Lana (cont'd)

This man in my life never tells me he misses me. He dismisses my beauty and ceaselessly shows me he does not respect me. My heart is taken advantage of and minced into pieces by this man… this man that I love. He takes pride in wittily demeaning my person. Unfailingly he lets me know I’m nonexistent, yet I somehow continue to care. The moment I start to feel like something, he pleasantly reminds me that, to him, I’m similar to nothing. I question myself day in and day out, as to when I allowed yet another version of my voluntarily absent father into my heart. It’d make more sense for me to run from any feelings resembling the residual “daddy done left me” feelings. You’d think I would know better. I should’ve known better. I’m now stuck loving a man who can’t recognize my worth.

This hurts.

© CafeUzuri

Taye

Abashedly, I stood before him, my nude form exposed all too figuratively and quite literally. Here I stood feeling as large as a whale and his eyes pierced into my flesh as though awestruck by something beyond beautiful- something magnificent. Eight months ago he never looked at me with eyes like this. My reflection seemed average in his eyes. And today that look has garnered me perfect. I feel proud to be this... This magnificence.

The irony of it all is that it has come a little too late.

Lana

The bass in my father's voice verberates throughout the walls of my mind. His anger took on new facades each time: from a slow haunting anger, as if mobilized by a demon to levels of rage brought on by his sporadic delirium tremens. I remember one night in particular that the two of them had come home from a night of dancing.

With eyes shaded in anger he spewed, "whore!"
My mother retorted, "Jonathan, let's not start this shit tonight"
"I start whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want... Whore."
"What did I do now? I just want to go to bed."
"I saw the way that woman was looking at you tonight."
"Wh-what woman?", my mother responded in genuine bewilderment.
"Bitch, don't play dumb. That woman was looking at you. And you liked it. You liked it didn't you? Didn't you?! Answer me when I talk to you", he bellowed.

At this point my mother had taken off the red, suede stilettos she had been wearing. They haphazardly lay strewn on the floor, not knowing the weapon they would soon become. My father stumbled over to her and in one simultaneous swoop; he grabbed the hair of my mother’s head and the right shoe, rigidly holding its heel to her neck. As she grappled with him, he swiftly controlled the movements of her body via the clenched grasp he had on her hair. She fought, but it was futile. She cried out in pain and attempted to cower from the shear pain from an item she regarded as her favorite. The heel of her shoe was now pressed at her left temple.

My father spit on her in disgust. "I could tear your pretty little face up. You thought these shoes could only make you look good, huh. I'll show you how bad these shoes can really make you look."

My father took the heel of her shoe and attacked my mother's ribcage as if he were responding to her as a result of defense. My mother cried out, as her blood melded with the crimson shoe my father continued to pummel her with. I stood there shaking, yet frozen in stance. I understood my father most in that moment. I've never told anyone, because I know I'm supposed to relate to my mother. I understood that he loved her. I understood she was weak. I understood that he didn't want to lose her. I understood that my father was drunk and my mother stood for it. I understood that she dressed too sexy for a woman who had a husband.

I understood my father.

© CafeUzuri

Elise

There are days which I rise solemnly to a morning that feels like the rhythmic rifts of Weldon Irvine’s Morning Sunrise, and there are others where I wake up to my brother bellowing, “Elise! Mom said to wake up. Wake up, now she said!”

Each morning I arise and peer at the walls of this, now, pastel pink room. There is a rugged patch on my wall, invisible to anyone else upon entering my room; yet, it is a daily reminder of what happens when my mother’s boyfriend thinks I'm sassing him in the midst of one of his many drunken stupors. My younger brother plastered it over the day he encountered the gaping hole in my wall. My excuse: I was in the middle of practicing my flag routine and had a minor misstep into the wall. One would think he'd ask why I was practicing my routine in the house. If you’ve seen an HBCU band routine, you understand what that means. My flag, standing rather melancholy in the back corner of my room is perhaps the most notable thing that separates my room decor from that of your average girly girl.

I sleep with a blindfold over my eyes to ward off the recurring nightmares I'm becoming all too fond of. But each morning, as my eyes connect with the sunlight peering through my sheer curtains, the sun beckons me over to the solitary window in the expanse that is my room. I fell into perfect adoration with this room when we first moved here, solely because of this window. They say windows are the opening to possibility. Actually, that's what I say.

Unfailingly, in my spell bounded walk to bask in the warm rays and observe the picturesque forest view that is presently my backyard, I hit my right knee on my vintage sidetable, which my brilliant brother ruined by bolting it to the ground for Lord knows what reason. The permanent bruise on my knee is the only bruise on my body that I played a hand in creating. Often, I forget that just a few years ago I shared a room with my brother. Those were the days I despised. The days where everything was cramped and we were two bodies, stifled in a space meant for one. Now, I seemingly have the good life.

A walk-in closet bustling with clothes whose tags remain attached - this is now my life..


 CafeUzuri

Out Of Time

I'm really scared that I'm falling out of love.
This in limbo phase is no longer making me callous;
it's driving me to understanding.
I understand you now more than ever and it's refreshing,
I'm also realizing that the love between us has shifted to something… 



Unrecognizable.
I don't know what this type of love is
or where what we had went.
I don't know if my inability to know who we are to each other has
opened my eyes to who you truly are and leave me feeling
disappointed with what I see or perplexed by this person I see before me.
Love is so many things
all wrapped up in what we each want it to be.
I think you know what love is... never.
It's truly a figment of our imagination.
I believe this now more than ever.
And that's not even coming from a cynical place.
Just a realization*

No Woman, No Cry

I started this post in my mind three or four ways. All of them witty or silly, with the intention to mask the true title of this post. To the world my post may mean nothing, but in this space this is all I have holding me together; so to me, this means everything.

I am crying.

Media Man

It's truly amazing how powerful the media is. However, as it represents a reflection of the interests of the people (to a great extent) *we* are indeed powerful as well.

Confused to . . Confucius

Everday we attempt to play the role of Confucius. We become enlightened in order to defeat our problems. Then suddenly we have learned a lesson and arisen, ready to spread the lesson on to others.

However, now that I have entered the world of informtion overload, not only am I privy to the problems,fears, triumphs, and revelations of my friends and peers, I am now the unconscious recipient of supposed life affirmations, daily digests, inspirational quotes, and partial advice. I appreciate it. Not only does it make my morning, at times, but it indeed gets me through some moments where I feel as if my life is on the brink of being out of control. However, this becomes an overload when too many confucius-inspired moments happen where one becomes enlightened to *cope* as opposed to achieving the actualization of wisdom. I sometimes can't decipher the two and wonder if their words of alleged wisdom should be deposited into my mental wisdom bank.

Through this realization,I am left to my own devices and life experiences. Taking most advice is almost like reading sparknotes: it leaves one with the *jist* instead of internalizing and absorbing the situation in order to learn and grow through personal experience. I thank my friends and peers in the webosphere (and those in "real life") who attempt to impart their life lessons upon the rest of us, but there are trials we personally need to go through to gain wisdom. I'm earning my daily wisdom points through living my life, instead of living vicariously through the moments of clarity of others, and I salute those of you who choose to do the same*

black

African-Americans or Africans in America or Afro-Americans or Africans passing through America or Caribbean-American or Caribbean or Black or ...(this extensive use of varying terminology is necessary because those who choose to defer from the term "African-American" want to be different, politically correct, disconnected, or ____ *insert your rationale*) should try to read more books about Africans BY Africans. Cutting out as many middlemen as possible will probably enhance the truth and lessen the distortion... Perhaps. I probably wouldn't understand the life of a Hill Billy if I read it from the perspective of a college-educated member of the "Black-American" elite bourgeoisie, as correctly as I would understand it had I heard it told through his lenses. I find it very jarring seeing people focused so wholeheartedly on understanding the analytical studies of people who view others through biased eyes. This bias is apparent through the agenda which they seek in order to either support or negate the stance of another "authoritative figurehead". Perhaps, I'm being a tad hard on those who try to understand their people, but how can one understand their people without "understanding their people". What does that mean? Not merely taking everything a glorified, mouth-piece says about Africa, or African-Americans as gospel. Get up and check it out. And when I say check it out, I mean get up and go live with them. Don't revel in what the texts are telling you is or was not there.

Discussion Board

Most college students have either heard of or used the Blackboard system. This system is basically a means through which professors and students interact beyond the classroom. This semester I'm taking a few classes, which require class discussions on blackboard on various topics of interest. I plan to post some of the prompts of each professor and my response to the topic. Feel free to respond or discuss any topic with me.

Prompt: Gender roles likely developed to make preservation of the species most efficient and effective, and endured through time to become cultural conventions. Without question, things have changed, especially over the past fifty years. But have things changed in ways that suggest gender roles can be altered without dimming the prospects of preserving the species?

Before analyzing this argument one must identify what specific roles are respectively associated with each gender, in addition to one's concept of preservation. I am assuming that the traditional female role is engendered by characteristics such as being nurturing and performing acts specifically of a domestic nature, whilst the traditonal male role is the main provider of the family income. The preservation of the species entails actions which encourage procreation. However, to increase the efficiency and effectiveness of this preservation the home must be that of balance and a sound environment filled with attributes such as love, encouragement, unity, fulfillment and prosperity (strictly opinion). The altering of gender roles, relevant to contemporary standards, has proven that these altered roles can enhance the preservation of a family based on the family's strengths. This can be seen in the inception of the stay-at-home dad. There are some families whose balance is maintained by having a dynamic that is different from the "traditional" gender roles. Though the physical aspects of gender, such as, who brings home the bacon and who cooks it matter in theory, from my observation I've seen that the intrinsic balance of a family such as the aforementioned traits (love...etc.) are truly what preserves a family and these characteristic are not solely strengthened through one gender over another. The effectiveness and efficiency of preserving a family is increased when individual strengths are taken into account versus the "theoretical traditional" strengths as dictated by societal standards.

The Fame (Pt. 1)

Yesterday I was upset with the fans. The diehard "I-live-vicariously-through-you-in-hopes-that-I-will-one-day-be-you". I found it quite strange that people idolize Beyonce, throw themselves at the feet of Rihanna, dress like Nikki Minaj, model their lives according to the phases Jay-Z enters/leaves in his life, etc. It perturbed me to a point of annoyance and disdain. I felt slightly ashamed because the death of Michael Jackson and several artists of late brought immense pain to their fans. These artists touched them ("us" perhaps) because of the tremendous impact they made on our lives through their talents. Artists -a term which is the most all-encompassing category for the broad scope of entertainers- bring about varied emotions from their fans. The range is from ultimate hatred to apathy to appreciation to adoration to idolizing. The idolizing is what I'm having a hard time understanding.

People place entertainers on this pedestal once they're deemed worthy of it by the upper echelon puppet masters. What I'm finding difficult to discern is the difference between those who look at specific identifiably consistent characteristics of an entertainer as something they admire versus the fans who live and die by every character trait, quote, song, dance move of an artist. If most artists didn't have someone to look up to many of them may not have been where they are today. This is an attribute to the fame game. But at the same time it seems that fans follow these "society-proclaimed" role models with such devotion that they lose themselves as a singular entity by getting enraptured in the image. It bothers me to see males and females alike squabbling over whether or not one picture dictates what is going on in the life of an entertainer. It's quite frankly stupid (haven't used this word in a minute). But the simplicity of it all leads me to such a simplistic word. The men and women of my family have a habit -a good one- of not becoming followers. It was never in my blood to follow the lives of others or live vicariously through others. I can appreciate talent from afar, but let's not get it twisted, there are ARTISTS everywhere whose talent supercedes many of those who had the opportunity of joining the fame game. My life is what I make it, not what they say it should be. What the fame may tell me, may not be the truth afterall.

Haddy N'jie

Haddy N'jie envelopes her listener in a voice filled with warmth, depth, and timelessness. Her voice is incomparable to many of today's singer, but contains the timbre synonymous with the likes of Meshell Ndegeocello, Lauryn Hill, and Etta James. Unlike many of today's "empty voices" (a new term attributed to a friend of mine), N'jie's voice is rich and fill a void left in today's soul music: truth. Her lyrics are simplistic, but express complex emotion. And her videos seem to follow suit. I am enamored with the cinematography of this video as it paints a part of a story that is abstract, yet I understand. Her homebase of Norway is very evident in the video; hence the snow being a focal point of the background. I appreciate the diversity of Haddy as an artist. Not only is she a songstress, but she is also a freelancer, columnist, children's book writer, and playwright. A woman after my own heart. And the icing on the cake...



She's au naturale*

I'd Do It All Again*

Heart breaks.
..Tears stain.
Yet, as I wipe my tears away...
I'd do it all again.
~me



This video came right on time.
Welcome Back Corinne*

Yéle - Cry Freedom

The January 12, 2010 Earthquake that ravaged the Haiti Region, will go down in history as one of the most devastating natural disasters in centuries. At a magnitude of 7.0 on the Richter scale, the destruction and death toll caused by the earthquake was unforeseeable and heart-breaking. Upon hearing of this disaster, the true degree of this occurrence did not register with me as it did once I saw pictures of what used to be, what once was, and what is no more. I watched footage of children wandering the streets motherless, brothers carrying grandmothers, and the battered faces of young sisters. The remains of structures that were all some once called their own were left shattered in a heap of what used to be.


In the wake of this natural disaster, I could not help but vividly recall images of the damage Katrina left behind. And secretly I wondered, can my people not win? We try so hard to be… just be. We want to live, we want to coexist, on OUR accord and this happens. I wholeheartedly believe in karma, but I second guess the faith I have in karma when natural events like this occur. As the first free black republic, it is a strong blow to the struggle of the men and women of the African Diaspora who strive to have something untainted to call our own. But somehow I look at the faces of our Haitian family and see a strength that will overcome this tragedy. I look at the weary, tear-stained faces whose hair is covered in ashes and whose nostrils are lined with soot, and see eyes who cannot believe the unfathomable has happened. These eyes, however, are eyes that look to the sky and know there is something greater than us. There is a source of perseverance that got them freedom and encouraged them to rebel against a people who spat on their existence. And now those very people are forced to look at them and acknowledge their existence. They.. no, We shall overcome.

Africa, your people are made strong. Give our fellow Haitians the strength to make it through during and after the storm.*

Dare To Be.

Dare to be. Dare to be more than the confines of thine mind. Thinking beyond the minimal scope of what has already been written is a feat few take on. The likes of Salvador Dali, Audrey Lorde, Donyale Luna and Andre J. resound with me because they weathered the cost of being different. Eccentric, weird, odd, crazy --- words used to describe those who fearlessly dare to be. But fortunately for me I can appreciate these characters who are truly playing the character of themselves, as opposed to the role of normal, same, mundane, homogenous. Their fearlessness stops me in my tracks each moment I feel as though I am too far to the left while everyone peers at me with perplexity from the far "right".

"22 Albums Your Kids Should Hear"

I don't buy magazine's unless something about the cover compels me to. Though months late, I perused through a past issue of Ebony while on line at CVS because not only did it commemorate Black Music Month but the cover inset read "22 Albums Your Kids Should Hear". I purchased this issue after reviewing the following list compiled by Bryan Monroe that is quite well-rounded, especially for music novices.

What's Going On...Marvin Gaye
Songs In the Key of Life...Stevie Wonder
Legend...Bob Marley & the Wailers
All n All...Earth, Wind, and Fire
20 All Time Greates Hits...James Brown
My Favorite Things...John Coltrane
Kind of Blue...Miles Davis
Mack the Knife...Ella Fitzgerald
Thriller...Michael Jackson
Purple Rain...Prince
Greatest Hits...Bill Withers
Fear of a Black Planet...Public Enemy
Lou Rawls Live...Lou Rawls
Time Out...Dave Brubeck Quartet
Baduizm...Erykah Badu
Kirk Franklin and the Family...Kirk Franklin
The Night I Fell in Love...Luther Vandross
James Taylor Live...James Taylor
Unplugged...Eric Clapton
Back on the Block...Quincy Jones
Amazing Grace: The Complete Recordings...Aretha Franklin
Gipsy Kings...Gipsy Kings

Undeniably, there are some records others may describe as classic. Albums such as Electric Ladyland, the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, and...