She possesses a memory like an elephant.
The heart of a lioness.
Her mind, her playground.
Her body moving with the precision of a panther.
Her loving spirit felt in her touch, seen in her eyes–glowing, dancing when at peace with those around her.
Each atom of her being bent, distorted, frayed as she watched one who used the word love with her name in the same sentence; feeling, coping, appearing to accept…to overstand watching the words “it is okay” fall from her lips–hiding the pain, shock, disappointment; silently feeling the tears fall.
Bracing herself, preparing to put the emotions in a compartment, knowing it was time to let go.
She stumbled, she shook as she watched her heart fall, shattering from the impact.
Laying in the darkness of the early morning, her eyes open she prayed a prayer for strength and guidance.
Light entered her room, the brightest light she had ever seen. Looking around to see which window the moonlight entered unable to sit up.
First she laughed then tears formed in the wells of her eyes, suddenly feeling a love unlike she ever felt before. The light grew, the love amplified lifting her spirit, her mind, her heart.
The ceiling above her gone, she saw stars brighter then she ever recalled. Clouds formed each with a memory of emotions felt with another, first slowly passing her, getting faster and faster until she saw her present.
The light in her room began to dim, still the pure love remained. The clouds of memories gone.
She rose from her bed, down on her knees talking and thanking The Creator of All Creation for the love, the overstanding.
No longer a Queen.
A Goddess standing upon before the Earth and the World.
Standing in the light, the love, knowing her power, her worth.
Of late I read more Instagram and Facebook post than in the past.
What’s captured my attention the most are the post men create; writing about women they meet that state they haven’t had sex in months.
Other men chime in and remark that those are whores and the woman is a liar. Men forget or simply do not know specifics about women, at least in regards to this woman.
I speak only for me.
I have been in relationship’s that consisted of great sex; however, my significant other can destroy our life in a single moment. How, by lying. Once I’ve been lied to I feel the mote being dug, the foundation for the brick walls being laid.
He has one opportunity to correct it, please do not let it be me asking you why you lied. The sex stops first, then everything else begins to shut off and down. My heart shuts down, my desire to be touched by him shuts down.
I have heard many say, “It’s just sex.” Maybe in your world, but not in mine.
A lie is a violation of my spirit, my intelligence level, my soul. I’ve taken the time to get to know how he thinks what his expectations are, who is mamma is or was. What his view of the world is.
I begin to move out. In the beginning it is not a physical move it is a mental move out. Sure I will provide him with oral sex, because i need time to leave in peace and without physical or more mental harm.
I will not let him touch me. I will say things like, “No baby this is all about you.” Men and that ego, works every time. There was a time when I simply introduced him to my sister Marie, when I realized she was a true bitch in every sense of the definition I used it to my advantage.
When it is time to pack I’m throwing away any and everything that was given to me or I purchased during the relationship. The last thing to go are all panties, bras, and lounging clothing that would remind me of the relationship. I’ve gone as far as to donate all red carpet dresses, shoes, and any gifts, I care less about the cost, the value. Fuck all value is gone and so am I.
I’ve had enough, I’m full from the bull shit. It’s a wrap.
I’ve left serious relationship’s then spent the next year or two single, first to heal myself and second to rid my spirit of his.
I’ve spent five years alone, ten years alone…sex being the furthest thing from my mind.
I was not been in the relationship because I needed him. I was in the relationship because I wanted him.
The moment we had an opportunity to talk without the boys present, we bonded.
We became best friends; taking a lot of gossip chatter in stride–everyone around us, jealous; reasons unknown to us, nor did we care. She was my sister from another mother.
Life happened, we would spend time together, then years apart. Always picking up where we left off.
I would have done anything for her, even if it meant dying to protect her, I was already plotting to take the life of the domestic violence abuser.
39 years later. A life changing call. I was given a list.
- Invited to a birthday party for her grand. I thanked the home owner as we departed, she hugged me.
- Thanksgiving invitation, dropped a pie that morning in case I did not make it back in time; Brooklyn shared all her toys with me.
- Complaint of me never answering my phone; guilty! I worked eight hours a day on the phone; my phone usually off always left in my car.
- Often text I sent, no response; told later she was going through something, understood.
- Took the judgement she threw upon me, even though that judgement was inaccurate in it’s information. Did not judge her in return, accepting her for her.
I was told our relationship had issues that I have to fix.
Brunch led to shopping, shopping led to her seeing my apartment, her response, “I’m jealous.” I thought she was joking.
She has full access to her grand children, two homes, one she occupied, the other her son occupied. She has a man of more than 15 years that honestly loves her. She has a career. She has brothers that look out for her. She is close to her children. Truly she was kidding.
I cannot fix the mind, heart, spirit of another, I can only fix myself.
Texted, called, texted to no avail. No response. Looked back over her list.
Shown that the family member accused, hidden away for ten years had everything to do with that middle of the night call all those years ago.
I will always love her after looking back, I was her friend she was not mine.
I was taught about St. Valentine, The Easter Bunny, The Freedom that Independence Day represents, The reason for our Thanksgiving celebration, and Christmas.
I had the pleasure of picking the perfect gifts, decorating, eating all that great food, seeing loving relatives, and receiving some cool and not so cool gifts. At 8 years old I was having a ball. One day after school, I went to my room to change from my school uniform into my play clothes–I was caught coming out of the attic. Mommy couldn’t tell if she caught me on my way up the stairs or on my way down, so neither of us said a word.
I was stunned, deceived by the people that beat my ass for lying. They were lying to me. What a double standard!
I grew up, sort of, and had a family of my own. I did not lie to them about St. Valentine, The Easter Bunny, The Freedom that Independence Day represents or the reason for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I told them the truth while everyone around me lied with their stories of a Santa and being grateful for the murder of 98% of a nation of people.
Why are you giving someone else credit for all the hard work you do, trying to provide for your household and keep the lie going?
Why tell children about St. Valentine when most of us do not love ourselves enough to begin to love the next person?
Celebrate Independence Day, when we become free let me know. The last time I checked the deception was on all of us, England has always been in control of America and it always will be. You not believing the truth does not change it.
Thanksgiving. 98% of the Natural Americans wiped from the face of the Earth and you want me to celebrate.
December 26th starts my holiday season. Enjoy everyone. Enjoy.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
Words spoken but misunderstood.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
Words spoken to reference the weakness of a woman.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
A single tear falls from the well of my eye; to hold back my rage.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
A deep breath is taken; composure established.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
The Creator of All Things shields you.
Crying Like A Little Bitch.
Yes, Yes I am. Crying like a little bitch.
I unlocked the side door and headed up the four stairs to the kitchen with the groceries. My charming 12-year-old son and my loving 5-year-old daughter came from various rooms of the house–both standing there watching me.
My 12-year-old, “Do you want some help?” As I placed the white plastic bags on the table I froze. With all the love I could pull from my soul I looked at my son and said, “First I have to go earn the money to buy the groceries.” “Then I have to go shop for the groceries.” “I bring them home to you.” “Odds are when I walk in the kitchen neither of you has bothered to clean it.” “Meaning I will have to stop everything to clean the kitchen before the groceries get put away.” “Then you two wonderful people are expecting me to cook too.”
We stood there in silence for a moment. Both children headed to the stairs without another word. I never carried groceries in again nor did I have to bother with putting them away. The clean kitchen thing. I can’t have everything!
Leaving downtown headed west on I70 is a dead-end street on the right side. There is thicket on the right side of the highway that provides privacy to the residents that live on that dead-end street. During the summer months this site is not so bad. Once summer ends and the weather starts to change and all the green things die, the residents of this dead-end street are exposed to the passers-by on the highway.
The residents of the dead-end street are Everyday People living in Columbus. The difference in these residents and many other residents that live near the I70 W highway is they live in houses, apartments, and condominiums. The residents of the dead-end street live in tents and boxes. They use many other discarded items like tarp and plastic too. Tarps are like gold to the residents of the dead-end street.
Upon closer inspection of the dead-end street it is clear the residents have been here for a long time. The residents have gathered concrete blocks and built an out-door stove and heating element. White discarded 5 gallon buckets used for many things—storage of personal belongings, used as an out-door toilet and washing clothes when possible.
The residents of the dead-end street are Everyday People. The residents are trying to find jobs just as well as the rest of the Everyday People. There are two major differences between the Everyday People of the dead-end street the rest of the Everyday People in Columbus. The residents of the dead-end street lost their battle to being one pay check away from the street. The other Everyday People those that live in the houses, apartments, and condominiums; they are still battling to stay ahead of the one paycheck away from the street.
I would rather die
So I die
Die to Live
Appeared that I love You more than I love myself; just a fraction.
Faith—Then I saw Satan’s son.
Take your rightful place in the Universe.
Heart pounds though my chest.
Listening to the rain fall over Brooklyn. Day fading to night. The coolness of the day fills the room from the open kitchen window.
Monica’s voice on the CD player keeping the apartment from silence.
The scent of Heulwen’s Embrace slowly creeps out of the room and down the hall as I fill the black four ounce bottles.
Remembering the way you touched my cheek with your’s as we danced in the rain to Najee’s Now That I Found You. Feeling you inhale my scent behind my ear. Smiling to myself from the inside. You had a way of telling me how much you needed to feel close to me without touching me inside. Such a tender touch; always leaving me to feel sexy, without a word, without a glance. There in the dark Kuutamo’s Touch.
I do not want to have sex for the sake of having sex.
I want to have sex to fill my emotional, my mental, my physical need.
The other sex will not scratch the itch that begins with the kiss.
The kiss that causes my heart to thump once hard, stop, and begin again, new.
I wrote this 3 years ago today. I am reblogging it because it was a great read and I have not shared my thoughts in a while. Odd I logged into WordPress this day.
I did not know it was going to hurt the first time nor the second or third time for that matter. I did not know I was supposed to feel good when it was over either. No one prepared me for either, the beginning, what should occur in the middle and definitely not the end.
What I learned about it, any of it, was from books and first hand experience.
My first hand experience over time showed me it wasn’t about me. In all other aspects of my existence I was being shown (programmed) to accept that “It wasn’t about me.” No matter how expert my techniques—you came to this with your learning and programming too.
A European brotha saw an African brotha’s penis and the envy started, because it was bigger. i.e. bigger house, car, diamond, bank account, friends list, followers, et cetera and so on. In the process…
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I love you. I want to keep loving you. I leave you now, so I keep loving you.
When our eyes meet again–I leave you now, so I love you then.
The next time you tell me that, I really need to be feeling your breath against my skin.
Ever see Satan’s soul?
Go to the mirror.
I have thought more of you this day than in all the days we have known each other.
I wish we had more time.
The irony of it all.
Had you not let me go–two years seven months later; you are leaving me.
I never told you. My favorite style.
Watching you take your motorcycle helmet off; revealing the blue scarf tied around your head, your dark curls reaching down to touch the nape of your neck; priceless.
The Peace Officer goes thug.
I never told you. My favorite event.
When you rolled around the corner with your friends in that red Jeep and I was sitting on the back of the 325i waiting to whisk you away; hearing all about you strip club experience.
I never told you. My favorite glance.
Each time you looked at me, not then. Now when I remember.
I wish we had more time.
I glided along the pier shooting the sunset. The sound of the tide underneath me. The wind blowing my hair against my face causing my locks to blow across my lens. I stopped to drop my camera bags and get another shot.
“Perfect,” I whisper as I raise my head away from my viewer to that of a man approaching me wearing a ivory cardigan stained drips of something that missed his mouth. It was buttoned to expose his waistline bulging though each space between the buttons. In his left hand he carried a cup of food, in the other a old gray and white plaid suitcase that no longer closed properly–dirty fabrics stuck out from both sides. His faded blue pants were frayed at the bottom from resting between his heel and gray corduroy slippers. He did not raise his feet from the ground as he walked, instead making that annoying sliding sound with his feet.
He smiled as he approached me. I smiled back. His dirty blonde curls blew in the wind, a scruffy beard was growing on his face. His hazel eyes met mine–warmth felt. “Can you give me some change or a dollar to get some food?” “Sure.” I reached in my pocket and reached out to him with what I had there. Wishing I could ask him to wipe the corner of his mouth. He put his suitcase down to count it. I walked off the pier onto the sand. He continued onto the pier to ask others for cash.
I returned to the pier to shoot after dark photographs.
The beggar was leaving. As we passed I did not look at him he did not look at me.
I processed the entire moment of his asking me for change again and realized that cup of food he was holding was hot and homemade. The warmth in his eyes was actually a twinkle from the feeling of seeing me as a sucker. I laughed out loud and thought, he’s got a great hustle.
What is that saying, “Don’t hate the player”
“We going to get to know each other in here tonight.” Gladys Knight said that a few times during her performance. She has an amazing energy amazing story. I drift off my…
I say that to say, I cannot afford a shrink so I shall take my pen to hand and then my finger tip’s to keys. Sometimes a life story, sometimes a passing thought. Other times I will share a current life event. A subway ride, perhaps. Going to spend time in the present, time in the past, time in the present.
Did I mention I live in New York? Brooklyn, New York. Yes, a Ohioan in New York. In a few months I will be a true New Yorker. Three years allows me to say, I am a New Yorker.
Things happen. I need to unload, unburden, un care.
I got a in box from my sister last week. The reaction of my action.
She called me a “drama queen”. From that moment to this one I search for the drama queen in me.
I do react to hurt rather loud. Probably because I take so long to react. It has taken me 48 years to react to her abuses. I search for a different word but I cannot come up with one.
I am having a learning experience as I write. She leaves me feeling abused.
The part I hate the most, the part that makes me so angry. What the fuck is wrong with me that I took so much for so long? All I come to is Richard Sr. and Alice.
We were pulling up to the ATM when he responded, “Well since we are no longer competing with each other.”
My mouth agape as I processed the words. “Now that we aren’t competing…” I said, “Competing, Michael, competing!” “What were we competing against?” “Which one of us suck’s dick better?” “This is what’s been wrong with our relationship.”
“Motha Fucker, it is not a competition when both parties are not made aware that it’s a competition.”
There we were. Sitting in that damn hospital all day, everyday. Waiting. Waiting for Mommy to wake up.
My niece felt it would be a good time to ask me questions about her mom. I sat there asking myself why this child needed someone else to confirm her relationship or the lack there of with her mother. For day’s this child sat next to me saying things about her childhood. Things she remembered. Things that were not so clear. I sat there in silence wondering why she needed me to say anything. After all she was present with that woman far more than I was, right.
I remained silent. One evening my niece decided to tell me things her Mother told her about me. Nothing positive, of course. Still I remained silent. Stupid me, I thought there was a loyalty among sister’s.
Know what happens when you push a loyal person to the point of them not caring?
They take their finger tips to the keys to relieve the stress of the bull shit of all the yesterday’s. Stay tuned folks. It’s my story and I am going to tell it as it actually is-was.
Know what you need to know about me.
I have lied. I have been lied on–learned early that lies hurt.
I have stolen; not because I had to but because I wanted to know I would not be caught. Did it twice to make sure. Took it back–put it back.
I have cheated. I have been cheated on. I learned the pain I inflicted was cruel.
I committed murder too. Yes I did. It was inconvenient to my life otherwise.
Know what you need to know about me.
I tried to bust Hell wide open, more than once. When I walked into a church the walls bled.
You are going to hear many things about me. A lot of it is true.
You want to know me, ask me.
“I can tell that I missed a good relationship in you.” He said.
“Why do you say that?” I responded.
“Because I can feel a dose of tenderness in your voice.” He said, “Come here, let me give you a dose of how I feel about you.” His laughter followed.
“Shut up, you are messing up my flow.”
He said, “Come here let me mess up your hair!”
He said, “You can slow dance.”
“Actually, no I cannot.” “Sure you can.” He said. “It is a two step.”
Is it just me?
When I drink wine, the glass needs to remain clean.
When I drink wine the glass needs to remain half empty.
“Do you touch yourself?” He asked.
“No.” “It only leaves me wanting more.” She responded.
“Come here, and play with yourself while I watch.” He said.
“Why?” She asked.
“So I know how.” He responded.
He leaves me feeling his soul
When you see me working. Do not say, “Do you want some help?” Either step in and help without permission or remain silent and out of the way.
Asking me, “Do you want some help?” mean’s you do not want to help me do anything. You are simply being polite. Something that does not fit with one busy with a task.
“If I die before you do, are you coming to my funeral?”
“Why would I do that?” A look of hurt and confusion came over his face.
“To pay your respect.” He said.
“To pay my respect?” “Respect.” “Hmmm.” “Your actions towards me have not been with respect.” “No, I would not come to your funeral.”
He stood in silence for a moment a look of helplessness came over him. “But you love me.”
She smiled, “Remember when I said, some day I am going to put my feelings for you where they belong.” “That day has come.”
relationships. From the perspective of being a mother. My children are adults. I do not have the energy to be mommy to when I was not the best mommy to my children.
Besides, you see the word mantic in romantic, yes.
mean I have nothing to say.
It means I do not feel you are ready to feel my thoughts.
I am selfish, yes.
We got on the elevator at the Trump Plaza Hotel headed to our room. A singing group got on the elevator with us. One of them looked me up and down, then down and up. He said, “You have beautiful legs.” Before I could say thank you, my companion said, “Thank you.” He looked at me, I nodded my head, just enough to acknowledge that I knew he was speaking to me. He smiled.
Then someone else in the group said, “I heard we are working the Donald Trump party Christmas Eve. A couple of the members of the group let out a long sigh.
After that elevator ride when they were doing a show in my state my companion from the elevator would call me and say, “Everyone is asking for you!” “The guys keep asking me, where is your cool sister?” “She is coming to see us, right.” “You have to come see them.” I asked her to give everyone my love but to express to them that I’m really not into that.”
I learned two things from that experience. First, regardless to them being Grammy winners more times than I can count, they are still the hired help. Second, being humble makes me “cool”.
You not believing the truth does not change it being true.
Someone said to me today, “I wish someone would give to me the way I give to others.” I responded, “It does not work that way.” “As long as you are giving because you expect something in return, you are not giving from your heart but from selfishness.”
I was having an MRI done. When the tech finished she said, “I kept looking at you and looking at your chart, I kept telling the others this birth year is wrong.” I laughed. “No, it’s correct.” She said, “What is your secret to looking so young?” This was a great moment to sell her my skin care line. Instead I said, “Give to others from your soul, in pure love, give because your giving is needed.” She said, “your eyes sparkle, you look so innocent.” Again I laughed, “There is nothing innocent about me, I am pure in that I deal from the love within me or I deal from the evil that is within me.” “I prefer to show love, when it is not accepted I walk away.” I rather people not know me as evil.”
Walking back from the post office with a song in my heart and a twinkle in my eye a man stopped me and said, “If we were in my homeland I would take you.” I stood frozen for a moment processing what he said to me. I responded, “That line may be effective for you with some women, but not this woman.” “You need to thank God this is not your homeland because five seconds after you put your hands on me you would be telling Jesus I said Hi.”
What is wrong with men that they actually believe we find flattery in them wanting to bed us?
Most straight men would have sex with all of us…each time I say this to a man he’s never attempted to say, that is not true.
A homeless man laid on the ground against a gray concrete building in the City. It was 37 degrees this morning. He was sleeping, suddenly his body jerked hard wakening him violently. He sat up and started yelling, “Get away from me.” “Get away from me.” As the passersby moved to the far end of the sidewalk, he motioned wildly with his arms and hands, still yelling, “Get away from me!”
After a few moments he reached behind the marble pillar he was using to shield his face from the street and pulled out of fifth of SMIRNOFF vodka. It was a quarter full. He took a swig then slowly screwed the top back on it, gently put it back in it’s hiding place. When his hands could be seen again he removed a Newport 100, and lit it with a black bic lighter. He sat in silence taking an occasional drag from the cigarette. Again, he started jerking his arms and waving his hands for the imaginary person to leave his space. He was speaking in a volume that could not be heard beyond where he was sitting on the ground against the gray concrete and marble building. Just as suddenly as he started jerking his arms and waving his hands he stopped. He finished his Newport and flicked it towards the street.
At least one hundred people had passed by him on the sidewalk by now. Many not looking in his direction. A young blonde haired male with black earphones looked at him with disgust as he passed, slowing his stride as he got closer to him to get a better look.
A man in a navy blue wool hat and matching parka strolled down the street. He was carrying a metallic blue stainless steel water bottle in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other slowed his walk as he approached the homeless man. He stopped and smiled at him, handed him the brown paper bag, bid him a good day and walked on. The homeless man looked in the bag then placed it on the outside of the marble pillar. He reached behind the pillar to retrieve the SMIRNOFF bottle, took another swig and put it back, again with a Newport in his hand. He sat and smoked in silence.
People walked up and down the block some rushing to work, a few carrying gym bags, others walked holding a dog leash, their dog at their side. A woman in a mink, a man in a navy pea coat using a blind person’s cane as his guide.
A small girl wearing a pink coat, white scarf, colorful beads adorning her braids looked into her father’s eyes as they got closer to the man, neither said a word. He handed her something. When they got to the man sitting on the cold ground against the building they stopped. She handed him money that was carefully folded in her hand, tears in her eyes she said, “I love you.” The homeless man said nothing as he accepted the money she held out to him. The father fought back his tears, they walked on in silence. The little girl looked up at her father and smiled. He took her hand and they walked on down the street.
The homeless man turned to watch them until he could not see them any longer. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a stack of folded bills. He unfolded his money exposing 20’s, 10’s, 5’s and one dollar bills. He unfolded the money the girl with the braids handed him. He separated the five dollar bill from the single one, put them in their proper place in his stack and put the money back in his pocket.
Just then another man walked up and handed the homeless man a large iced coffee from Starbuck’s and a straw and walked on without a word. The homeless man discarded the white paper from the straw beside him on the ground took a big sip then placed the iced coffee on the window ledge above his head.
As I sat in the warmth of the car ten feet from the homeless man I looked closer at his clothing. He was wearing brown and white suede sneakers not worn or dirty other than the heel of the shoe where it rested against the sidewalk. He had on black socks, a pair of black jeans, not worn or dirty other than the dirt acquired from laying on the ground. He had on a black sweatshirt that appeared to be dirty from laying on the ground as well. His hands were ashy from the cold dry air of the morning.
I looked at the clock on the dash of the car as I turned the key in the ignition to warm the car again. It was 8:50 a.m. I had been sitting there since 7:08 a.m. waiting for my friend to return from her early appointment. The homeless man laid down, crossed his his left leg over his right leg. He rested his left arm over his forehead, and his right arm across his stomach. Five feet away from the homeless man, a man stopped with his dog so he could pee and take a crap on the sidewalk. The homeless man never moved.
The street of passersby began to get quiet as it was now nine a.m. Those that did pass him speeded up their pace as they got closer. A jogger in black running shoes with a white and neon green top flew by the homeless man. He turned on his side shielding his face from the sun and the passersby. He began to tap his foot as if he could hear music.
I saw my girl friend come around the corner. Time to put my paper away and get back in the passenger seat.
Two hours ago I settled down at my desk to work. Positive attitude, positive energy flowing. The phone rang. I smiled so the caller would feel my joy.
Within four minutes I got annoyed. After five minutes I was pissed. 30 seconds later I was angry. By the time seven minutes rolled in I was ready to draw my sword and take the caller’s head off. We ended the call. I tossed my phone on the bed, mumbling to myself, “There is a difference between being hard headed and being stupid!” I walked out of my room feeling rage.
Suddenly I caught myself and said, “I prayed not more than 30 minutes ago to accept those things and those people that are what and who they are, please give me the wisdom and peace to know the difference.”
Instead of allowing the stupidity of another’s actions to throw me off my game, I put my things in a bag–all my quarters, my singles, and my camera; took the stairs four flights to the ground floor and out the building. I held the door for someone entering.
Took my camera out, and shot a piece of nature. By the time I walked across the baseball field to reach the other street I had calmed myself.
Standing at the red light I saw more of God’s beauty and captured a few more shots. Went to the bank, made my deposit, then back on the sidewalk seeing even more beauty on this windy 48 degree spring day. I took a few more shots then found myself taking the long way back to the apartment. I realized as I shot that I am in control of me. As long as I remember that I am blessed with an open mind.
I cannot, I should not get angry with one less fortunate. I need to embrace that person with love, hand them over to God and move forward so I can maintain a clear head and a close to pure heart.
I remain a work in progress.
Play nice with the other children on the playground of life. Do not get angry, do not get even. Hand them and you over to God.
Had a late meeting. My client hailed a taxi for me. In Brooklyn there are few yellow or green taxies more car services.
I got in and gave him the address. We pulled off. After four blocks he asked me what I usually pay. I said, “$15 plus a tip.” He responded, “I cannot take you there for less than $20.00.” I looked around. No longer in the area to hail another car. I responded, “Huh.” Which means you just pissed me off. I took a deep breath and released it trying not to draw my sword. He began a conversation. I said, “DO NOT TALK TO ME.” He turned on the radio. I listened to my voice mail messages. Then returned a call to another client. While on the call he was polite enough to turn the music down. Actually he did it to hear my conversation.
As I ended the call we were just feet from my place. I said, “Pull over before you pass my place.” He pulled over and said, “You live in that building?” I responded, “Yes.” As I pulled a $20.00 from my pocket and handed it to him. He said, “Let me give you your change.” I responded, “No you keep it, it’s obvious you felt the need to cheat me; by the way you might as well call it a night because you won’t make another penny on this shift, punk!” He said, “No I was wrong I thought it was further away.” I said, “No you did not, you thought you had a sucker riding with you.” “You waited until you had me in an area that does not have taxies in it.” “Sir, you are a jerk, enjoy the rest of your evening!”
I crossed the street and unlocked the door to my building.
They hang out on a regular basis. The time together is appreciated and valued; an appreciation for what they have in common and what they do not have in common.
It has been expressed more than once that there is a desire for a more serious relationship.
They have little in common.
Something that is pointed out each time the subject comes up. It is always stated, “Opposites attract!” The response is always, “Yes, they do but opposites do not stay together.”
Yesterday they were hanging out enjoying the rain and the jazz. Again the subject of a serious relationship came up.
This time questions were asked.
“When are you going to change your diet and go back into the gym?” The response, “I do not need to I am going to have a surgery for my weight issues.”
Response. “Surgery for your weight issue is not going to correct the issue; it’s a quick fix to a bigger problem; your diet. Until you change your diet the weight is going to be a problem.”
The response, “I can’t change my diet.”
A long deep sigh followed.
Then a statement of fact followed, “Another difference between us; you are always telling me what you cannot do while I believe I can do anything.”
Last week I logged in to Facebook to discover that an old friend’s brother passed to the other side.
I thought about my three siblings. A part of me would pass with them. A lot of me would hurt, a part of me would rejoice, a lot of me would me angry, a part of me would not care, and a part of me would feel nothing.
Proud of each of them; disenchanted with each of them, and missing two of them but no longer close to any of them.
Jayne slid into driver seat of her 2015 white Lincoln MKZ, plugged her iPhone 6s Plus into the USB, selected R.H.R.’s CD from her play list, added her destination to her GPS, put on her seat belt, took the ponytail holder out of her hair; checked the time on her two carat diamond studded Bolova, started the vehicle, opened the panoramic roof, and pulled out of the airport parking lot headed towards her new home along Kalanianaole Highway; a 23-minute drive.
The feel of the trade winds rushing though the open windows was exhilarating, Jayne exhaled. In her excitement she turned right instead of left; the traffic light ahead of her changed to red. Jayne looked around then smiled when she saw the marina.
This would make a great photo shoot Jayne thought. She looked around for the street name to make a mental note when a rusted chain linked fence surrounding a vacant building caught her eye. The fence ran the length of the block on the main street then wrapped around the corner down the side street. The sign read Dead End. Blue tarps and tents tied to the chain linked fence, lining the sidewalk as far as Jayne could see.
A rusted five-pound coffee can sit on the sidewalk with a sign leaning against the side of the first tarp. It read, “I am a veteran; any amount of money you can spare will help, thank you, God bless.” Next to the blue tarp stood a red tent. An old woman swept away leaves and picked up paper out front. A younger Hawaiian woman stood on the sidewalk brushing her toddler’s hair back into a ponytail. Two other small children were racing down the street.
The sound of car horns jolted Jayne. The red light was now green. Jayne pulled off—the sun no longer bright and warm against her skin, the trade winds felt thick. Jayne pulled out of traffic into a gas station, parked and turned off the car; turned off the music. Jayne sat there in silence; her mind racing. She had been on the island several times for work over the last couple of years, but she had never seen anything like that. Jayne grabbed her red Prada Galleria bag off the floor next to her. She mindlessly walked down the isles of the gas station, headed to the refrigerator section and bought a bottle of Fuji water. She leaned against her SUV sipping the water and gathering her thoughts. She took a screen shot of the GPS, then headed home.
“Turn left onto Kalanianaole Highway, your destination will be on the right,” the GPS instructed. Jayne stopped at the gate entered her security code and smiled as she watched the white wrought iron entry doors slide open. She left her luggage in the laundry room then paused in the doorway of the den to appreciate the curved staircase made with iron balusters.
Jayne headed to the lanai, slipped off her ivory and grey Prada sneakers and laid down on the blue chaise lounge allowing her head to sink into the pillow. She closed her eyes and listened to the waves of the tide roll into the beach then back out.
It was dark when Jayne opened her eyes. She had been sleep for hours. The flight from the East Coast had taken eleven hours. Groceries would be her first priority in the morning.
Jayne strolled into Safeway grabbed a red cart, put her reusable bags in the basket, her grocery list on top, then scanned the store for the dairy aisle. Jayne searched the refrigerated shelves for her favorite brand of orange juice. As she reached for it her arm stopped in midair—the price affixed to the shelf read $12.99. Jayne stepped back and looked at the rest of the price tags on the shelf. They were all the same give or take a few cents. She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I am not paying $12.99 for orange juice,” speaking out loud. Jayne’s stroll turned into a slow walk as she pushed her cart down the aisle headed to the produce department.
The bright yellow letters outlined in red over the tomatoes read, SALE! As she approached the Roma tomatoes she frowned, removed her head phones and laid them on top of her bag “$5.99 a pound,” Jayne sighed a long sigh. “This is not a sale!” A woman with blonde hair, bright red lipstick, wearing a white maxi dress standing behind her giggled. “You are new to the Island,” she asked. Jayne shook her head, yes. “You will get used to the prices, darling,” she spoke with an accent. “I had the same experience when I started coming here, that was 25 years ago.” Jayne responded, “I refuse to pay $5.99 for a tomato.” This time the woman laughed and extended her hand. “My name is Alyssa, I am from Queens, New York.” Jayne shook her hand, “It is great to meet you Alyssa.” “I’m Jayne, from Brooklyn.” Alyssa smiled, “We are family!” Alyssa pulled out a pen and paper, “We must get together for lunch I have a condo in Waikiki.” “I am headed to a friend’s this morning for breakfast.” Alyssa continued, “If you want good prices on food you must shop in China Town, but go early.” “Most of the shops close before noon.” “Parking over there is hell—Lower Manhattan style, darling.” Alyssa smiled again. “It is cheaper to eat out if you know where to eat, I will teach you when I have time, I better run I don’t want to be late.”
Alyssa was right—Lower Manhattan China Town on the Island of O’ahu. The one way streets, looking out for the pedestrians, and trying to find a parking space—so New York.
Blocks away from China Town Jayne found a parking space. There was a park on the corner; Aala International Park. Jayne could see China Town in the distance. She headed to the walkway that snaked through the park. It was early spring the trees were in bloom, playground equipment for the children and large open spaces with park benches throughout. Suddenly Jayne was overcome with the foul smell of urine. She held her breath and picked up her pace. As she got closer to the monkey bars she saw towels and clothing hanging over the bars to dry, a couple was sitting on a bench nearby.
Cardboard was in a pile and tied with rope it laid in the grass alone side several plastic grocery bags. A man sleeping, a woman sitting across from him, a pile of cardboard underneath her, in one hand a brown paper bag, it was rolled down neatly and hugged a can, a cigarette in the other, she smiled at Jayne as she rushed by. Many people were sitting in the grass, some gathered in a small groups talking, others off to themselves; a few engaged in conversation with the wind or an imaginary person sitting next to them. At the end of the park people were sitting on the concrete walls that surrounded the public bathrooms. There was a small hill just beyond the edge of the park, a canal at the bottom–Nuuana Stream. Jayne remembered the tents and tarps on the dead-end street. Jayne forced to stop at the corner—oncoming traffic. As Jayne reached the other side she said out loud, “This is not my problem.”
Finally home after a long work day, Jayne flipped the channels until she found the local news. A brunette with dark eyes was reporting; with a tone of seriousness and a look of concern she said, “Tom Brower, The State Representative, was attacked by a gang of homeless people while walking though one of the camps.” “He was taken to a nearby hospital, and later released.” “Representative Brower states he is not going to press charges against his attackers.” Jayne turned off the television, showered and got in bed. She laid there remembering the dead-end street and the top of the hill of the canal by China Town. They are all alcoholics, crazies, and drug addicts she thought, and drifted off to sleep.
Jayne woke at four twenty-three a.m. The story of the homeless attackers still on her mind. She searched the internet for the story, mapped her route, put her camera batteries in the charger, went through her morning routine waiting for daylight.
She found a parking space on Lana Lane across from the Porsche of Hawaii dealership. She could see tents from the car. She put her Olympus point and shoot in the back right pocket of her white denim shorts, pulled the baby blue shirt tail out of her shorts to conceal her pockets, slung her black camera backpack over her shoulder and ran across the street. Jayne’s stride slowed when she turned onto Cooke Street by Kaka’ako Makai Gateway Park.
A little girl with uncombed brunette hair emerged from a tent. A long pink My Kitty t-shirt hung to her knees, a blue and red beach towel draped over her shoulder; a white plastic shopping bag swung from her left wrist, she clutched clothes against her stomach. She walked past a couple of tents, stopped and waited. A taller girl in blue shorts, white Camisole top and blue flip-flops emerged from the green tent. The taller girl also had a towel, tan plastic bag, and a change of clothes. As the two of them walked towards the street other girls in their age group joined them. Jayne walked on. She could hear someone sweeping up ahead. The sun now in her eyes.
In the middle of the block there was a woman sweeping. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with a yellow scrunchie, long loose strands of hair fell down her forehead. She was wearing a yellow sun dress with white plumeria lei flowers on it. The center of the flowers matched the yellow background of her dress. As Jayne passed her she smiled, and said “Hello.” Jayne watched her sweep the trash onto a piece of cardboard then she dumped it into the black mesh aluminum trash can lined with a white plastic bag at the side of her tent.
Two teen-aged boys on bikes stopped in front of a large heavy-duty black vinyl tarp tent. The front of the tarp rolled up and tied off. There were several black vinyl tarps attached to each other; a back, two sides, one used as a ceiling and the rolled up one in front. Inside of the tarp there was a man standing behind a counter (it was a door placed on top of two tall wooden stools.) A boy sat on a wooden stool at the end of the counter with a bowl of food in front of him. He swung his legs back and forth as he ate. Red, blue, and green ice coolers stacked four coolers high and three coolers long were behind the man standing at the counter. He opened one, handed each teen a can, the taller boy handed him money and they left.
There were wood flats stacked with cases of bottled water, soda, and juice. As Jayne slowed her pace, the man rushed from behind the counter came outside, smiled and said, “Good morning,” then disappeared into the tarp next to the first one—identical in structure. The next moment Jayne heard Donnie McClurkin singing Stand. The volume at a level that could be heard for blocks. Jayne stopped and looked back at the tarp. At the end of the second black tarp were five portable generators, pots and pans, three four burner hot plates and two grills for outdoor cooking, car batteries, jumper cables, and two stacks of green plastic chairs. Jayne walked on, discretely taking pictures.
She found herself at the end of Ohe Street. A muscular middle-aged black man was taking his trash to a dumpster at the edge of the grass. Jayne approached his light blue vinyl tarps. The front was tied back to allow the trade winds to pass through to the second tarp that was open on the far end. Inside the tarps framed art hung from wire grid panels. The art spaced to divide one area from another. The largest framed art work was a picture of Jesus knocking on a door holding a lamb. Across from the picture there were three leather computer chairs. The first two chairs had red rectangular milk crates sitting between them. In a stack of four. The bottom shelf was full of CD’s. The two middle shelves housed family photographs; a couple were antique. The top shelf had books, writing tablets, and a pencil holder full of pencils and markers. The third high back computer chair looked like it was a Herman Miller Mirra Chair, it sat alone facing the other chairs.
There was a mattress and box spring on the floor with a thick black throw rug in the middle of the tarp. His bed housed a red comforter with five pillows all with a red pillow sham. Against the back of the tarps were rows of jeans on hangers hung on wire grid panels. Three rows in all. Shoe boxes were stacked six rows across and four rows high, giving the jeans enough space at the bottom to hang free.
There was a bookcase facing the bed, the bottom shelf had sweaters and sweat shirts folded neatly. The fourth shelf had t-shirts folded in rows of three stacked to the top of the shelf; all color coordinated. The third shelf housed wife beaters and shorts. The second shelf was for his boxer briefs and socks. On the top of the book-case sat a white Big Ben alarm clock with silver trim and bells, glow in the dark hands and numbers, and an open bible.
Outside the end of the second tarp there was a stainless steel step trash can, a two burner hot plate, three generators, gas cans, iron skillet, and pots and pans stacked in black milk crates. He also had a silver Cannondale bicycle locked to itself with several chains. He was walking back from the trash dumpster, their eyes met. He smiled and said, “Good morning, it is another beautiful day in paradise, isn’t it?” Jayne smiled and said, “Yes, yes it is!” As Jayne got closer to the edge of the park her nostrils filled with the foul smell of garbage. She moved quickly into the grass and half way up the hill. The girls that had disappeared out of her view earlier were returning to the camp site. Some with wet hair, all of them in fresh cloths; several conversations were taking place between them. Two of the smaller girls were racing down the hill. One of the older girls was yelling after them to stop before someone got hurt.
A group of women of various ages had gathered in the park at the bottom of the hill. Some of them were sitting on blankets, others were standing; waiting for the girls to join them. Jayne stood there and watched the winner run into her mother’s arms almost knocking her down from the impact of her speed. They hugged. Jayne could hear the mother scolding her daughter for running down the hill. The little girl, “Oh Mommy I won, I won today,” she continued to laugh.
Milk crates in various colors were stacked against the back of the tents. Each girl hung her towel over a section of a milk crate. One of the towels had the words The Beverly Hills Hotel and Bungalows written in blue on it. A group of boys started walking towards the hill. Each of them with a towel, change of clothing, and white or tan plastic shopping bag in their hand or thrown over a shoulder. Jayne walked through the middle of the park. As Jayne passed the women, each one acknowledged her with a cheerful “Hello,” smile, or nod.
There was a couple sitting at a park table across the street, they spoke to Jayne as she approached them; the woman white—in her early fifties, the man, Latino about the same age. She said, “Good morning!” “How are you today?” Jayne used the opportunity to ask if she could sit with them for a moment. Jayne introduced herself and extended her hand. The woman introduced the man, Oliver, and then herself; Fiona. As Jayne removed her camera backpack and placed it on the bench next to her Fiona said, “Did you get some good pictures this morning?” “Yes, I believe I did.” Jayne responded. Fiona continued, “We’ve been watching you all morning.” A little surprised, Jayne said, “You have, why?” Oliver spoke, “A new face, and no belongings other than your camera bag, are you a reporter?” “No,” Jayne said. “I am a photographer.”
Oliver studied Jayne’s face for a moment then said, “We figured after yesterday we would have reporters and more police over here, is that why you are here?” Before Jayne could respond Fiona said, “We moved here from California over a year ago.” “We were having a hard time keeping a place in California.” “The landlord kept raising our rent.” “The woman at the housing office told us things were better here in Hawaii, so we used our SSDI checks to buy plane tickets.” “SSDI checks, what is that?” Jayne asked. Oliver responded, “Social Security Disability Insurance.”
Fiona continued, “After we got here our social security benefits were cut in half.” “In California our income was $2,299.00 a month.” “They put us on a waiting list for housing too.” “Said people with children would get housing first.” “We been here 18 months now, the woman in California lied.” Jayne’s head turned toward Fiona. “It cost more to live in Hawaii than in California, why would they cut your money?” In unison they said, “They said the state of Hawaii does not pay that much.”
Oliver spoke, “We been together 20 years now.” His weary brown eyes glowed when he looked at Fiona. Fiona grinned from ear to ear, she had no front teeth upper or lower. Her finger nails were long, uneven, chipped, and caked with dirt underneath. Fiona has long blonde hair and green eyes. She stood about 5’5”, and skinny as a rail. Fiona was wearing one of those cheap tourist t-shirts, (you can buy 9 t-shirts for 20 bucks at most of the tourist shops on the island.) It was red with an iron transfer that said, Hawaii in the black brush script font, a pair of non-designer black gym shoes with a pair of jeans, the thighs frayed, the white strings blew with the breeze.
Fiona went back to her story. “I have been homeless most of my adult life.” “My mamma put me out when I was 15 because her boyfriend was trying to have relations with me.” “I ain’t got no other family so all I could do was live on the street.” “When I turned 16 I got a job working fast food.” “I was doing okay too.” “Me and two of my coworkers moved into a studio apartment together.” “I kept saving my money and working, I was going to be the manager some day.” “Then one day I fell on a count the floor was slick from grease.” “I was hurt bad.” She raised her shirt to show Jayne the scars on her back and right side from the surgeries. She went on, “I got addicted to pain killers, couldn’t stand for long periods of time anymore and I couldn’t pay my rent so I had to go back to living on the street.” “Then I met Oliver.” “He got me to stop the drugs.” “He helped me get SSDI too, Oliver is a veteran.”
A younger white woman was walking by. Fiona stopped talking to greet her and asked her how her mom was feeling this morning. She stopped just long enough to update Fiona and Oliver, said she had to get back then disappeared into a tent in front of them, it was off by itself.
Fiona then turned her body to face Jayne and lowered her voice. “Her mamma just returned from the hospital, she dying from cancer and needs to be in hospice, but won’t no place let her daughter come too, so she came back here to die.” “They been homeless a long time.” “How did they become homeless?” Jayne asked. “Her daddy died, wasn’t no insurance money to bury him, wasn’t no money left for her and her mamma.” “When Simone was in 10th grade her mamma got sick.” “Simone got a job at a Times Supermarket.” “It wasn’t enough to pay all the bills so they ended up on the street.” “Simone’s mamma didn’t know she could get SSDI or public housing.” “Simone didn’t finish school and now she won’t work because she got to take care of her dying mamma.” Tears began to fill the wells of Jayne’s eyes. She cleared her throat. Fiona caught her breath. Oliver patted her hand. They sat in silence, then Jayne asked,“Fiona, are there a lot of families here?” She looked over her shoulder and said, “See those tents going up that street, we call that Family Hill.” “We try to keep all the families close together and in the middle of the camp, most of them take turns watching each other’s children while they at work, looking for work, go to a housing appointment, the food pantry, or to use the shower up over the hill.” “The street behind it in both directions full of families too; we call it Family Alley.” “Four or five mamma’s will go over the hill early in the morning to shower.” “We go in groups so we can watch out for each other, then the girls, then the boys and they dad’s.”
Surprised, “The city provides showers for the homeless people?” Jayne asked. Fiona laughed. “Just over that hill is the beach.” Public parks and beaches have bathrooms and shower stalls, you know for the swimmers and surfers or whatever.” “That’s why we stay close to the beaches or parks—at least we can shower every day and we can fill up our water jugs when we can’t buy bottled water.” “The city did bring over a portable toilet, they come clean it every day too, but that’s one toilet and there’s hundreds of people over here.”
Jayne pulled herself out of the slouched position she had fallen into and said, “It is my understanding a lot of people are homeless because they on drugs or alcohol.” Fiona cut in and said, “Don’t forget the crazies!” Then Oliver said, “This is a family community.” “If we know you over here because you got a drug or alcohol problem, we make it known we do not want you here, we don’t need that bad element—it’s babies here.” “The drug addicts and alcoholics stay over by China Town where they can beg the tourist for money.” “We back here trying to survive and stay out-of-the-way of the police.”
Oliver paused for a moment, “Listen, most of the people over here hardworking law-abiding people.” “Many of them have jobs.” “There are many reasons people came to lose their homes.” “Some loss their job because the business closed and the unemployment check wasn’t enough.” “Seven families over here because the owner died, left his properties to his greedy daughter, she sold the properties and the new owner raised the rent, some here because they mate left them for someone else, taking half the income with them.” “It’s a family with five kids living over here because the dad got hurt on his landscaping job, he couldn’t work any more, the landlord raised the rent, so they moved into their SUV to save enough to move, then the wife got fired because she wasn’t getting to work on time, trying to get the kids to school from over here, now they stuck.” “Some here because they were one paycheck away from being on the street and the one paycheck ended.” “It’s a lot of reasons people become homeless.” “Some here are veterans, like me.”
Fiona added, “Its people over here working three jobs, saving to get the rent, security, and application fee, it takes time…it just ain’t enough.” “When our money runs out for the month I go beg, Oliver can’t go, people won’t give him money because he’s a man.” Jayne asked, “How many tents are here?” Oliver spoke. “At the end of May it was 198, see those three tents over there?” “They just showed up yesterday, but the last time I counted we had 219 tents.” “See all the people starting to gather in the park, the county going to bring all of us a hot lunch soon.” “The shelters don’t have enough beds and those that do want to force you into a drug or alcohol program just to sleep there at night and sit through their classes during the day when you don’t have a problem other than no job.” Jayne sighed, Oliver and Fiona sighed. Jayne said, “I was watching the news last night a State Representative was attacked by a gang of homeless people over here.”
Oliver and Fiona laughed out loud. Oliver said, “He lucky we didn’t string him up for supper,” “They said a gang of people,” Oliver laughed again, “It was two of the teenagers that recognized who he was.” “He’s a mean man, he was walking down the streets with a video camera in his hand, pointing it in people’s faces, and talking.” “He the same man that came through here a while back with a sledgehammer, took all the shopping carts, he tore a lot of the tarps down, and had a garbage truck trying to take all of our stuff, told us he didn’t want us in his ward, we should move to the other side of the island.” “The dirty bastard.”
Fiona said “Oliver we best be getting across the street before the truck comes so we can line up otherwise we won’t get a lunch.” The three of them stood at the same time, Jayne thanked them for talking to her. Fiona said, “You can come visit us anytime, you welcome here.” Jayne thanked Oliver and Fiona, crossed the street back into the park and over the hill towards the bathrooms. Jayne used the GPS on her phone to measure the distance from the homeless camp to the bathroom…it read 0.5 miles.
Love…You ever love someone that doesn’t, didn’t love you? If you are comletely blessed you have no idea of the emotion of what I write. Often people fall in love with the moment. With where they are, with what they believe they need, what they are mssing; love.
Step back before you step forward; do you feel fear? Are you suddenly overwhelmed with emotion?
It is not love; it is the moment that you are standing in…a feeling over everything…a feeling of being complete..a feeling…want; desire; yearning purpose; life…
Step back; wait; feel; wait some more; ask yourself why? Why? What’s got me feeling this way? My current situation? My past? What I believe I need, want in my future?
Step back; ask yourself, “Why?” Look for the truth of the matter.
Is this what “I” want, need, dream of, desire? Is this a quick fix?” Will I feel this way later?” “Will this grow?” “Why is my heart feeling this way?” “Is it my heart at at all?”
Will we wake up in 4 months and realize this is not love? Will we wake up? When this comes full circle will either one of us realize this is not love?
Do not move quickly, do not move on what you are feeling in the momet…move to the drummer inside you, realize the difference in your personal drummer, the other’s drummer, life’s drummer…find your voice.
Live through your drummer….your’s is not what you think you hear, not what someone else hears…
Feel your drummer..actually feel it.
Absent at the first step taken, favorite bedtime story, removal of training wheels, first emergency room visit, first lost tooth, first day of school, the plays, chorus, open house, parent teacher conference, driver license, homecoming court, prom dress, graduation, first love–heartbreak, college chosen, first job, first promotion…first anything, second everything.
Absent at birthday, holiday, happy day, loss of granny, gran papa, favorite uncle, best friend–always absent.
Leaving the child with the question. “Why am I not good enough to have your love?” Leaves a child with a broken part of themselves deep within.
It was said to the absent parent, “Children of absent parents are much better off when the absent parent is dead, at least then there is a legitimate reason for the absence.”
From the book Safari for The Soul by Jan Boal
This book is a must read, it has received a 5-Star Rating from San Francisco Book Review.
Each officer across the nation takes an Oath:
On my honor, I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character, or the public trust.
I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions.
I will always uphold the constitution my community and the agency I serve.
The moment any police officer anywhere realizes a fellow officer holds any bias toward anyone for any reason you have disregarded the Oath you took. It is your duty as an officer to hold your Blue Shield Brothers and Sisters accountable for their bias, bigotry, homophobic, or racist hearts!
“If you see something you should say something,” refers to YOU first. How can any of you turn a blind eye and believe you are doing your job when you allow a bigot, homophobic, or racist to carry a gun and a badge? What is happening in America will not stop until you hold yourself and your Blue Shield Family responsible!
An Open Letter to The Media, The Police Department, and The American People
The Nation cannot, will not heal until we address all the issues that the Media, The Department of Justice, The Educational System, and Americans keep sweeping under the rug.
Each time a minority is killed by a Peace Officer in America the Department of Justice and the Media blame the human being that was murdered—equivalent to blaming the victim of rape.
Within each police department across America there is bigotry. As long as Peace Officers are allowed to remain in positions that allows them to possess a gun on their hip and a badge on their chest the issues of mistreatment are going to remain. As long as other Peace Officers knowingly remain silent; their superiors knowingly allow the bigots to have contact with the public; all of them are guilty of not upholding to the Oath they swore by! All of them. Do not blame the Union for helping the bigots keep their jobs. Fire them. As the racist officers in California were fired.
Media outlets report bias facts and opinions…they go as far to interview people that will not say anything against what they are reporting. Just this day I heard someone on a news program state “We do not need to talk about slavery after all that was over 100 years ago.” This thought process is another part of the problem. We have to talk about it because from the beginning of slavery till this day, systems have remained in place so that White Americans thrive while so many other groups of people do not.
I understand that people do not want to address the issues in America because it makes people uncomfortable. Black people do not want to talk about slavery because of the miseducation of it, because it is embarrassing. White people do not want to talk about it, because well, “Some of my best friends are Black.” “I was not there so why should we talk about it?” “It was so long ago.” Those are excuses. The reality is that it is difficult to talk about, to accept, to deal with. Not dealing with it is not going to make it go away.
None of us can heal until we have leveled the playing field, none of us can heal until we stamp out bigotry and institutional racism. None of us.
Many people love to bring up black on black crime with each murder of a minority in America. No one mentions that when a Peace Officer is murdered 68% of the time it is at the hands of a White man.
As children we spend our entire school lives learning about White America, yes, there is Black History month; something I find insulting. Yes, it is insulting—Black History is American History! Whites have spent a lot of time and money making sure that what was taught in schools were White people facts. To deliberately leave out all the facts makes White History his story not the truth.
Many of us know the statistics of those incarcerated in America, the new slavery system.
Written within the 13th Article of the Constitution by the Forefathers that were slave holders themselves. I realize those incarcerated committed a crime, just as I know that Whites receive lessor sentences for the same crimes as well as worse crimes.
Until each American is treated with the same respect, the same opportunities, the same treatment there can be no healing of people in America.
People have the audacity to blame the President. Let all of us look at ourselves; for anyone that has witnessed bigotry, bias, or any other injustice and said nothing—you are just as guilty as the person that did the deed.
I walked into the meeting, paused for a moment scanning the room to locate an empty seat.
A voice said, “Hey you.” I felt his tone; glanced down in front of me; saw the look in his eyes. I felt one of the four brick walls surrounding my heart crash to the ground…the smoke made my weak.
He moved his briefcase from the seat next to him motioning for me to sit next to him.
I exhaled as I sat back; relaxing into this feeling of complete ease.
He put his arm around me drawing me closer to him. Almost whispering in my ear, “I love your hair.”
The chemistry strong undeniable–the ease of the conversation that followed.
Our exchange of glances; eyes sparkling; getting lost in his grand piano smile.
Exchanges of calls and texts. Such laughter sharing life moments.
I woke one morning remembering those that I have been forced to love from a long distance.
The brick wall suddenly built back now surrounded with a moat.
Have you every fallen, and the impact not hurt?
Nope; me either.
Some falls hurt less than others.
Sometimes we can break the fall,
Sometimes we brace ourselves for the fall.
Sometimes we can roll on the impact…it still hurts.
Some falls will have you laying in the rocks unable to move for a moment easing self up, shaking inside.
Other falls allow us to jump up survey the damage, brush self off and keep moving, yes.
Feeling the pain, seeing the scars, watching the blood drip; the soreness, the hurt the morning after.
Why the fuck would you fall in love when you can walk into it?
I BELIEVE something wonderful is about to happen!
Safari for the Soul
I can be
I need to remember this fact when I am interacting with others.
As I have looked over a matter I went from I can be an asshole to being an asshole.
I will play nice with the other children on the play ground; keeping in mind that I can be an asshole.
Today’s word is GRATITUDE.
Something so many of us lack.
When and where did any of us get so full of our EGO that we no longer show gratitude for the time another spends giving to you!
Instead of bitching about what that person did not did not do in their giving of their time, their love to your sorry ungrateful ass…mother fucker show some gratitude!
I checked the word Gratitude in the dictionary. Your photograph was not among those that know GRATITUDE.
I have learned that whenever I am being beat over the head with something; that something, is a lie.
One of the biggest lies ever told on Earth anywhere is who the weaker sex is.
I had my baby girl on Wednesday. Thursday morning I was ready to go home. I had things to do, my son was there with my grandparents, waiting.
I was back to work on Monday.
My man sneezed on Sunday, he’s called off since Monday.
Just remember anytime anyone anywhere is beating you over the head about something; anything, it is a lie!
Unconditional with my love–love is sacrifice not compromise!
Exceptional Intellect–knowledge is everything.
Have A Smart Ass Mouth when I am being lied too! Makes me want to take the liar’s head off…as long as I am yelling you still have a chance. Once I go quiet–we are done.
You will know when I’ve peeped your bull shit; not calling you on it, just that you will find it difficult to reach me by any means of contact you thought you had.
You do not get to fuck me and fuck over me. Choose One–move your weak, insecure ass on!