DramaDBen4

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Urban Paradise

I remember 52nd St. I remember catching the El train at City Hall, and taking the 15 minute journey into another world. The first thing that greets me as I disembark is the smell. My olfactory senses heighten, as I separate the incense from the chicken patties, the scented body oil from marijuana. All the smells from the street join together and hover over everyone, creating a different sky; a sky just for brown people. The energy iminating from the crowds draws you almost against your will into the hustle and bustle of necessity. Into a world where the day's profits mean new shoes for sons and daughters, a full set, a hit or a shape up. I walk from Market St in the middle of the sidewalk, avoiding collision with the men and women who sit on either side. The music blasting from the man who sells bootleg c.d.'s turns my path into a Soul Train line, as my stride echoes the rhythm and the people on the sides of me nod their heads in anticipation of their turn. Here, the closer you are to the street, to the neighborhood, the more respect and prestige you can expect. One's status is independent of years of schooling, number of languages spoken and how much money he has obtained legally. Kings and queens of the ghetto walk proudly amongst their subjects, adorned with real silver and fake hair. I reach Walnut St. and open the heavy door to the beauty salon. The smell of relaxers evoke memories of childhood hair care and I smile at the young woman at the desk. I greet the stylists with a "what's up, what's goin on?" with a twang normally absent from my everyday speech. See, I'm wearing a Penn sweatshirt, but my enrollment at an Ivy League is insignificant. Almost immediately, my vernacular travels almost two years ago, to a time when I spent hours shooting the breeze with smokers, dudes in gangs and fast girls. Possessives and adverbs are the first to go, then monosyllabic words. The addition of the slightly Southern cadence in my voice completes the process, and I hope that the change deflects the attitudes held toward the name on my shirt. Listening to conversations about baby daddy drama, cars, clothes and trashy novels bring a warming sense of comfort over my body, one that I don't feel at school, or even with some of my friends. As I leave the salon with an extra bounce in my step (one that only comes to a black woman after her has been done), I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. I look into the faces of beautiful brown people, with locks, kofi's, miniskirts, long beards and even longer braids, tattoos and white teeth and feel blessed to be black. Everyone, from three to eighty-three, knows something about struggle and that knowledge makes their laughter louder, their hustles more effective and every new day more valuable. I'm walking with individuals who are defiant in their will to live, to have, to get by.

Posted at 11:41 pm by DramaDBen4
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Thursday, July 08, 2004

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

As the rain drips aimlessly down the window pane, i run my fingers slowly along the piping of your shorts. I used to wear them like a varsity player's letterman jacket, basking in the envy of all the popular girls. Your scent has long since faded from the fabric and I struggle to remember the baritone in your voice....is soft, as we conspire against Dominique to decide who will bring dessert to the BBQ. She realizes our plan and in our surrender, we agree to bring forks instead. It's our first "from us" gift and I suppress my smile when my mind conjures images of cocktail parties and banquets as you start the car....stalls as we drive away from Philadelphia. Your eyebrows furrow as you mutter incoherently about your "stupid car" and I turn and glance longingly at the receding skyline. I try not to focus on the reality that this will probably be your last moment in this city and my last with you....are more gentle with me then you have ever been. Your lips against my eyelids do everything but stop the tears from forming in the corners of my eyes. I hold you close to me and listen to the beat of your heart, which matches mine with a melancholy semblance. It reminds me of the saddest song I've ever heard....myself tell you "I love you." My stomach contorts as the words escape from my lips, but the pain is one of freedom instead of fear. For the first time in my life, I completely disown my pride and acquiesce to the spirit of vulnerability. The silence that follows is deafening....so I close my eyes in hopes that all of my other senses will follow suit. But even in the darkness I hear her giggle as you murmer an inebriated compliment in her ear. Anger shoots in red hot spurts from my chest to my throat, and I open my mouth in preparation for the flames that I pray will be released...your grip on my waist, after a playful nudge to your abdomen. My roommate rolls her eyes in mock disdain as you shower me with kisses that echo throughout our tiny apartment. I flush in embarrassment, because you've only talked to her one.... time, and that was in September. I nod my head hesitantly and try to focus on the warmth of your skin against mine. A million questions run through my mind, but the rhythm of your body relaxes my uncertainty....in telling the object of my affection for the past 5 months, that my energies were now focused on you. He looks at me with confusion as I try to explain this new relationship that developed over the course of two weeks. I use the term "quasi boyfriend" to describe the man who systematically severed all my ties to other romantic interests....were similar, and our conversations became so habitual that ending them with endearing pet names was normal. Minutes were converted into hours as we discussed our "favorites" and made predictions for the future. I'd initiate our departure with "goodnight sweethart," to which you replied...."tell me your name again." I looked at you in disbelief and wondered why I hadn't chosen someone else to be my class partner. But there was something intriguing in your failed memory, so I didn't mind when you tried to get to know...Chris, from our psychology class?" "No, I've never met him."

Posted at 02:11 am by DramaDBen4
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Thursday, June 24, 2004

Same Ol' Me

When most women are upset, their emotions manifest into sadness. Characteristics include, crying, feelings of selflessness and depression. However, for a choice few like myself, sadness eventually manifests into anger. It's been a year since I first entered college, and the myriad of positive and negative experiences has brought me closer to understanding my emotions. For the first time in my life, I've faced vulnerability and rejection with a brashness that would've frightened me just two years ago. Recently, I've had the pleasure of experiencing the truest form of vulnerability: falling in love. Only, my story didn't end with Richard Gere, in a drastic change of heart, rolling up to my fire escape with a dozen roses. Instead, my love was literally shat on and all of my notions on love and compassion melded with the rotting pile already forming on my heart. Up until now, I've looked back on the incident, with melancholy, but with an understanding of inopportune timing. Fuck timing. And fuck sadness. Because that fact that I leave my phone on in hopes that you will dial my number, doesn't make me want to cry- instead, it ignites seething anger, mostly towards myself for holding on to a fantasy. It seems that this is the summer of laziness because every man I know, from 22-52 is opting to take the selfish route, neglecting the feelings of their significant others. In my case, I've been calling, writing, texting and emailing this man, well, I should say myself, because he refuses to answer. No, he'll return everything but a call, no form of communication is initiated on HIS own valition. Don't tell me you miss me because you work with a black girl who "looks kinda like me" and knows how to juggle ebonics and correct english. Don't tell me you miss me and then neglect to return my phone calls because you "haven't been feeling too well." And DON'T apologize to me because you can't be honest enough with yourself to tell me that you've fallen out of love or fallen too deeply into it to maintain our relationship. I don't want your "i miss you's" or "i'm sorry's" because they mean about as much to me as our relationship meant to you...NOTHING. Even in love I can see that your self-serving approach to compassion is faulty and the way you go about being my "friend" is something I wouldn't wish on my less than important acquaintences. Your window of opportunity for anything has now slammed shut and I hope you can feel the reverberation in New York...the distant land, so far from Philadelphia that a relationship of any kind is IMPOSSIBLE to maintain. I am worth more than some man's half-assed attempt to "love me" and I'll wait as long as I have to to get what I deserve. I AM indispensable, and I need a man who, at the very least, recognizes that. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to see you and I don't want to be your friend. The sad thing is, your actions have already proven that you feel the same way.

Posted at 02:01 am by DramaDBen4
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Tuesday, June 15, 2004

My Two Weeks Notice

As the age old saying goes, it's much easier to please yourself than to please everyone around you. In that spirit of self-empowerment, I've decided to retire another version of myself running parallel to my one true self. The role that I can no longer sustain is that of the doting housewife. Just as thousands of woman waited patiently for the return of their husbands in those 1950's representations of Americana, I have sat at a checkered table, in a sunburst yellow kitchen watching the oven timer as my brownies rise to a chocolately perfection. Except my husband isn't working at the power plant or post office or any of the other blue collar professions that promised his return at 5:03 p.m. sharp. My husband is a man who is too lazy, too afraid to take extra steps to keep me in his life. It's been hard to watch the color of the kitchen change from sunburst yellow to steel gray as the decades progress, and the return of my partner seems as hopeless as the end of a senseless war. But at the end of the day, regardless of the year, I am frozen in time; in a place that leaves no room for new beginnings. As familiar and effortless as it is to hold on to the hope of his return, I have to rise from my seat at the kitchen table and walk straight through to the front door. And if I pass him on my way from the door, down the street to the highway, it might be too late for me to turn around and warm his dinner, or rub his feet. Despite the threat of sounding like a bitter feminist, I can't help but notice that my new resolutions all fall under once category: freedom from grasps of so-called men. Even the strongest of women fall prey to the comforting embrace of a man's favor, so much so they cannot feel the embrace grow cold, spiteful or indifferent. From now on, I will take any promises from a man with a grain of salt, knowing that one day those promises could manifest into lies.

Posted at 12:56 am by DramaDBen4
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Saturday, June 05, 2004

Tug of War

If he knew how deeply I felt for him, he would never question my fidelity or jokingly refer to the "beginning of the end." Perhaps if he felt the gradual acceleration of my heart beat when Michael Jackson signaled his income call, he would want to hold me closer. And maybe, just for a few seconds, if he watched the slides from our wedding that I show in the back of my mind, he would never speak of future girlfriends. A wise man once told me that the mind and heart will almost never work symbiotically, and events that read "complicated" or "damaging" in your mind inevitably become lost in translation to your heart. My mind, led by constant reminders of my failed relationships and images of your emotional progression, begins a perpetual line of self-questioning that always ends with a seemingly rational interpretation of our situation. In my head, I know that you're falling out of love with me; and maybe it wasn't love to begin with because love dictates actions contradictory to your own; and next year, you'll probably seek your next conquest who looks nothing like me because I have a face that even YOUR mother couldn't love. Like light reflecting off on an infracted lens, these images of you that course through my troubled mind are inverted in the mirror facing my heart. Because in my heart, I know that my feelings for you are different; they’ve weathered my mental boot-camp, lasted through the opinions of those who continue to judge my decisions and have altered my perceptions on the meaning of compromise, sacrifice and true happiness. My mind screams that I have an inability to accept change, that holding on to familiarity reeks of psychological disarray. I can't help but second guess my heart, which pumps the beauty of commitment through my veins and pushes me to believe in love, in you, in myself. And in my mind, I know that despite my disdain for practice, work and sacrifice, I would willingly practice making you smile and work on building a relationship that can offer me peace. And in my heart, I know that I wouldn't sacrifice the memory of your presence to ease the pain of your sudden absence.

Posted at 12:43 am by DramaDBen4
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Monday, February 16, 2004

De'ja vu

Trust. Easier to lose than it is to gain. An emotion that cannot exist without the actions of another, but must work simultaneously with an individual's willingness to positively interpret those actions. Trust isn't dependent upon love, but love can't exist without its' foundation. It's used to separate the real from the bullshit, the sincere from the selfish. Most people, you know you can't trust. A few people, you feel you can. Some people gain your trust, but inevitably, their true nature seeps through the cracks that only time and close observation provide. I can see you seething through your teeth, clenched as you smile deceivingly in my face. You're in the tips of your fingers, poised to rub my back seductively...under the guise of friendship. Who you are glides on the waves of your laughter, crashing continuously against the shores of my insecurities. It reverberates through the night, and as I drown, I can feel you watching...The worst kind of mistrust is that which you feel towards yourself. Being unable to trust yourself is being asthmatic...the air that you so desperately need escapes you in quick spurts. I can feel it coming; sweating, feeling helpless, I struggle to speak, make decisions, fall in love. My relief can't come from an inhaler or medication. I have to learn to forgive my past actions, embrace the me that shoots at erratic speeds from my soul. I have to be able to save myself from drowning when others condemn me to silent death. A death that will be mourned by the angels who live with me, who live without me and those who I refused to let know me. A comforting thought, but irrelevant now that I'm fighting a tide that won't let me move. I'm too tired to continue this constant battle and would rather surrender to the ebb and flow of my own sea. I want to relax my muscles, lift my head to the sky and fade into a darkness that's beautiful and sirene...one that I can trust.

Posted at 08:40 pm by DramaDBen4
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Saturday, January 31, 2004

What Goes Around Comes Around

I cleaned my room today, and for the first time in months, I made my bed. Living in conditions where clothes, books and even my heart were strewn across the floor eclipsed the destroyed nature of my bed. Sheets once released from airtight packaging, now lay huddled shamefully at the foot of my bed. Their yellow color stained with misconception, masked deception and self-deprecation. Many nights I've tossed and turned tumultuously, sleep prohibited by the inability to breathe, to cry, to silence the insurrection of thought raging in my mind. Not too long ago, he pulled the sheets from my body, raping me of warmth and security. He left me vulnerable on the unmade bed, the material creating a cape that flapped menacingly in my face when he turned to leave. But today, I decided to make my bed. I reached for the sheets that were abandoned on the floor, draped across his shoulders and the ones binding your hands and feet. I smoothed the material across the mattress, tucking the corners carefully to keep them from coming undone. With the extra sheets gained from your freedom, I was able to create a complete palette... I've made my bed, and now I must lie in it. And I laid there peacefully, realizing how I'd appropriated your sense of security, of comfort. It was unfair of me to force your personality into palm of my hand, and hold it unremittingly as I tried to rock myself to sleep. I left you handicapped and until today, my own disabilities rendered me immobile. So now, as I lay alone in my immaculate surroundings, I can only apologize for forcing myself upon YOU.

Posted at 07:50 am by DramaDBen4
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Friday, January 30, 2004

Scene 1

"Driving down the highway that stretches for miles into infinity, I watch as the sky melts from orange to a deep indigo. I hit the scan button on the radio, and settle on one of the two stations playing Dolly Parton. The hum of the tires turning over the uneven road causes a rhythmic cadence that accompanies the music. The once warm breeze that played with my hair has now turned cool, and I wonder if renting a ten year old convertible was that wise. I stretch my foot into the night and make patterns against the sky with my toe. The night smells differently than the night back at home; it's clearer and tingles in my nose. I can smell the possibility, the fragrance of something better yet to come. I try to follow the movement of the desert, focusing on each cactus before it fades back into the shooting beams of the night. You interrupt me in my quest to separate the night...something about the time when you and your friends drove to Vegas. This story sounds like all of your stories; exciting, but all with the same inevitable outcome. I smile because I know it's coming. You stop because you notice my recognition. My laughter urges you to keep going, but you've been wounded by my inability to listen and settle on your characteristic smirk. I love that smirk. It has the innocence of a little boy, but the sensuality gained from memorizing the outline of my body. It's so quiet that you catch the erratic turn that my breathing has taken, and the smirk fades. I feel the car slow and see the night falling back into distinct components...I wonder if your gaze has frozen time. I search your eyes for an explanation, but see only the same longing that emanates from mine. It's so quiet that the energy from your glance creates a buzz that changes pitch as it shoots through my body-eyelids to chin, collarbone to fingertips, my heart to my knees. I began to notice how dark it has become and can see the night's expansiveness cascading down the sides of the car. You touch my face once, letting your hand fall, gently brushing my side. And all at once, yet slowly and stealthily, we disappear into the night, joining the shooting beams of cactus, possibility and love...."

Posted at 07:09 am by DramaDBen4
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Sunday, November 09, 2003

Sieve Sisters

If you ever need to separate a treasure from its muddy suroundings, use a sieve. The sieve-a tool that extricates valuable items from the majority of worthless components in a given medium. With a few simple shakes of the wrist, the explorer sees a gradual recession of the grime concealing the true prize, usually a jewel or a small group of priceless young women. Hidden among the thick broth of disrespect, self-loathing and one-night stands, the women wait patiently for their turn through the sieve. And after months, and sometimes years of shaking, their illuminous worth surfaces, shining ethereally on the metal grate. But instead of choosing these women of undeniable worth, the explorer drinks the muddy solution that oozes from the bottom of the sieve. They drink it greedily, with a thirst so insatiable that they ignore the figures left waiting to be treasured. The
mixture moves slothily down their lips, to their chins, until it sits puddled, overflowing out of their laps. Its' constitution is so thick that the individual components are no longer recognized. Instead, they have fused together into a unified mass of forgotten identities. Wounded by this chemical apartheid, the women fight the temptation to liquify; to dilute their personalities to better flow through the holes on the bottom. But weekend after weekend, they still remain:

"Women-who-refuse-to-compromise-themselves-for-men-who-ingest-sewage-and-ignore-sweetness."

Posted at 12:30 am by DramaDBen4
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Friday, November 07, 2003

Subconscious

I told the last night I loved you , and you dream that I had. I love the nights that I dream and had you last. You dream nights of last love had, I'm told. You told me you loved me last night, in a dream I had. Last night, I had a dream that you told me you loved me.

Posted at 07:57 pm by DramaDBen4
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