dogs fighting for turf, and intermittent gun shots interspersing this orchestrated piece, poignant reminders of the state of the country.
The sun has dipped behind one of the many mountains that encircle Haiti although a part of the island is still bathed in sunlight and a shadow of light is thrown across the mountain. Sounds of nighttime are slowly replacing those of the day: generators kicking on (electricity is only available for part of the day), the crackling of firewood and the smell that accompanies it, as people prepare the evening meal, rush hour traffic with all its sounds, and radios and televisions blaring loudly.
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The flight part of the journey had been uneventful and we had landed finally, after about 15-20 hours in airports (Ohio to Miami to Haiti), on the small farm runway that had cattle and goats grazing on it. About a half hour after landing, and squashed in the small cab of a pick up truck, with luggage competing for space, we were ascending and descending roads that were carved so adeptly out of the mountains. In the darkness, roads pitted with potholes filled with rain, gave the illusion of being smooth terrain until we were jolted out of our seats when our driver landed in one of them. It was pitch black, the kind of dark that threatens to swallow the dim, struggling headlights of the journeying vehicles. We had been driving for over 90 minutes when we had originally been told that the trip was a half hour max. There had to have been something wrong. I was convinced there had to have been rebels on the main highway and that’s why our guide had detoured. Who was to say?
Was my faith tested? You bet it was! I began saying the Rosary in my head and trying to remember any prayers I had memorized in my 20 years of Catholic school education. That having brought no comfort, I took refuge in making my petitions in my native tongue and just free-styling. At this point, I realized how ridiculous I might have seemed to any of my friends and family back home. I had made this trip after reconciling that “if this should be the end then so be it, I was going to Ayiti, come what may!” I smiled as I realized that this initial panic stage was natural when faced with trials. This thought surprisingly calmed me down enough to concentrate my efforts on watching the driver make it round each sharp bend in the two-lane mountain road, the lesser of the two evils. No sooner had I shifted my focus than we were arrived at our destination: the rectory at Plaissance.
Plaissance was one of the two reasons I had been itching to return to Ayiti. Located in the northern part of Ayiti, Plaissance for me was the French Riviera with all the mountains dripping with greenery. This was also where my host family lived and I could hardly wait to visit with them and catch up on 3 years worth of news…whew! Oh wait a minute, we can’t do that! The language barrier for me was my biggest struggle. Having had some elementary French in school, I could get by if people spoke French however, the Kreyol in Ayiti, a mixture of French and African languages, bore little resemblance to French. As I vacillated between excitement and disappointment, I began to piece together sentences in my head from the basic Kreyol I knew. Yes, I would tell them this or that, oh wait…how do you say this in Kreyol? I got ready for bed; tomorrow the words that eluded me now might come.
Gwo Jan was the other reason. This was where my other family lived. Two men and a lady! , Ari, Dja, and Carla. These three were my inspiration for some of the work I had gotten involved in since returning from my first trip. They had the arduous task of educating their own people, the people of Ayiti, about the history that lay beneath the brand name sneakers they loved to wear, the struggle with power, and the struggle against systems that was always in motion. They were also responsible for educating any tourists, who dared to enter their village, about the beautiful land of Ayiti and its people. These three, so far as I was concerned, were the heroes whose stories hardly ever got told. They had captured my heart and brain and engaged me in working for the struggle from the first time I had visited and though our communiques were few and far between we carried each other in our hearts and I couldn’t wait to see them again.
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I look at the chaos that surrounds me. Sometimes I work well under pressure although this time all order and creativity has eluded me even though my deadline is but 24 hours away. The chaos, the order I strive for, the pressure which produces results, or so they say…all this is nothing compared to the thoughts that take residence in my head all day long as I go about the mundane tasks of my everyday life as one of the numbers in a big corporate institution.
These thoughts are far from related to my job or everyday routine. These thoughts are about the greater good, about service to all people, if I may be allowed to use clichés. My thoughts are with the people I met on my two trips to Ayiti (Haiti), my study abroad project in Morocco, my trips to Ghana, my working vacation in Egypt, my time at the Catholic Worker house in Denver, CO, or more recently and way less expensive, my chat with the unassuming man who everyone mistook for homeless. These are the things that occupy my head as I try to navigate my way through the numerous cubicles, edit letters, make copies, or prepare mail.
In these thoughts the perpetual question burns my innermost parts each time I can scrounge a few minutes to pause and reflect…what am I being called to do…in the long run, what really matters the most?
This question has come to me in various forms, and over the last five years since graduating from college I have processed this question in numerous settings: over dinner with religious discernment groups, in retreats, workshops, service trips, journaling, and mind you, this list is endless. If I have learned anything at all, it’s that, nobody else can tell me what my calling is because this is something that I need to discern for myself.
In journeying through this process of discernment, I have slowly learned more about myself, and my place in the grand scheme of things. I have come to cherish the heritage, the ancestry that makes me who I am today. I have discovered and embraced the similarities, as well as the differences, that make us all children of the Great Being.
It is with such a basic foundation that I returned to Ayiti for the second time. I returned not to donate time or money but to visit with the ones I had met once before, to sit in solidarity with my siblings, to share with each other the gift of our lives, despite the admonishment of family and friends fearing for my safety in Ayiti.
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There is a quiet knowing…a sort of “I have arrived” feeling as I sit on my steps and crunch on some cereal. The “ChocoBalls” cereal I chose instead of the name brand one which cost 11/2 times more than this one. I may never get to live as simply in America as I do when I am in Ghana or Haiti but I can carefully consider my choices before making my small everyday decisions. I have been back two days now and I’m still buzzing with the energy and excitement that usually accompanies a return from a service trip where one has been made more aware and one has left with a resolution of some sort.
I’m reminded of my trip leader’s numerous poems that she read to us at prayer time while in Ayiti. One in particular sticks out: “to my brothers and sisters in third world countries” it begins and then it apologizes for the insensitivity on our parts that allows us to spend twenty minutes picking out what sweater or shoe to wear when my sister halfway around the world, is putting on the only piece of clothing or pair of shoes that she owns. This prayer has stayed with me since my very first trip to Ayiti because somehow that is how I manage to stay grounded…to constantly contemplate the faces of the people I know and am now fortunate to call family, in Ayiti. To remember their joy and excitement when they don their Sunday best for church or throw on the same pair of shoes for work day after day. To recall their smiles as they share what little they have with everyone around. To let myself revel in the optimism and conviction of the people as they say “Viva Ayiti”! My family in Plaissance and Gwojan who keep the dream of freedom alive, and continue to live and tell their story despite all attempts to silence them. They are the thoughts that constantly plague me as I go about my routine tasks. They are the constant heat from the equator sun, absent in the dead of winter, yet ever-present in my thoughts as I ponder what the greater good and ultimate calling is.
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Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Happy Boxing Day!
That’s what we call the 26th of December in Ghana, and I’m sure in other British colonies. If we had presents, we gave them on Boxing Day. Usually, if I remember correctly, that’s when we made our rounds of various family and family friends’ homes. We took presents of fruit or cookies and stopped to drink Fanta or Coca Cola in each location. We sometimes ate jolloff or chicken at some of the homes. It had the feel of an American Thanksgiving Day. We would arrive home stuffed, and usually headed straight for bed.
It feels like eons ago. This is my 15th Christmas I have spent away from Ghana. It feels surreal to have had 18 consecutive ones and to now be bereft of them. My sister Sheela is in Ghana. I wish I had gone with her but there was no way I could have pulled off another ticket twice my rent. I think it makes me miss home the most when there is someone there “enjoying” it for me. Although yesterday, Sheela gave me one of the best presents ever–a Skype phone call with all my cousins. The ones with whom I grew up at least. I felt like the proud big sis to have all of them gathered around the computer talking in and out of turn catching me up and telling me I should be there. I smiled broadly on this end for moments after we hung up. I ought to have been there, but no use wishing that now. For months I had been kicking myself for going to Ghana in August instead. It would have been so much nicer at Christmas when everyone else was home as well, and definitely more enjoyable to go with Sheela. But I didn’t. I am here in the grey-slightly warming-up, sun-struggling-to-peek-through, Bay. Much as I love the Bay and California, this is the one year where I wished most for a White Christmas or a Christmas in Ghana. Perhaps it was mainly to do with the fact that Sheela was in Ghana or perhaps it had to do with the fact that I loved family and wanted to be surrounded by large quantities of good food, big laughs, and re-telling of stories.
In any case, I am here, trying to be content, to love being with me, and eek out some writing. I am going to finish up a piece on analyzing Christmas music which strangely enough disappears when it hits 11:59 pm on Christmas Day (have you noticed this?) Shouldn’t we be rejoicing now that the season is finally here? The child has been born? Yesterday afternoon, I was in CVS for an item (yes they were open) and they were already setting up the Christmas sale aisles for all the items that have come to define Christmas. I guess if the carols were gone, there was no need to keep the tinsel or miniature Nutcracker or reindeer. Ironically, I also noticed that close to 90% of all those working to dismantle Christmas were of Asian descent. Earlier on in the IHop in a pre-dominantly Black neighborhood, our server and several of her colleagues were also Asian. It was fascinating to me that I observed this stark difference. Were there always several Asian workers and servers, or did I just notice them more because it seemed they were the only ones working? Were they the only ones working? Why? As a woman of color sitting in a restaurant with a very diverse pool of customers, why did it bother me to see all Asian servers? Did Christmas bring all these people together? If so, why wasn’t the server pool just as diverse?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Behold the Metamorphosis of the Published Word…
Food Wars
Cooking was a major affair in our household. Sometimes the cause of disagreement among family members and house helps, the coal pot, aka the kitchen stove, was essential to this process. Because it required charcoal it was always lit in the courtyard to prevent the first puffs of smoke from choking everyone in the house. We would ball up old newspapers in the lower part of the stove and light these with a match, then fan the flames to allow the kerosene-soaked coals on the upper bowl to ignite. Once the coals caught fire and the smoke evened out, the stove was returned to the kitchen. Under heavy cooking, new charcoal had to be added often because the original chunks would turn to ashes. It didn’t bode well for whoever was on kitchen duty when this occurred. Once, Aunty Mercy took coals from one coal pot to begin a new fire and ended up losing the starter. Grandmother was furious.
Aunty Mercy was the oldest of all the house-helps we ever had; she came to us after she had spent her life savings bailing out her only child who had been jailed for murder. She walked with a hobble because she had been the victim of a number of bicycle accidents. During a particularly bad Hamattan season, she was struck by lightening, adding a twitch to that hobble, yet she was full of life and had many stories to tell. She was warm and cuddly and my sister and I loved her. She was the antithesis of all Grandmother was.
“’Familiarity breeds contempt!’” Grandmother would exclaim dramatically whenever we would interact too closely with Aunty Mercy. More contact with the house-helps outside of duties blurred the boundaries she worked so hard to keep. Grandmother’s main prejudice centered on sharing food, eating Aunty Mercy’s food, was forbidden. Aunty Mercy would occasionally cook her own tribal delicacies. We joined her once and almost got caught.
The kitchen was warm and slightly cramped. Aunty Mercy squatted in her usual lopsided position in the middle of the kitchen floor tending to her meal. I scooted around, trying not to knock her over. The freshly prepared nkontombire froyi with koobi and ampesi made my mouth water even though I just had dinner. Something about the green leafy spinach leaves bubbling in the reddish liquid makes it more appealing. Salted tilapia was soaking in a bowl next to plantains from our backyard garden.
“Waatomoo.”
“We’ll join you, but Grandmother will be mad if she catches us.” I replied enthusiastically.
Sheela rolled her eyes and translated my response. “You know she doesn’t speak any English.” Aunty Mercy beckoned us closer to the stove. I saw the coal pot with coals almost turned to ashes. The fire was almost out.
“Looks like she forgot to add new coal,” Sheela commented.
Aunty Mercy pulled up two kitchen stools for Sheela and me, pausing to wipe both with a kitchen towel lest we ruin our clothes.
I stared into the pot. It smells great.
“What’s in it?”
“kontombire ahataw, anyiew ne tometo ne galic.”
Ok. But what’s that other smell? “What makes the sauce so red?”
“Oye ngo na.”
“This tastes different.” Sheela said. I turned expecting a frown on her face, surprised by a smile.
“Let me taste!” I squeezed my way in between them.
“sssh ma anti aba kyi hon!” Aunty Mercy cautioned.
I grin. Grandmother would be furious if she knew what we were doing.
“Why don’t you use this in our meals?” I asked.
Floorboards from the third bedroom creaked slightly. We heard Grandmother’s footsteps.
“Grandmother says Sheela is allergic to palm oil.” I looked over in panic at Sheela who seemed to be enjoying her pieces of plantain and nkomtombire. Was she really allergic or was Grandmother lying?
More erratic footsteps interrupted my panic. Aunty Mercy motioned for us to be silent. She quickly grabbed our half empty bowls and explained:
“Nso nnyi egroya ntsi wa ba egyadze ha befee bi.”
“Huh? There was no water in the bathroom?” Surely Grandmother wouldn’t buy that one!
Her voice preceded her.
“Sheela! Kuukua! Where are you two? You better not be in the kitchen! Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed!”
A bend in the hallway separated us.
“We are getting water!”
We dart across the hall, pick up our toothbrushes, and begin to brush our teeth. Close call! Who would have thought that Aunty Mercy had learned to count with Grandmother’s footsteps?
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I Hella <3 Oakland!
Posted on December 28, 2012. Filed under: prose poems, Social Commentary | Tags: AC transit, black, bus, children, jeans, liquor, Oakland, people, skele-toes, smoke |
The smell of clothing reeks with stale smoke and urine/it wafts towards me on the breath of early morning liquor/it’s wearer plops down in the seat next to mine
We eye each other/both of us aware/I don’t belong/I am neatly dressed/no hints of foreign smells/on my feet are skele-toes/all the rage in Berkeley/but I am not in Berkeley/I’m deep in the heart of where my people live
They all eye my feet soon as they board/I look up/I smile/I am met with a scowl/a blank stare/almost saying/bitch watchya smiling at
My seat mates/come and go/similar smells/too much urine on one/too much liquor on the other/too much perfume/displacing the oxygen molecules/too much smoke that makes me/reach for my inhaler/and incur more scowls
They arrive at the fare box/sometimes barking questions/sometimes drawling their words/indecision about which bus to get on/which stop to ring the bell/they don’t want to walk far/when they arrive at their stop
A woman boards/jeans too tight/showing her neon-orange thong/later, straightening from her slumped posture/she boasts of 3 children/when an old lady asks her age/she proclaims 26/proud/I have an 11, 8, and 6 year old/I calculate/she became a mother at 15/I cringe/why is that something to be proud of/perhaps there isn’t much else
She glances my way/I smile a sad hesitant smile/blank stare back/she knows/I couldn’t/wouldn’t/understand/the generations of systemic muck that has bequeathed her 3 children at 26/I stare at my feet/not sure where else to focus
Skele-toes/today was the wrong day to wear these/they speak a language/all their own/they say privilege/they say access/I think/dude they were on sale at Ross/these silly shoes are the most comfortable things for my inherited bunions/honestly I have worn nothing else over the last two weeks/wanna try them
I stop staring at my feet/I refuse to let them intimidate me/I am clearly out of my element/this far down the 52 on AC Transit/I stash my inhaler/switch seats/await my stop with some anxiety/dreading the return trip/wishing cabs were not so expensive in the U.S./hoping the return trip will be less jarring on my bougie self/acknowledging/Black can never equate one experience
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