The Celebration

I think it’s time to celebrate the beauty of black women/

And I don’t just mean your stereotypical pop-culture fit-ins

 

I’m talking about your everyday ebony citizen, every one of them gettin it in

 

From afros to fades, light to dark, thick & skinny/

and while most aren’t with me, I know at least one of you can feel me

 

And really, what kind of world do we live in when/

I turn on the television and/

I’m force fed a certain type of women

 

And images of straightened hair and lighter skin, become internalized messages of feeling less then/

So no longer do the powers that be need any kind of overt suppression, because inner beauty becomes suppressed in

 

So I give much respect when, there’s a woman rocking non-straightened hair again/ because too often is it frowned upon and questioned

 

And yes it takes time and more effort/

But if natural beauty doesn’t bring one’s self pleasure/

Then it’ll be a long time coming before it does anybody else, if ever

 

I think it’s time we celebrate strength that shines brighter than any chain/

because these women stand out without ice to soothe 500 years of pain

 

And if there were a picture of every black woman, then you’d see a rainbow of different shades/

and, oh how striking it would frame

 

And black women are not here to satisfy a chocolate craving so I won’t compare them to mocha lattes and Hershey kisses/

 

Because I would rather compare my misses, with fruit/

Because we all know the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice/

And the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots/

I’ll give a holler to the sisters on welfare, you know I don’t care, cuz I grew up on it too

 

But I digress, so let’s try to digest and be in the mindset to celebrate the power of black women

 

Because we all know sticks and stones can break our bones, but words can cut the soul/

 

And if that’s so, our culture needs to watch how we represent black women on the whole

 

Because bitches are dogs, not black women

Hoes are for gardening, not black women

Tricks are for kids, not black women

 

But words alone/

are not powerful enough to break a will on the whole

 

Just read and know that bougie people in dry cleaned clothes/

Sat around to chat about how to spray away an entire history with a fire hose

 

But it was saved by those who public-bussed their way to the front and so/

Are female MC’s like Nikki really an over-animated joke, or another cart paving their part like the underground railroad?

 

And while I might not like every way that she’s getting hers/ I’m all about seeing black women in our popular culture finish first

 

So I say in closing words, that all women are beautiful in their own respects/

I just find black women to be more beautiful in most respects

And my hope is that

 

Black women find their beauty not from videos being called bitch and/

Not from cooking in the kitchen, but from within

And from the vision originating with His feelings

 

Bottled Up

I want to speak on my regrets/

But my thoughts are under mind by what could have been, so syllables only project my past

 

And since words hold weight, my jaw lacks the strength to say what’s on my mind

So these contemplations have the ability to weigh me down

 

And rarely can verbs verbally repeat verbatim the reverberations of my mind/

So thoughts echo within the walls of my skull, never being verbalized

 

And because I never verify my verbiage, I’m draped over an ocean of regrets/

But I’m afraid to raise my hopes, because life can string you along until you’re hung out to dry/

like sheets high above NY borough streets, so I don’t speak my mind/

 

So emotions sit in my chest like there were built in seats on my heart/

And bar stools became pedestals for which I reached too often

 

And on this seat I sit tongue in cheek, biting the words I want to say too often/

 

Because right now these walls begin to climb higher, while the mote continues to grow wider/

And all I can say is, “Good luck reaching me”

 

Because true feelings are so few and far between that I lean away from what they originally mean/ so I wear emotions on my sleeve because I’m waiting for somebody to steal them and show me how to feel what I see

 

Because I’m afraid that my emotions will be taken as a grain of salt/

So I shed tears hoping you’ll find these saline drops and give my sentiments meaning

 

And as I look upon the puddle below, I drew a conclusion in the reflection/

That I’ve taken heat from every direction and have been cured not from my own strength, but because of God’s discretion

 

But despite the power He has granted, I still can’t muster the authority needed over my mouth/

So instead I’ve mastered my hands and allow this page to catch what flows out

 

 

 

Self-Worth

#1-She can only get so far with looks/She was hallow inside and collapsed into herself, but some are too selfless for self-absorption

#2-Her imagination spawns life through visions, as though her skull was a womb through which her mind created/She can plant a seed and fertilize it with a simple thought

#1- She filled contemplations with new ways to attain Barbie doll figures/The search for disproportion, but she never thought equality existed in society anyway

#2- Her brainstorms create hurricanes/To her, life is a collage of lightning strikes into sand pits that reveals glass figures because existence is so fragile

#1- She aspired to be a video girl/So plastic aspirations replaced self-determination, and an internalized self-hatred became the single motivation of what the mirror reflected

#2- Her dreams float in the stars and she refused to plan/So she walked backwards through life to learn from the past and never look forward to what lie ahead, because she enjoyed surprises

#1- She couldn’t stand looking in the mirror, so she would sit down to reflect

But even though beautiful was her description/She hated that word she had been given, she wished her skin could unzip, because then she could be true to the person within

#2- Her savior was education and college the boat through which it was delivered

She knew that knowledge is power and books are powerful, but no novel could replace the street smarts she received in the projects

#1- She understood life as discomfort delivered through pop-culture beauty, so she purchased pain killers at hair salons and became a pop-culture native by stripping her native roots

#2- Her understanding of life was a flowing river and she was determined to stay at the front of the current/While many are content with remaining rocks at the bottom, she refused to be stagnant

#1 & 2- But both She and Her are one woman living two realities, a conglomerate, and she lived with the threat that she had to dissect every flaw that lives within her breath/

And this woman recollects on memories of twenty-two years that project a popular culture that afflicted her self-esteem subconsciously, so starting from the left/

she judged herself and completely passed over the most important aspect…what’s inside the chest

And as I sit next to this woman, retelling her life through photo albums and portraits, her struggle reinforces/

That my unborn daughter will never be forced with these expectations

She will grow to know a woman’s worth/

That our culture spreads so much hurt, curly hair is beautiful, even if it is difficult to manage the curves/

To ensure that her words never go unheard, no man should make her feel like she is God’s gift to Earth, because she finds self-worth through God’s word

Avoid self-absorption of video divas whorin, because those images are not worth more than

An intellect, self-respect, and not to be afraid to let her guard down for the one she falls in love with/Don’t be afraid to feel hurt but never let pain become the norm for which your day is set

Live life without regret and be caring to everybody, regardless if a person’s not living life as you would suggest/ And while you may fall for some of what She was, always strive to be Her and never allow pop culture to question your personal worth

My Car, Me

Striped white dividers flash past/

Indicators of a landing strip for my restless body

.

Or maybe the freeway serves as an airport for my mind

.

Surroundings melt away as I sink into a comfortable state/

Black leather caresses my back

.

Like a panther its engine purrs and steadies my heartbeat/

My humble abode, my getaway, my home while I’m homeless

.

And if home is where the heart is/

Then my heart beats to the thump of speed bumps

My blood pumps like oil through an engine heart that wills me forward

I exhale exhaust, blast kick-drum melodies from vocal-chord speakers, keep my guard up through fragile glass windows and sound an alarm if anybody gets too close

.

You will never intimately know the interior unless you’ve been invited

.

And if you do, dust off your shoes and come correct/

because breaking my trust leaves damaged dashboards and worn leather that I can’t afford to fix so your mistakes will never be forgotten

.

Only one other has ever been in the driver seat/

At which point heart was not where the home was, but where she sat

Navigating my mind on cruise control because four years of driving that highway felt safe

.

But debris cracked our glass future and now I peer back through rearview mirrors on memories of us in a drunken stupor/

But drinking and driving is dangerous, so pick up lines find DD’s in Hollywood nightclubs to fill that void

.

But it was all just too easy, and now I’m so tired of navigating these side streets

.

And as rubber runs over pavement, my shoes get worn down from all the traveling/

So tire shops stand in the form of sincere interactions, routine maintenance flows through spoken word and gasoline is pumped through friendships

.

But even friends come at a price/

Regular surface interactions start at 3.10 per gallon, plus acquaintances run 3.25 and best friends run at premium 3.40

.

But I feel stuck at this gas station, because I wasn’t equipped with GPS/

So I’m driving in circles, catching glimpses of where I would like to be but never finding the bridge that leads me there

.

That is until I press on the gas and accelerate through the boundaries constructed/

Because sometimes taking a leap of faith is the only way to make progress

.

And all the scars inherited by smashing down those barriers that cut through paint and dented doors can stand as testaments to character because I refuse to break down

Blink

Blink the first time, not to focus, but to start a new image/

Because every time my eyes shut, it’s like the slamming of a shutter

.

Blink the second time, not out of habit, but because I’ve forced my eyes to stay open for too long/

It’s time for trust and closing them for that split second may bring this image into a new light

.

Blink the third time continuously, not because there’s irritation, but to slow everything down/

The repetition breaks the moment into short bursts, like a flip picture book

.

Blink the fourth time, not out of force, but because vision is blurry without it/

Staring at you has dried my eyes

.

Blink

.

But don’t blink at love, because it can happen so fast that a blink prevents you from seeing it pass

And it’s better to have love that lasts and

.

They say it is better to have loved and lost but I have only ever lost with love/

So I force my eyes to remain open, because I’m afraid that if I fall asleep you won’t be here when I wake up

.

But sure enough you were there and every morning I re-realize that there is no visual equal to the loveliness you possess/

You emanate rays of gorgeous, they bounce from your aura like melodies to the rhythm of your breath/

And it’s as though my vision can hear your loveliness by pressing my ear against your chest

.

Any man beside you would be blessed

So I want to make your years easier in every way shape and form/

Burning my bridges to open your closed doors/

I would turn my dreams into a bullet to ensure you had shot at yours

.

But you’re strength wouldn’t need it/

You speak gale force Katrina winds with a strong foundation, the lone building in Haiti that stood

.

And I know now that she was an ebony beauty too/

Because God didn’t just spend a little more time on you/

You were Eve’s prototype used/

You are so far beyond proof that there is nothing God can’t do

.

So I blink once to focus because you have become my new image of what a woman is

.

Then I blink the second time out of habit because I can trust falling asleep in your love

.

The third time I blink continuously to slow everything down like a flip picture book because you make my heart race

.

I blink the last time because it took only that long to grow old with you

Dreaming: Trial Without Jury

It’s evident the evidence brought against this defendant is deepening his predicament far more than intended and/This young man is far from innocent, so let us skip the trial and head straight to the sentencin’

`

This turns out to be a trial without jury, but the defendant remains unworried that his future looks unsturdy/ in the hands of a white man convinced so surely of guilt because his past record is so dirty

`

But the judge has correctly chosen the fate of this young man as he stands frozen at the door of the court room/ because he noticed there’s no room for his lawyer

`

So he stands there alone staring at a room without peers/ as his pleas for forgiveness all fall upon deaf ears

But while he struggles to hold back a deep tear/ the young man discerns the low hum of applauds and joyous cheers

`

The courtroom is infuriated by the celebration outside/ so the judge smashes the gavel to indicate a break and check why he hears happiness in the loud cries

`

The judge marches along the benches and boars through the court room doors, but he witnesses nothing he expected/
See, the young man’s entire neighborhood has come to protect him/Because to the neighborhoods largest drug lord the young man’s mother had fallen victim

`

So the boy took justice into the palms of his own hands and strangled the crime boss in his own residence/ and he did it with no concern of all the evidence

`

And now its not so evident to the judge who the real criminal is/How can you strip the future from a young man with so much promise/As the judges peers yell that, “The boy brought upon himself all this/he murdered in cold blood with the full knowledge of the consequence”

`

Now the boy’s supporters outside are growing in number/media is present and portraying this as another court room blunder/ their reports state that the young man did more good for his neighborhood, and considering what happened to his mother, the reason for the crime is no wonder

`
As the thunderous roar grows from the crowd the boy stands and waves his hands for silence/as he takes responsibility for his violence
He knows its what’s right as he yells to everyone, “The fault is all mine”/He might havin been hopin in his confession that he would get less time

`
But he learned the importance of values from his mom/She taught him that you gotta stand for what’s right or fall for what’s wrong/And he knew living that life, death doesn’t take too long

`
So he steps towards the bench/ and presses his palms together waiting for the cuffs sharp pinch
The young man is quickly shoved through the doors to the jailhouse/ and as he enters a bright light blinds him and he wakes up in his own house

`
Sweat covers his sheets, and he dries the his forehead covered in large beads/ but just as he does so he hears blood curdling screams

`
So he rushes to the cries emanating from his sister/ and is horrified to find his mom sprawled out OD’d on the drugs she bought from the neighborhood drug dealer

Fear

I fear that I will only live to see the bottom of a mountain of expectations created by my family

I fear that I will never gain the ability to crest the summit of their fabricated Everest, because I am too inadequate to feel the emotions of success

I fear that I will be another branch on a family tree parched from generations of drought that has come in the form of fallen dreams
And the dry season has been so long that the tree sheds its opportunistic leaves as if they were of no consequence to the future of branches driven to break the abyss of the pastBranches hindered because those leaves floated to the trunk years ago

I fear that I can never blow away from this and pollinate the surrounding soil

Allowing my roots to spread and intertwine with roots of past generations and be a source of nutrients that allow my family to grow

I fear that I can never be a sturdy enough trunk for a newly planted future of generations that will have the opportunity to grow and surpass the canopy and create a new standard

But also

I fear that I can achieve more then I have ever imagined

That I can live a life never predicted

Be the man nobody expected, while paving a path that anybody can follow

I fear that I will fail to bridge the canyon between my present and my potential, but faith in Him is the tool for which I have begun construction

More people know me than I know personally, so I fear success

Because acquaintances are crabs in a barrel of failure whose edges I surmount while they seemingly fight to drag me under

Yes, I am afraid.

But I fear not fear itself.

If I were afraid of fear itself, then I would not be able to face the mirror and see the face of fear itself

Because I am only scared of what I can accomplish

I live the fears you construct by taking steps into a day from which you run away

I realize now that my fears are paper boats constructed to set sail in an ocean of perseverance

Slowly, one by one, the waters of success seep into their porous hulls and force them to sink

My fears are an excuse that I use to let loose of responsibilities

But I refuse to reuse the noose of an excuse that I let get into me

So I stand on a pedastal of conquered disbeliefs, looking down onto a past that I left in defeat

While you seek to run away like the weak and only succeed to bring your fears closer

No sir I do not live life to live life without mistakes
I will inevitably fall to my own faults and be engulfed by my own demons and imperfections

But success lies in that my decisions are not hindered by paper fears

Fears constructed from tissue, with the soul purpose of being turned to ash by flames of accomplishment

And while they burn I emerge like a Phoenix from the heatStronger, more capable and stretch my wings full length to cast a shadow of faith, hope and love over all those I encounter

I understand now that fears are part of a society established to make embers of my perseverance.
But I am a zippo in a world of matchesAnd every one of my fears can be conquered through hard-work, faith and laughter.

Respectable Culture

I think it’s time we choose respect/

The things for which we sing, only bring neglect

Dr. King dreamed anything but these obscene scenes, I think it’s time we protect

.

Our children cuz we will them with this toward disrespect/

Guns we wield them and kids they’ve killed them, what else can we expect

.

It’s time for a unified mind to stand and object/

We need to move from this crude culture and have a positive impact

.

In fact, this is the exact opposite way that we should be movin/

Consciousness no longer sponsors this movement

And we wonder why white america deny us room and/

Our messages are so negative/

Shit we pray it is/

We love to consume it

.

And hip hop artists like Common are so uncommon/

Yet it’s the common ones who get all the comments

So open up your eyes when/

You begin denying these signs and/

They lyin is sewed in the lining of your very own life and

.

Hip hop started as a respectable culture/

Knowing where it was and seeing what it is, is equivalent to torture/

And if there were a point of no return, then we’re playin at the border

.

So we need to make a move back toward the origins/

It will never be the same, but that’s not what in store again/

But only we have the power to devour this disrespectful culture and

.

We need to increase our appetites/

Our youth are no longer acting right

So forget global warmin/

because when I open my door again

I don’t know if I’ll live past tonight/

That’s why I choose to keep past in sight

.

So if we all choose respect/

Nobody can object to the dances and videos we choose to project

So lets all get involved in this game of chess/

And make moves to improve our culture and keep it in check

Happiness Recovered

Susie never imagined she would be homeless. But who really does? She couldn’t believe that anybody would ever envision themselves as prisoners of the streets of LA.

How could anybody think, “Yea, in ten years I’ll probably be living on Van Nuys and Ventura. In a condo you said? Haha, No no. Literally, on the corner of Van Nuys and Ventura.”

But here she was, working her daily recycling route with her confiscated Vons shopping cart that she pushed clear across town. She couldn’t take the Ralph’s cart, which was much closer, because it had a yellow anti-theft brake on the wheel. It took half a block before she realized why the cart was being so difficult and why passers-by were snickering at her.

That’s one thing she could never quite get used to. Why do some people go out of their way to be rude to strangers? Last summer she was sitting outside of a taco bell, secretly hoping somebody would give her food out of pity, but really just needing rest because it was a particularly hot LA summer, when the manager came outside.

He yelled at Susie, as if she couldn’t hear him from ten feet away, “Hey BUM! Get the hell away from my store, or I’m gonna call the police! You’re stinking up my restaurant!”

Appalled and offended she left, but was too tired to argue with the man, because first of all his Taco Bell was no “restaurant”. And secondly, the stink was not coming from her, she had just washed up in a Gelson’s bathroom. The stench was emanating from the garbage truck waiting at the stoplight. This was the first of many incidents, but she didn’t mind. She was on a mission, and she found contentment in thinking that he would never be so rude to anybody less fortunate than he.

——-

Brandon, or Bubba as his co-workers liked to call him, hated to be called Bubba. He felt it made him sound ignorant, country and slow. As if he belonged in some movie set in the rural south working in a field speaking incomplete sentences with a stereotypical southern drawl.

But if he was angry about it, he hid it well. His stone-faced expression rarely changed at work. His aura exuded charisma and level-headedness, his occasional chuckle would be the mainstream office chatter for that day’s lunch hour. “Everybody wonders how much fun you are after work. You should take me out and show me sometime” said one of his female counter-parts with a wink as she left. Brandon had made the mistake of inter-office relations before. He wasn’t going to do that again. Luckily the last secretary was fired, apparently Brandon wasn’t the only one she was with in the office.

But denying this secretary only added to his mysteriousness. Sometimes he would be sarcastic about his nickname. Brandon would say to his friends in the office, “You know, Bubba has two syllables just like Brandon. Your nickname is not anymore efficient than my real name.” This only added to the rising queries of why he was in the office in the first place.

“If only I hadn’t been shot trying to arrest that damn crack head, I would be out patrolling right now,” he would remind himself. He only remained sane during his tenure behind a desk because he knew that he could not be of any help to his partner, Jim, if he were hurt. So, Brandon waited. There were only two weeks of rehab left.

—–

The rehab clinic was something Susie never thought about. She though, “Why do that?” She knew she could get off the crack whenever she wanted. “I don’t need any stupid doctors or psychologists to hold my hand like some child and encourage me into sobriety,” she would say to worried friends. She was strong. Smart. Capable of doing anything she wanted to do. At least she convinced herself that was truth.

It had been ten years since she had that conversation with Jenny. And in those ten years, she lost everything. First, her son. Child protective services took him after the neighbors found Susie sprawled out in the lawn with drug paraphernalia lying just outside of her grasp. The loss of her only child put her over the edge.

It took only four months for both the car and house to be taken next. After that, she bounced from homeless shelter to homeless shelter without purpose or a career. Once her practice found that she was an addict they stripped her of her life long dream of being a defense attorney protecting at-risk youth throughout LA County. Eventually even the homeless shelters refused to deal with her addiction and rule breaking. All shelters had a strict zero tolerance guideline.

Eight years she had been running this route between Gelson’s, Ralph’s, Trader Joe’s and any other business with plenty of foot traffic in Sherman Oaks and Studio City. It was hard to save money between the addiction and food, but Susie was determined to make it to NY. That is where they took her baby boy Brandon to be with his no good father.

She pushed thoughts of hatred out of her mind, those thoughts led to memories of how it used to be, which led to being severely depressed and finally became another trip to her dealer. And those trips always ended with her waking up under a freeway overpass, unaware of how she got there, but happy she still had her cart. “Only a little longer, maybe only two weeks of gathering these beautiful bottles and turning them in for cash,” she said to her stash of money unearthed from the begrimed shopping cart full of others trash and Susie’s personal belongings.

—–

Brandon was happy to be back patrolling the streets of NY. What he was not happy with was the area. The higher-ups wanted him to “take it easy” for his first few weeks back, so they put him on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It had been two months since he got out of the office.

He was not supposed to be cross the threshold of El Barrio during his patrols, which was unofficially located at 96th street. “Motherfuckin bosses. Being up here is worse than working in that damn office. At least there I could flirt with the secretaries,” Brandon complained to his partner Jim. Jim responded,  “It’s your fault we’re here in the first place, dumbass. How the hell do you get shot by a damn bum?”

Jim didn’t even need to see Brandon to know the look he was giving. Jim could sense his friend’s shift in aura from mad at the situation, to thoughts of taking a cheap shot. This sixth sense took many years to acquire, but it was because of their forged brotherhood that they knew each other so well.

Jim and Brandon had developed a close friendship ever since Brandon was taken to NY to live with his father. They grew up together, though on different sides of the track. Jim came from an upper middle-class black neighborhood in Queens, while Brandon moved to Jamaica, Queens. They often helped each other get out of trouble, while also managing to get each other into some as well.

Brandon remembered all too well being stripped from his mother, he wanted to protect her and help her with her addiction. But that was difficult, he was only 15. He often wondered where she was, and what he would do if he ever saw her again. He often thought about looking for her, but didn’t know where to start. She could be anywhere. She could be nowhere. He pushed that thought out of his mind, he still loved his mom too much. His memories of her were fond, she never let her addiction get between them.

“Ok, Ok. Too early. Sorry, but we gotta make the best of it Bubba. If we make something of this placement, we’ll be right back where all the action is,” said Jim. “Ok Jimmy Cap,” that was the nickname Brandon gave Jim, which he also hated, “maybe you’re right. Find somewhere to park. I want to get a bagel from this Hot & Crusty.”

Jim pulled the car over and Brandon hopped out. Jim went around the block and eyeballed a sleeping homeless woman between the 86th street subway entrance to the 4,5,6 and a building as he pulled up to Brandon. “You know, these friggin’ bums are littering our streets. Damn Guilliani needs to do something about ‘em,” said Jim as Brandon piled back into the cruiser with a ham, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich on a raisin bagel and two coffees.

“What, no food for me?” asked Jim “No, when I visited your wife last night, she told me that you’re getting too fat,” said Brandon jokingly. “Awww, so you come back from the office a regular damn comedian now, huh?” said Jim sarcasticaly. “Your wife thinks I’m funny,” said Brandon. A short, playful, shoving match ensued at the next red light.

—–

Susie had been roaming the streets of Manhattan for a few months. She found that living in New York City was much easier than living in LA. All she had to do was get someone to swipe their monthly-unlimited metro pass as they exited the station and she could ride the subway all day or night.

During rush hours she would beg for spare change in either Times Square or Grand Central Stations. Though there were very talented subway performers, permitted by the city of New York to be in allotted spaces, strangers always seemed to give Susie money. She wasn’t sure why, maybe something about her aura and her purpose for being in the city subconsciously attracted them to her.

Susie was searching for her son. Yes, she was homeless, but she had been able to kick her habit. She knew that one of the benefits of moving to an entirely new city was the fact that she would not know where to go to score some dope. Though it may not have been hard in NY to find it, Susie found the will to keep from looking.

She had heard rumors that the Upper East Side of Manhattan was where the money was. She found herself there in the mornings, looking for handouts; and also at nights, to hopefully get some of the restaurants’ perishable food before they threw it out because it had not sold that day.

Her system was working well, except for the fact that she had been unsuccessful in finding her son. She worried that she would not recognize him, that he would not recognize her, that he moved, or that he was dead. She pushed those thoughts from her mind. She loved her soon too much and knew, from maternal instinct, that he was somewhere in NY. Somewhere close.

Susie was dreaming of a new life in NY, a life with her son, an apartment in Midtown and a new career while she caught some shut eye next to the 86th street entrance to the 4,5,6. The slow crescendo of foot traffic and chatter meant that the morning rush was coming. Just as Susie was dragging herself from the ground a police cruiser was pulling off. She thought to herself, “At least they didn’t bother me. That was a pleasant dream.”

—–

Brandon was getting restless patrolling the Upper East Side. He knew it was affecting his work. He was harassing youngsters commuting through the neighborhood after school. On one occasion he started yelling at a group of teenagers for j-walking across Lexington Ave. He started speed walking after them, until he realized, halfway across, that he wasn’t in a crosswalk himself. All he could say when he reached them was “Hey, be careful round here and stick to the crosswalks.”

Nobody thought anything of j-walking. That was part of NY culture. Get to where you need to go as quickly, and only as a secondary thought, as safely as possible. Usually that was through the crosswalk, but on Lexington that wasn’t always the case.

Then, there were those damn bums. He never thought twice about them before, unless they were being a nuisance. But it seemed like they were everywhere now. And he knew it shouldn’t bother him, but he was anxious to get some action.

Action came, but not in the form that he expected. “Ay Jim. Why has this homeless lady been staring at us through this window ever since we sat down,” asked Brandon. Jim and Brandon had taken their lunch break at a pizza parlor that provided hefty servings and cooked up a delicious tortellini chicken alfredo, Brandon’s favorite. “I dunno man, maybe she’s drugged out. She does have that blank look on her face,” responded Jim.

—–

There he was. She knew it because she heard the goofy looking man sitting with him say his name, “Brandon.” It was like music to her ears. She didn’t know why, but something about the name, his looks and the way he limped when he walked, just like his father, made it all click in her mind. She wanted to break out in tears, run across the street, hug him, kiss him, and tell him everything. Why she had been gone, where she had been and how much she missed him. She didn’t and she didn’t know why. One thing she did know, he didn’t know who she was.

He was very young when he was taken to NY. All of their photos were confiscated along with their storage shed and their home, so he would not have any photos of her. She had lost many pounds, been beaten down by the streets and knew she did not emanate the glow she had once had so many years ago.

Instead of going to him, she just stood there. Staring. She knew they had noticed her. He had noticed her. They looked at her and murmured something amongst themselves. She saw that they were getting ready to leave. Their food was finished and they were leaning back in their seats with that “I’m too full for my own good” look on their faces.

—–

Brandon and Jim knew that they should have saved some of that food for later, but it was too good. And they didn’t want to bring any extra out and feel bad for not giving it to the homeless lady who kept staring at him, probably wanting a hand out. They decided to ignore her, she wasn’t worth the paperwork if they arrested her. Yet, as soon as they started for their patrol car, she started to stumble towards them.

Susie didn’t know when she started walking, but when she finally realized what was happening, she was wobbling towards her son. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was weak with nervousness or because she hadn’t eaten anything all day, but she couldn’t walk a straight line and she felt weak. She started to speak while attempting to give him a smile that would crack her face, but she started coughing instead.

—–

It happened very quickly. First the woman started coughing, and then she was grasping for air while she collapsed on the sidewalk like a puppet whose master released the strings. She was just fifteen feet from the cruiser, so Brandon and Jim were there in an instant.

As Jim called for paramedics the woman was gasping and muttering half syllables from a weathered face and sun cracked lips. Brandon tried to get her to calm down, “Don’t try to speak lady. Just try to breathe.” But her breaths were getting smaller, and her crows-feet wrinkled lids were weighing heavily over her eyes.

—–

Susie only wanted to say, “I love you.” Whether or not he understood didn’t matter, she was having a heart attack and she didn’t feel as though she were really inside her body anymore. She felt nothing, she only longed to utter the words she had wanted to say to him since he was stripped from her as a child.

She managed to get all three syllables from her pursed lips and oxygen deprived lungs. “Did he understand,” Susie thought as her eyelids became too heavy to hold open and sweet warmth rushed over her.

—–

Brandon and Jim met the ambulance at the hospital. They had to write the report. Explain what had happened during the woman’s fatal heart attack. The paramedics found no identification on her, she had no phone and left no sign of who she was. Her bed stand simply read, “Jane Doe.”

Jim didn’t seemed affected by the death at all, and Brandon knew he shouldn’t either. But the woman had tried to whisper something to him as she was passing. A dying woman’s last wishes to an earth that had left her on the streets with no family and no help.

Brandon was unable to understand what she said, but something in her eyes told him that she had found something that had been missing for many years. He wasn’t sure what it was, but that look in her eyes spoke of contentment. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew she died happy there on the streets of NY with nobody, though not alone.

Brandon took one last look at the sheet covering “Jane Doe” before he left the room and went back to patrolling the streets of NY, and couldn’t help but wonder why he felt gravitated to this mysteriously happy homeless woman. Either way, “I have a job to do. At least she looked happy when she passed. God bless you Jane Doe,” thought Brandon as he crossed the threshold of the morgue’s door.

Who I Am

I do not struggle to balance who I am with society’s perception, because I fit no stereotype/

White people tell me to look at my reflection, and black people tell me I don’t act white

My natural response is that not a single one of them are right, because I’ve never ACTED a day in my life

And society has tried to make it clear

I have to be black to have soul/

White to achieve my goals/

And pigmented light to be successful in both/

While in reality I’ve been achieving all of those/

I refuse to accept the standards of old/

Maybe that’s why I stick out like letters on white paper typed in black bold

And I’m constantly inquired why I am different than other white men/

My response is that I’ve tried the “only whites bench”/

And was told I’m not enough like them/

Regardless of my white skin

Ostracized

And I hypothesize that most come to the conclusion, in their confusion/

That I am the confused one/

Believing my only option is to look at identities and choose one

But I understand that I am a product of my environment and I am not ignorant to my surroundings/

I can see the inequality all around me

But I am passed over with no connections because I am too tied to the streets/

I recognize my white privilege, but white privilege hardly recognizes me/

As I’m down on hands and knees beggin for jobs with my bachelor’s degree in this ass backwards economy

And realize that I not portray any facet of existence, other than myself/

And I do not represent a white population who tries to be something else

Because it takes no effort to be who I am

I bump hip hop, make love to R&B/

Grew up with hard rock, and bounce to an internal beat/

I’ve never had a white girlfriend for reasons I still can’t see

And I don’t discriminate, but maybe I emanate too much charisma from every orifice because…I’ve got swag

I am a conglomerate of qualities too eclectic for predetermined societal definitions/

A pallet of shades blurred for the promotion of colors that people choose to notice/

But I refuse to be dulled by ignorance, maybe that’s why my eyes change colors

And some people wonder why I have no response for the question that people ask about my preference/

But this once, no hesitation with no mask I’ll put in one sentence

I think black women are beautiful

But don’t misunderstand my opinionated view/

For some reason, white girls, it’s just harder for me to like you/

But I don’t see why I have to/

I never bought into stereotypical beauty, and I don’t feel as if I have to educate you on my biased view

So walk one day in my past and question my attitude/

Disagree, I wouldn’t be mad at you/

But probably will laugh at you as you inadvertently follow in my shoes

And it’s hard to understand why peers put me up on a trial without jury/

But it’s easy for me to not worry/

Because my frame has become so sturdy in the face of bias

I’ve dated women who left me because of my whiteness/

Had friends desert all forms of kindness/

Been beaten down and felt lifeless/

But despite this

I do not waiver in who I am, in fact/

There is no question in my mind, and I find more and more people have a problem with that

But I remain the person I have always been/

I am unable to change, accept it or not but I who I am will never fit in