Yesterday's Tomorrow

There is what we lived and there is what we lived for.

I remember the day I finally felt alive. I was standing in the Women’s Library on the south side of London. I was wearing a blue shirt that said, “Would You Like to Smurf Around.”

The irony is Smurf is what my family calls me. That name always reminds me of my youth.

I had on running shoes, maybe I was prepping for a journey; maybe I was ending one. We walked through the library, I ran my hands across the aged books feeling bumps of different magnitudes along the way.

Then Lizzy gave out the kinds of scream you have when you have an epiphany. We all ran over to see what she had discovered.

In a glass case, that shielded the world from tainting what was my moment, there was a hand written magazine. Every oooed and aaahed. I was too far behind them to see what they were looking at and one second from the moment I’d feel like me.

Looking through the glass I read, I know it is nothing, but it is my nothing. It was hand written on a paper magazine.

It carried the feeling of a personal love not transcribed by some machine, but by my own penmanship that belongs to me and my nothing.

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped. My mind flashed back to papers I’d written in college that came back with failing grades and comments telling me I didn’t know what I was talking about, my writing skills lacked polish and my words meant nothing.

I made a vow to myself to never stifle what I had to say because someone didn’t agree. I left feeling rejuvenated, calm, free…me.

When I ended my summer in London, I went to work at a magazine and lived with my grandmother. When I came in the house my Grandmother came out, “Smurfet is that you?” “No, it’s Shirley,” I responded.

I have yet to write my own magazine, book or have my words heralded as legendary. But that’s what I’m living for.

Always and Forever

When most utter for richer or poorer the hope is that they never have to experience it. Imagine feeling the sting of infidelity, unemployment, autistic children, locked up boys who fell short of expectations and hearing, I want a divorce, there in your white dress.

At the altar you’re flying with the clouds, 10 years into the marriage, the world has crashed down on you. But those words are replayed back to you…for better or for worse.

I have seen true love.

When drug addictions, extreme poverty, homelessness, and 9 kids, my parents lost came along, no one packed their bags, they remembered a vow they never made—to have and to hold forever.

My parents never got married, but they stayed true to each other. Three days old, my father who lived in the neighborhood, looked in her crib and said my mother was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen and that he’d marry her one day.

My Granddad tried to chase him away and he’s spent the last 36 years they’ve been together still trying. But their love is unbreakable. If you ask my mother to sing you a song, in her strong alto voice, the only song that comes from her heart, she’ll sing, “inseparable…yes baby…that’s what we are.”

When my mother turned 18 my father bought her a red corvette. They had it all. They had 4 houses, all the cars you could imagine and took trips all around the country. Money was not an object. When they battled a drug addiction, the money was gone, but love still persist.

I asked my parents why they never got married and my father said, “Because it would hurt me too much if my wife ever left me.” My mother started laughing like I’d never heard her laugh.

“One time I told your Dad that I was leaving and he looked at me and said, where we going. I knew that day I was stuck with him for life.”

This conversation we had on the porch of an abandoned house they were squatting. They have taught me everything I needed to know about love, life and loyalty. So while my parents did not raise me and have made some decisions that have negatively impacted me I am eternally grateful for the lesson their love taught me.

We ride together, we love together. I'm your's for life.

Bros Before Woes

My brother became a super hero this week.

As he eloquently stated at the end of his message, a little boy made it from Woodrow Wilson and Elmhurst to the pulpit at Triumph Church.

Rewind 15 years and you’ll see that same boy shuffling his feet like James Brown singing “I Have a Testimony.” He did more than sing the solo, he prophesied into his life. Yet to reach puberty, in a high pitch he sang, “I have a testimony, God made me whole…” The choir agreed in harmony.

He preached his first message as an associate minister at a 12,000 member church on its South campus about using what you already have to get where you need to go.

Real super heroes are the ordinary people who grow up in ghettos and soar above expectations. Capes are dingy sheets wrapped around 9-year-old neck that one day could be his rap sheet or his reminder that the things behind you propel you into tomorrow.

Walking down Hubbell from the park we used to race to on the way to school chatting he reminded me that it was his desire to pastor a church one day.

Watching him in the pulpit I say him prepping to one day fly.


I‘ve always believed that when you feed your passion you will never be hungry. He inspired me to go back to the project I started a about a year ago, daily writing, until I write my first book.


I have always competed with my brother, because I’ve always been more athletic, good looking, (He is shaking his head and disagreeing right now), and intelligent.

But today, I am more proud.

I'd Rather Be a ToysRUs kid...

I’m afraid that one day I won’t be who I am today. I get the privilege of talking with a lot of older people and hear them talk about how they had an elaborate plan when they were my age. And then they say the very thing I’m afraid of.

Life happened.

I know all too well how life can change your life. So ideally, I’d hope to plan for what life brings. But like the day when the principal called me into the office and I was shoved from foster home to foster home, life doesn’t knock, it already has a key.

Still, I’ll tell myself that I won’t make the mistakes of my mother. You would think her story is ideal. She had one love, my father. She’s been with him her whole life. All she has to show is 9 beautiful children, she didn’t raise and a life-long relationship of ups and downs that will probably end down.

Or your mistake, loving a man who makes you look happy on the surface but inside you’ve been so busy supporting him that he never really supported you. My condolences, I watched you dying to please him.

What girl doesn’t want a fairy tale life? But how many of us deserve it or could really handle it. I’ll say, I can, but I’m afraid that means that I actually can’t.

So today I’ll judge an older woman and say that she lost herself trying to find a man to love her while clutching my ID to my heart, hoping to never lose it.

But how do we know that we won't be one of those men or women who loses themselves in life. I could say, I'd never do that to my children, I'd never gain that much weight, I'm not like them...

they weren't always them.

Life is a journey, that I'm afraid of.But I guess if I get off track, how hard can it be to be me again.

For The Love Of Detroit

If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

No, seriously, if you can make it in Detroit, a city that is painted as, well you’ve seen the picture, you’re Super Duper Man and Woman.

Does that make our success stories belong in comic books, with action heroes and sheroes because they made it in his bleak town, escaping the grip of Mr. Poverty, Queen Welfare and Maximus Minimumus Educational Value Kid?

No. It makes us Detroiters.

Detroit is the birthplace of pioneering. Motown changed the music industry and while Atlanta is a mecca for today’s musical talent, Jermaine Dupri had to call them the new Motown.

Henry Ford envisioned more than the car, he redefined the mass production process. And if you try and convince me that there is anything better than a Faygo Red Pop I will push you off our scenic international border.

Chrysler painted a well-rounded picture of the feelings that resonant with Detroiters.

We love our city and we’re not pretending we don’t have problems. We are learning to bench press our issues so they make us stronger.

It’s time out for, “someone who has never even been here,” as the Michigan man’s voice stated over Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” baseline, telling people about our story.

We get so strong-willed about our city we argue and nearly sever relationships over a Chrysler 200 commercial disputing its impact on the economics of our city. (I’ve seen the Facebook arguments.)

We are the big brother city. As cute and cuddly as New York, Chicago, Dallas and Atlanta are, they walk in our footsteps, trying to be like their big brother.
Big brothers and sisters know when to let the younger have its shine as we prep for our comeback.

While our population dwindles, the few who remain have been learning lessons to duck and dodge adversity from every aspect of city government.

Throw your punch education, kick us in the side police corruption, trip us dirty politicians, but when you get done you had better duck, because we’re coming back…pow, right in the kisser.

Size 6 Please

I searched my pockets for the $55 dollars I knew was there. I broke out in a nervous sweat and gave a half smile to the cashier waiting for me to hand him the money for the biggest purchase of my 13 year old life, a pair of white K-Swiss.

This was a big deal. I was going to have a pair of name brand shoes and I was buying it with the extra money I earned from relinquishing my innocence to take care of my sister. Still searching, I had turned my pockets inside out. There was nothing there besides the residue of the tears that wouldn't flow from my eyes but seeped through my epidermis.

I was embarassed, confused, ashamed, and quite frankly, disppointed. How could I lose my $55. I purposely caught the bus to Northland instead of walking so I could keep a look at my monies folded into a symetrical bond. Lincoln held Hamilton as if they were brothers embracing after years separation.

Walking up to my yellow house I reached in my pocket again; the money was there all along. Somehow I just didn't feel it. Dashing back to Northland and with the change I was short I purchased my shoes and I rocked my size 6 K-Swiss.

In commeration of my first pair of shoes I taped $55 to a piece of paper. I kept the box, wrote precious memories on the outside, and I still have the box today. Inside that K-Swiss box are things I hope to never forget: an obituary from my brother's funeral, a copy of my orignal birth certificate, the first poem I wrote and a lot of other things that seem meaningless.

Last week I was cleaning my room and feeling the frustrations of not having the monies to apply for all the grad schools I so desperately needed to. I stumbled across my precious memories box. There, is an oddly folded piece of paper was $55, the exact amount of the application fee for Clark Atlanta University.

Sometimes your destiny starts to pave streets for you before you even learn to drive.

Small steps

I stared into the lifeless knobs on the cupboard in my Grandmother’s living room. I knew it was bigger, tougher and stronger than me. But I was young; I was 12, and it had been mocking me ever since I was eight years old. I was anticipating the day when everyone else would be gone and I would be able to climb atop the cupboard and retrieve my pride.

Years ago, as some type of punishment, I lost something. I never knew where it was and didn’t even understand I lost it. But one day I looked at the cupboard in an awkward stare off, that I was of course losing, and I noticed something of mine it had. I was too weak, frail and small to get what was rightfully mine off its weathered chestnut finishing plate on the top. So for years I walked past the cupboard pretending I didn’t see my stuff atop it’s head but always plotting on the day I’d get back what was mine.

Moving day came.

Everything was gone, moved out of the house, except for the cupboard and me. I could hear those knobs turning,its screech across the floor as its golden knobs scraped the hard wood floors I had just mopped. Without introduction, I let loose on the cupboard. “You took something of mine, and I want it back,” I said. Opening its top door, made of glass, I could see right through him. It gave an expression that I interpreted as a lure. “If you ever want it, you will have to take it back,” it personified.

I did.

I crushed it and regained my innocence.

Beautiful Girl

Sometimes I write poems. When you find your muse in life it makes writing much easier. So, here is something my muse inspired.


I told her she was beautiful
she believed me
hiked up her D's into doubles
added strut to her walk
made haste to the corner
She told me I was beautiful.
He asked her the price
she responded...
misery
strife
Sold her self cheap
Like buying Tiffany's from Tiffani with an "I"
Like buying the matrix from simply looking to the sky
See sometimes we buy things that are free
She thought buying stilettos meant buying confidence
She forgot I told her she was beautiful.
She will be beautiful
She strutted that sh**
don't let the money make you
not red bottoms but pink
because it is the foundation of her feet
Like Santa Claus is the color of believing,
sunsets are the color of deceiving.
So she kept strutting to a room
reached her yellow hand to the gold door knob
turned
no admittance
upset and blue
Let me in,remember I know you.
I gave you green
poured into your pocket's soul
Remember we sat by coral reefs
Fusioned furious imaginations of your long gone but not lost brother
We painted the town together
No, she replied
I left you,
lost you,
on purpose.
See you forgot what you looked like
Thought beauty was in your innocence
But it was only a part of the way that was paved by reconciling the past
Merging your dreams with your panics and screams
Saying you were beautiful was meant for your future not today
Come back when you're all grown up and beautiful
Like you were yesterday

Procrastination

We don’t stumble over mountains; we stumble, trip and fall over small pebbles. But an aggregation of small pebbles soon will become a mountain.

That’s the truth. I am stumbling over a mountain.

I have been greatly vexed by small pebbles that I will only name for the sake of getting past the first step to recovery, denial.

Pebble number one—Type One Procrastination, which goes by the surname Easily Distracted.

Being easily distracted is a very common disorder and usually develops in adolescence. Most individuals will not understand the seriousness of type one procrastination until they have sat and watched Spongebob Squarepants for 6 hours, trying to figure out who Sandy Cheeks’ voice comes from, knowing they have a science project due at 8 am the next day.

Pebble number two—Type Two Procrastination, which goes by the surname I Wait Until The Last Minute To Do Everything.

Last Minute syndrome is a more serious phase. You have to consider the individual already has experienced Type One Procrastination. So even in the last minute they are still distracted by something as minute as the blinking colon on the lcd clock, sitting on the left side of the desk in their room.

Pebble Number Three—Procrastination, Pebble Number 6,998,421.4—procrastination.

If you don’t understand yet, I have an issue with procrastination.

But I have a dream, that one day, my pen and paper, my finger and keyboard, my body and soul will break down the barriers of procrastination. My children will be able to play on the monkey bars the day before their science project is due. From the first page, to the twenty fifth page of my research paper, their will be no procrastination. I will become a 4.0 student. Oh wait, this is my last year of school.

I wrote that just before my last semester of college, guess what, I got my 4.0’s my last two semesters.

Journey to Brixton

I never knew the Atlantic Ocean was so small.

Brixton neatly places Africa and the Caribbean together in one city and finally there is a town big enough for two sheriffs. As an African American travelling to London for a summer I went looking for English culture instead I found an arena of Blackness I didn’t know exist.

England is known as the fashion capital of the world, a place for high tea and of course the queen. But all the travel guides I viewed before my study abroad in London forgot to tell me about Brixton.

Before I could even use my broken British accent I practiced by listening to Idris Elba they already knew I was an American girl. Still, they didn’t turn me away; they welcomed me into their city and showed me London from their eyes.

In Brixton you can buy jerk chicken on one corner and black soap on the other. You can dance to reggae and rap to djembe beats until the British cops roll in, and then you realize Brixton is a lot like Harlem.

For Blacks, Brixton is a cultural epicenter that embodies our music: jazz, rap, reggae, gospel and hip hop. But for British cops it’s known as the most crime ridden part of England. Well, forget what the cops say, Brixton is amazing.

Brixton was just what I needed to complete my English journey.

In West London I got dapper with the British women. I dressed in a much higher fashion than I ever knew I was capable of. I mixed pallets of gray, green and navy with salmon and crème. But in Brixton I got to kick it with the people who like to listen to classic James Brown records and can make a mean cornbread.

Our style of dress was the absolute norm. The brother with the long dreads, Yankee fitted cap, and sandals, that’s right sandals, was more than fresh, it was symbolic.

The street markets are so overwhelming with products that only we know how to use it makes you want to spend every pound in your pocket.

Brixton made me feel like a worldwide bond of blackness between the Africans, Caribbeans and African Americans had just been made it could never be broken. We were all simply black, enjoying the rich culture that connected us all.

When all of our attention was drawn away by Obama’s picture on a young boy’s shirt, crafted from rhinestones, there was no doubt that our hearts were on a simultaneous beat. They explained to me that they couldn’t vote for him but they had cast a vote of respect from their hearts.

Now, we were open to each other, free to speak about anything we wanted.
In an Afro-Caribbean restaurant, eating what was similar to soul food, just with a whole lot more soul, men and women shared opened their hearts to me.

They shared their stories about how they journeyed as families to England and have found new opportunities and community. They spoke of their love for the Black leaders we have in America and what divided Africans and Caribbeans for years and what eventually brought them together, respect.

I made a promise to a charming woman named Carol that I would do my best to tell the world what a magnificent place Brixton is.
Brixton is more than amazing.

It’s one of the treasures of the worldwide Black community. It taught me to appreciate Blackness in every way it comes. Whether it’s tapered, dread-locked, braided, permed or in a fro, Black is internationally beautiful.

Black fatherhood

A few weeks ago I realized how serious my passion for Black families is.

A woman came into my job, with her son, and I could tell they had come to meet up with his father. I counted how many times the young boy's mother told him his father probably wouldn't show up.

He probably won't come.

Your Daddy is no good.

Your Daddy is always saying he's gonna do something but he won't.

You had better hope you don't turn our like your Daddy.

I wrote them down on a napkin, while those words penetrated his mind. How many negative things can you tell a young boy about his father before it begins to affect him.

How many times do your hear fathers credit their love for wanting to be a father stemming from their absent father. Although I don't see this as a problem, it frustrates me because how many men will be good fathers because it's their reasonable service to their children.

I believe she was explaining to her son how to be a bad father at that moment. She made it okay. She was influencing what her grandchildren would experience without even recognizing it.

She never said anything to her son about how she met his father or even acknowledged the fact that she actually loved that man enough to lay down with him.

My frustration with her meant nothing to her son, unless I said something.

I did. I told her everything I felt.

She yelled at me. She got snappy.

But if any word that I said to her, it was worth every word she said to me.