I turned twenty last August. How did I get through my teenage years sane? Through God�s grace�and channeling all of my frustrations and expectations into poetry. All of these selections were written when I was between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. They offer some insight into what it was like growing up in inner-city Detroit during the nineties.
They also tell the story of how I grew from an uncertain girl to a woman whose confidence is in the only wise God our Savior.
Ninth grade. Fourteen. Leaving my sheltered K-8 magnet school, I was forced into a whole new world. Renaissance High School. The DOT. New people. New responsibilities. New challenges.
And then one day that fall, during a boring geometry class, I turned to a blank sheet of paper in my notebook. And began to write my first poem, "Absence of Light".
My life would never be the same again.
Fourteen
right now
it seems
that the future
holds
crystal-studded
dreams
shrouded in a
hazy mist
of mystery
destiny
that is
pliable
like clay
hope
sweet
as a
newborn child
fourteen
thinks
that it is old
and very
very
VERY
wise
and learned
in the ways
of the
world
a mocking
will-o'-the-wisp
that will
either
humor
the little
aspirations
of
fourteen
or throw them up
in fourteen's
face
fourteen
optimistically
does
not
look
to sixteen
eighteen
twenty-one
or
forty
as new eras
of responsibility
but as
potentiality� (EET, 1991-1992)
Absence of Light
What happens when a child reaches out
And no one touches his hand?
Then he must draw himself up
By his bootstraps -- if he can.
But with unshod and naked feet
How can this child be prepared to meet
The standards which society, icily grim
Has set, neglecting, disdaining him?
Many a sad situation has occurred
When basic compassionate care is deferred. (EET, 1991)
Crushed
Loving from a distance...
I liken it
To pressed flowers
Fading
Between the leaves
Of an old
Book.
Flat --
Because it is suppressed,
Sad --
Because it is unfulfilled. (EET, 1992)
What Are You Looking At?
For David J.
I am a black child.
A girl, to be exact.
And I am wondering why
You are staring at me like that.
Oh yes, I can talk properly
Probably much better than you.
What? You don't believe your ears?
Or it that you don't want to?
You are right, I come from that city.
Are you surprised that I'm not dead yet?
Of course, I am not dumb! Really!
You are the rudest person I've ever met.
You should say what's on your mind.
Will I kill you? Certainly not!
But with your attitude, where I come from,
You would have already been shot.
Why am I leaving? To get away!
Away from your ignorance and spite.
You seriously need a lesson in manners
Because staring isn't very polite. (E.T., 1992)
Observing From A Window...
I feel the tension here
Much hotter that the sultry spring night.
A car's backfire breaks instantaneous silence --
Or was it a bullet? Screams pierce the air
The sound of ultimate despair
Is one of the saddest and most frightening
In the world. A man, walking down the street
Calls out to Hope, who has wantonly welcomed
Then abandoned him --
Like a mother to her child,
Like a man to his lover,
An old tale simply retold here.
My neighbor
Walks out into her garden and begins to sing.
Her voice comforts
And reassures
And reminds us why we are here.
"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."
The screeching female calms down and steals
To a tattered window curtain to find
The source of still waters.
"Twas grace that taught my heart to fear..."
The shooter and motorist linger near
Leaning out of their way to heed
A truer Word, a nobler deed.
"Through many dangers, toils and snares..."
The hollering man simply stops and stares
And remembers a girl, her lips, her tears
Waiting for him to return home for seven long years.
"When we've been there ten thousand years,
Bright, shining as the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we first begun."
The motorist sputters his way across the potholes
The shooter retreats into the shadows
And into a waiting car in the alley
The man heads for the bus stop -- he's finally going home.
The screamer turns on her television, as does my neighbor,
Now back inside to catch the last few moments of Arsenio.
I merely release the slit in my blinds
And, chewing my pen, begin to write. (EET, 1992)
Suddenly, I was fifteen. Tenth grade. This was a pretty difficult year. My dreams of being a doctor were shattered when I learned during a summer research program that I was NOT a science person. I fell in "love" for the first time that summer. I also broke a friend�s heart. I received my first "D" on a report card. I went to our Homecoming dance for the first time. I had my first job.
I also filled up a 100-page notebook (minus the sheets I ripped out!) with my first efforts at a book. It was a romance novel. Six months later I laughed until I cried and threw it out. On the other hand, my mother found a folder of my poetry and took it to my English teacher during parent conferences. He started encouraging me to enter poetry and essay contests. I was furious at first, but then� I won.
I was becoming a writer.
Fifteen
Am I forever doomed to fill a bottomless cup?
Will I never reach full understanding?
Why is this thirst of mine so insatiable?
Why is my curiosity so demanding?
Am I always going to have the longing in my heart?
Is there nothing I can do to satisfy it?
Can I one day fill this aching void inside?
Or, will I spend my days empty, trying to deny it?
At fifteen I only pray and dream,
Trembling on the threshold of a new me.
I feel the envy behind and the pity ahead
As I prepare to laugh a little more heartily,
Hurt a little more deeply,
Write poetry a little more thoughtfully.
Eating of the pungent fruits,
The poignant fruits,
The bittersweet, sweet-and-sour, yet insipid fruits
Of young womanhood,
I am ready. (EET, 1992-1993)
MANDELA!!!
MANDELA!!!
(forceful and strong
fighting for his people's rights
all his life long)
MANDELA!!!
(fighting the fair-skinned wall of tyranny
but soon the dark ones of his nation
shall be free)
MANDELA!!!
(all the world's people hail
nelson rolihlahla mandela, proud xhosa
liberated from the jail)
MANDELA!!!
(what an inspiration to us all
mr. mandela we support you)
AMANDLA!!! (E.T., 1993)
From Alpha To Omega: Race Relations
Apathy almost as sickening as hate
Bigotry which this system did create
Color bias used as an excuse
Discrimination to the point of subtle abuse
Equality denied because of race
Fear felt when seeing a strong black face
God in whom we supposedly trust
Heinous crimes acquitted, made just
Ignorance taught to people since youth
Justice blindly denying the truth
Knowledge from a partial education
Lies used for intimidation
Malcolm and Martin, martyred for the cause
Neglected children being crushed in poverty's jaws
Oppression stopping the change from boy to man
Perpetual burning of crosses by the Klan
Questions left unasked and hanging in the air
Restrictions that are a burden too heavy to bear
Stereotypes leading to foolish situations
Tyranny becoming the creed of an entire nation
Underclass citizens refused their unalienable right
Voices sounding the battlecries before the fight
Wrath of the masses demanding to be free
Xenophobia of citizens from one's own country
Yearning still to be a true American
Zionward looking for that Promised Land. (EET, 1993)
I wasn�t your typical sixteen year old. When my paternal grandmother died a month before my birthday, I decided to write a novel before my eighteenth birthday. Bits and pieces of a storyline started to form in my head, but nothing definite. And then, on the long ride home from St. Louis, I heard a boy around my age say, "I ain�t scared of nothing." That began what would turn into the book, Count It All Joy, and its continuation, The Greatest of These.
And no, I wasn�t off in a closet somewhere writing all the time. During my junior year I was involved in a Japanese immersion program, the environmental club, and Renaissance Afrikan Perspective (RAP). With the help of some good friends, I founded a non-profit community organization for children as well.
But once in a while I still had time to write a poem� and dream.
Sweet Sixteen
There is nothing
More satisfying
Than lying on my grandmother's garden patio
On a chaise lounge
Or the French iron lace rocker
Or even the redwood bench
On a late June afternoon.
My blackberry braids are free and floating in the hot wind
The top three buttons on my creamy white sleeveless blouse
are open,
Brown sugary thighs are encased in blue denim shorts,
My long chocolate legs left bared to the sultry air,
My toes curling inside canvas oxfords with content,
As my spidery fingers hold the last of a cookies and cream
Ice cream cone to my lips, I devour it,
Licking my lips and shooing a bee away from my face.
I reach for a bowl of fruit.
Although I loathe melons of all kinds,
I am in love with
Any citrus goodies, strawberries, cherries...
Mmm, those peeled grapes are especially good
Frozen a little... the sweetness trickles down my throat!
And last but not least, there is a peach.
I have a weakness for peaches and plums.
Finished with my snack, I drink cool clear Michigan water
Straight from the tap... then hold the empty cup on my lap.
I watch the cotton candy clouds in the sky
Float gently by
And wonder if anyone
Will ever
Could ever
Appreciate
My sweetness and innocence as much as I do. (EET, 1993-1994)
Parisian Park
(for Maya Angelou, Rita Dove, and Nikki Giovanni)
To paint a verse... just pierce your heart!
And let all the emotions flow through
Onto your palette.
The spite
The pain
The ecstasy
The grief
The rage
The love
And more love! (What would we do without love?)
Use a brush of objectivity, and stroke
Feelings on your canvas.
(One warning: Most passers-by will gape at all of the blood.)
Only a few can see the vivid rainbow.
It is a shame so many are colorblind. (EET, 1994)
Where I'm Coming From (and, Where I Ain't)
Ain't no lil' black princess
Ain't no gyrl in da hood
Ain't no chile of no buppie
Ain't no gangsta up to no good
Ain't black as coal, neither
Ain't no way I can pass for white
Ain't got no boody to speak of
Ain't scairt to walk my block at night
Ain't no street smart homie
Ain't never had no gun in my face
Ain't no nubian queen
Ain't tryin to be no credit to my race
Ain't gone have no baby for years
Ain't never been all that happy
Ain't always got somebody talkin� to me
Ain't denyin' my hair is nappy
Ain't stayed in no project
Ain't seen no loved one get shot
Ain't never been to no Catholic school
Ain't about to smoke no pot
Ain't got the fellas all on my jock
Ain't blew-out lookin', neither
Ain't plannin' on running away from my people
Ain't intendin' to catch no jungle fever
Ain't lyin bout' lovin collards and yams
Ain't gone be nobody's b----
Ain't shamed to get A's and B's at school
Ain't never made no decent pitch
Ain't got no beautiful singin' voice
Ain't thinkin' bout tryin' to rap
Ain't no Emmy-winnin' actress
Ain't never really danced good� ballet or tap
Ain't no militant preachin' revolution
Ain't got no single mother
Ain't from da Caribbean or Africa
Ain't dissin no black brother
Ain't really askin' all dat much of life
Ain't got no real bad attitude
Ain't thinkin' I'm better than nobody else
Ain't never been no prude
Of all the things I ain't,
The things I is are Few:
I'm a Sister: Young, Black and Gifted
Writin' and Prayin'
Cryin' and Sighin'
(I hope) For the benefit of all... y'all. (EET, 1994)
Sassy Seventeen. The `94-`95 school year was a very good one for me. The Children�s Cultural Connection, Inc. was a full-fledged, independent non-profit� and I was the executive director. Because my parents could not afford to send me to college, I�d kept my grades up and became a National Achievement Scholar. When my mother read the letter that said FAMU would give me a full ride presidential scholarship, she cried.
It was also a year of upheaval for my family. Daddy was going through some trying times on his job. Mama got seriously ill and had to go in for surgery the weekend before Christmas. During my junior year, my long-absent birth father appeared out of the clear blue sky.
I finished Count It All Joy during the winter of my senior year. My best friend and sister hated it. A lot of other people loved it. Because I didn�t understand very much about selling a manuscript and had no clue about agents, I put it aside and began to write The Greatest of These.
It was truly a season of blessing.
Seventeen
The thing
That most amuses me
At seventeen and a half
Is that I have managed to get this far along
In life
And ignore Love. Now this is no easy task,
Considering that the little imp is sitting on my shoulder
From the rising of the sun until I close my eyes at night.
"Ebony," he'll say on a bright summer morning, "get up,
Call Ron... you know, that guy you met at the party
Yesterday. He was nice-acting, nice-looking,
Had a nice car, talked the talk and walked the walk."
I yawn, blasting him with morning breath, and reply,
"He was too nice, too rude, too skinny, too fat,
His game was played, his conversation too flat.
I admit, last night I had a lot of fun
But, Love, Ronald is not the one."
My fourteen year old sister is not amused.
She thinks
That a girl seven months shy of her eighteenth birthday
Has no right
To curl up with a Blockbuster rental and carrot sticks
On a Saturday night.
Things will be different for her, she swears, looking at me
With contempt mingled with admiration.
I wish her all the success and all the men and all the luck
(No, luck's a lady) in the world. As for me,
I'll keep being too wise
Too elusive
Too apprehensive
Too practical for Love
Until he figures out the game I'm playing with him,
Summons my own modern-day black knight
To tap me on the shoulder
And pierce my heart. (EET, 1994-1995)
Through that old Georgia forest sounds an echO
�and happier times.
Everybody loves going to the church picniCTwo Reeds
Youth gasps for breath, and his girl-lover can only soB
She ignores the pungent stench of the infernO
The heavenward stare of the man remains: peaceful, serenE.
Especially when the cooks are Sisters Hattie and MabeL
We eat our fill of yams, hamhocksandcollards and okrA
Cornbread, potato salad, chitlins, peach cobbleR
While the womenfolks pack up the leftover spaghettI
The little younguns play tag, trying not to be outruN
The older ones flirt, tease, gossip, kiss and jokE
The menfolks toss horseshoes and talk long past the sunseT. (EET, 1995)
My Favorite Dream
When a black man falls in love,
The course of the world is altered for him.
He who defined under the pyramids
The meaning of manhood, which was later stolen
And denied him, for the first time
Knows that he is strong.
He notices that there are stars in the sky
Flowers intertwined in the grass
And that some of Luther and Lionel's croonings
Are in the key of D-flat.
All that he is forced to believe and obey
Tells him that he is incapable of feeling this way.
For he is an animal, an inhuman brute, they say.
Did Mike Tyson love? Did Marion Barry? Did O.J.?
Do beasts of burden and the wild have souls, anyway?
A million days, a million nights, a woman for each
They blended into one woman, a hopeless ideal
That he never thought would come to be.
But then... he met me.
When a black woman falls in love,
The course of her life is forever changed.
She, violet of the Nile, unabashedly royal in purple,
For the first time since she has emerged into the sunlight,
Knows that she is beautiful.
She sees the stars in her eyes
Plucks flowers to twine through her dark hair
And hears the croonings of Luther and Lionel
Through the lips of a flesh-and-blood man.
All that she has been taught, led to believe
Says that she, Jezebel, mammy, could never achieve
The completion of a woman. They told her that the need,
The desire would disappear with time. She should relieve
Her longing heart with white women's feminism and God.
A million tears, a million fears, a dream for each
That she never thought would come true.
But then... I met you.
If a black woman and a black man weren't meant for love,
If they were meant to strive and hate and fight,
Then why are some of the most meaningful secrets of love
Whispered
In the star lit
Rose perfumed
Luther and Lionel narrated
Black
Still of the night? (EET, 1995)
Eighteen. Freshman year at FAMU. No long comment for this one; I�m still in the "collegiate" epoch of my life and really can�t look at it objectively. Suffice it to say that I went through a lot. From the peak I was on in 1995, I hit rock bottom. I was in the valley of the shadow of death�
�but there was a lily in that valley. I found Him to be bright as the morning star.
Amen.
Eighteen
When the night is over
And you are born into the light of day
There are time when you miss
The dawn-kissed mist
That brightened dreams of yesterday.
But you realize that night is gone
And now it's time to move on
Sometimes the old grows alongside the new,
Sometimes it... just fades away.
I've seen the gardens of my grandmother's youth
And there, although at first it seemed odd
My baby-woman mind, yearning, searching for the truth
For the first time in my life beheld the glory of God.
I looked for a Lion and instead saw a Lamb
Blood cleansing my soul, loving me just as I am.
I am no longer anxious; no longer afraid
Even though the world underneath its slick front is
slipping away.
And I say to the Lord: "I've got to tell them! But what
should I do?
How can I show them the truth when they didn't listen to
You?"
Then He turned my eyes away from the world and told me,
"My child, remember what first brought you into My light?
Lay down those selfish ambitions. Teach my children. And
write."
So I loudly proclaim that there is a King of Kings!
When He comes back in glory, He'll tell us everything!
That's basically all I learned as a woman of eighteen...
If the Lord says the same, I'll see what next year brings. (EET, 1995-1996)
