For artists who are sensitive about their shit.


I think of Phyllis often. Have her on my wall, in fact.
She possessed this measure of magical beauty.
Not because her skin was golden. Not because her hair was fine.
But, because, when she spoke my truth came pouring out.
The truth that talented women know.
It’s not easier having gifts.
Talents are tokens draping heavily around the neck.
People need you to be their star until you feel real.
Billie knew this. Whitney learned.

They lived in shadows, with them anyway.
And died in them.
People always say if Phyllis only knew
How much she was loved….
Maybe she knew and still couldn’t stay.

Mr. Midnight


He spoke in lies. Beautiful tender lies that made her stomach curl over itself; set her heart’s rhythm into a thunderous melody. They made her a believer. Not because she lacked esteem or common sense. Mostly because she allowed his words to move into her as though they were light. A thing to be craved. Not feared. So she believed these lies because somewhere, she needed to believe.

The Unintentionally Entitled

“Anyone who has ever struggled with poverty knows how extremely expensive it is to be poor.”  

(James A. Baldwin)

In the profoundly harsh words of iconic actor and artist Tupac Shakur, “They got (sic) money for wars, but can’t feed the poor.” We are not a moral nation when we assume that security is more important than basic needs. Forgive me, men of uniform. I am not discounting the various sacrifices made in the name of freedom by these brave men who enter wars with heart and solidarity to this country. But shouldn’t we, as a nation that prides itself as a beacon of hope, be as proud and caring of our citizens who cannot–whatever reasons may be–care for themselves?

Being poor is not a crime. No matter what the GOP tells you, no matter how Republican pundits insert it into the national conversation–there is not a soul on this earth who wouldn’t rather have a better station in life. It is an irresponsible habit of the GOP to cradle the notion that poor people enjoy a life of welfare entitlements. There are not, nor were there ever any welfare queens. If you have ever seen 1974’s Claudine you have witnessed, not an exaggerated fictional character drawn from the white-guilt of a conscious writer, but a remarkably truthful icon of what society has long viewed as the Welfare Queen. It takes a boot to the misconceptions that built the unfair image of poor single black mothers in the ghetto.

Claudine depicts the struggle for respectability of a black family. Written by Lester and Tina Pine, the film points its lens on Claudine, a single black mother of six living in a rundown apartment with little means to better their situation. There is no husband/father in the home. Claudine, though working, is dependent on “Mr. Welfare” to keep her family afloat. He is a noose and a help; a burden but also a gift. When title character Claudine falls in love with Roop, a black garbage man, “Mr. Welfare” releases his tentacles. To keep the financial aid of the government, Claudine must not have any man living in her home. She must also not work because it is illegal. If “Mr. Welfare” has his say, she will remain unemployed, waiting for her monthly allotment to barely cover her monthly expenses. But Claudine wants more; she wants to be perceived as a hardworking woman and responsible mother–not the welfare-dependent scion.

Roop attempts to woo Claudine under the distrustful eyes of her children.

Lester Pine said of the film: After so many movies depicting black people as violent and cruel, Claudine wasn’t like that. Claudine was a nice picture about people who strive for exactly the same thing everyone else does: respectability. To be respected as human beings.

Washington is gearing up to fight the looming “fiscal cliff” that promises to change government entitlement programs and taxes. There are changes that should be made to structure our country back on its feet. When I hear politicians speak in clipped language about drastic changes that will shift the already shaky ground of low-income families, I cringe. Is being hungry entitled living or thinking? Isn’t being able to handle basic needs a responsibility any human being would relish having? That is not an entitlement.  According to Republicans like Governor Romney:

“There are… (people)… who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe that government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to – you name it,” Romney is seen and heard saying. “That’s an entitlement…. These are people who pay no income tax. Forty-seven percent of Americans pay no income tax…”

Poor people are not entitled. They have no idea what it means to assume that someone will stand up for them. Believing that a government large enough to manage multiple wars in countries across the continents and also do its part to ensure the stability of its citizens is a responsibility, not an entitlement. The language used to describe programs that enable some to live as respectfully as they can should not feel scathing. If we are responsible to bring peace to Iraq and civil rights to Afghanistan, then we are responsible to our own citizens. Why is my health and well-being any less important than a poor woman in some distant country that receives aid from the United States?

It’s not.

I have a very personal stake in this story. After working, going to school, and striving to become a part of the middle class, I found myself single and pregnant, without health insurance. I was also still in graduate school attempting to finish a program that would award me with a piece of paper that said I shouldn’t be on welfare, but guess what–I ended up there. Pride aside, I thought of the life of my unborn child. I didn’t ever want to be a person that needed the government’s help because society indoctrinated us to believe those who do are less than.

I entered the building with every assumption and justification on my shoulders. I sat down in front of a well-meaning woman who did her best to make me as comfortable as possible. I was literally shaking in the seat. What if I were denied? What if my degree disqualified me for aid? I didn’t know. I had all the ignorant notions of confronting “Mr. Welfare’s” entitlements. 

From the case worker I learned that I was eligible to receive SNAP benefits, cash assistance when I hit the sixth month of my pregnancy, and immediate health care. Mind you, I hadn’t been covered by health care since I was sixteen years old. It had been that long since I’d seen a doctor. Almost fifteen years. The tape running in my head wanted to shame me, therefore shaming my child and the situation that had brought me into the arms of my federal government. It wanted me to be ashamed to pull out that SNAP card in grocery stores to purchase food that nourished my growing pregnant body. It wanted me to watch the eyes of the doctor and nurse I had chosen to see me through nine months of pregnancy. To perceive judgement or disdain because I was covered by federally funded health insurance.

It took a long time to overcome the shame in the grocery store. I live in an area that is not particularly low-income. Some of my neighbors would be considered upper-middle class. The first couple of times that I pulled out that food benefits card, I did so in the safety of a store that catered to the kinds of people I assumed wouldn’t judge. I  thought that by staying in the comfort of my shame, I wouldn’t have to look away when an angry shopper saw my card and thought to themselves that here was another one on the tax payer’s dime. But gradually I remembered a couple of things. One was, I had worked since I was eighteen years old. I had paid taxes. I contributed my share for those who were benefiting from a system I was not on. I didn’t complain. In fact, I saw it as my reasonable duty as a healthy citizen of these united states that we call America. It wasn’t my shame to carry. It was the person who would sneer at a pregnant woman who had the same nutritional needs. Eventually, I did end up in a grocery store that catered to a higher income bracket without worrying about their perceptions. In fact, there were times that other people who didn’t look like they belonged on SNAP pulled out their food benefit card ahead of me in line.

Intuitively, I happened to choose a doctor who treated me as if I were any other patient. I never saw one ounce of judgement over my healthcare insurance. No arrogance or disdain. My pregnancy was as wonderful as it could be with a doctor whose first thought is medicine, and not the politics of welfare. I don’t believe that all doctors practice this way. (I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.) She showed compassion and never ever looked down on me. In fact, she always showed genuine interest in educational background and my accomplishments, my family and what I intended to do after I gave birth.

During the last couple months of my pregnancy, I was classified as high-risk which meant that I needed to see a specialist weekly, as well as have stress tests every two weeks. Without health care, none of these needs would have been met. My specialist came highly recommended and his practice was one of the more lucrative in our area. When I walked into his practice for the first time, I actually expected to see a chilly face when I mentioned my insurance provider. This doctor and his staff showed only compassion and humanity every time I saw them. The situation was highly stressful enough. I didn’t need the burden of my own imagined shame to add anymore. It was one of many unbelievable gifts of humanity that I never felt lower class, not ever.  I had a seamless delivery, a healthy baby, and health insurance for her upon delivery.

Am I a Welfare Queen? Did I take advantage of a system put into place to do exactly what I needed it to do when I needed it? Did my inability to find a job in this economy after graduating with two degrees make me hopeless? Was I any less qualified for these entitlement programs than Mitt Romney’s dad when he needed them?

I believe that I am a good citizen who has done my share to contribute positively to society. I am an advocate for education, the arts, cultural diversity, and leveling the field so that other players can enter. I do not believe that I am any less of a mother because I relied on the government until I was able to stand on my own two feet. But let me tell you, standing on my own two feet is wonderful, but without those benefits, there is a struggle there. I’m not starving, neither is my daughter. We are healthy. She will continue to receive health care until I find a full-time job that provides those benefits. Like many other Americans, I’m gambling that I will remain healthy and well until that time.

If I were entitled, I would assume that I should able to keep health insurance and cash assistance and food benefits so that I can move into the middle class. But I’m not. I’m a single parent, a black female, a woman, the mother to a daughter who simply wants the same opportunities as the next person. I am blessed to have a job that I love, good pay, and fair health. I don’t expect America to do anything except support me in maintaining those attributes.


Four Days in November

“We need men who can dream of things that never were.” – John F. Kennedy

On the occasion of the anniversary of one of our nation’s darkest moments, I have an impulse to reflect. For a moment, let’s forget the conspiracies, the adultery, and legend of a curse. Let’s instead remember, that for a brief shining moment, there was a time referred to as Camelot (Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy).

I don’t want to talk about the fact that he was murdered–not yet. President Kennedy’s assassination is what history chooses to remember.  Lost as a footnote is that President Kennedy, Eternal Dreamer, tried his best to create an America that fit his vision, be it flawed or righteous. My view of history is not long as I’ve spent only three decades as its student. It is colored by the grainy black and white images of a motorcade, blood-stained pink suit, a wife cradling the head of her husband having herself tried to scurry over the trunk of the convertible. This was his last day.

But what of  his 1000 days in office?

We’re so soiled by the unforgiving mark of violence and the truths that tumbled out afterward, that we forget how this president and administration once sat comfortably in our fawning. It is often said that this is the president who inspired a generation. But what gave him such distinction? What was it about this wealthy son turned politician that moved a generation to become unmoored from apathy? And did we ever reach the high standards he boldly espoused?

It’s not as if John F. Kennedy appeared from a misty fog. This is a man whose future was assured from birth. History reminds repeatedly of the storied background of the legendary Kennedy family. Whispers of a fortune made nefariously surround that history. Yet, what family in these Americas who find themselves fortunate enough to be members of the 1 percent have not been made so on the backs and fears of others. It’s a symptom of white privilege. Perhaps the Kennedy family was visibly ruthless in his pursuits while others do so with backbiting smiles and false encouragements. He was given all the privileges of wealth, avenues to an education that shaped his enlightened vision of the world. Indeed, it is an easier life to pursue when money is of no consequence. John F. Kennedy pursued it with vigor.

I often wonder how much truth lived in President Kennedy’s loftier words. He challenged a nation to be its best self, while  faltering to his worst at times. He moved the nation to embrace the arts without cynicism and arrogance. He cautiously entered the Civil Rights arena in a deeply fractured, racially segregated country. He encouraged others to seek public service.

Petraeus: The Art of Slut Shaming

Sex and politics isn’t exactly breaking news having come from the generation of President Bill Clinton’s sexual escapades in the Oval. So, the current platter of General David Petraeus and Lieutenant Colonel Paula Broadwell for public consumption over a recently discovered affair between the two isn’t  blog-worthy in and of itself. Affairs between married people in esteemed positions happen, unfortunately. They also happen between poor people, by the way. This isn’t the issue consuming my passion at this moment. However, comments by conservative televangelist Pat Roberts are.

Mr. Pat “Haiti is cursed for it’s pact with the Devil” Roberts is no stranger to odd comments that lack logic and compassion during inconsiderate times, such were the thoughts he expressed during Haiti’s recovery from a devastating earthquake in 2010. Roberts genuinely believed and said that Haiti’s natural disaster was a deserved curse brought upon the people of Haiti due to their Non-Christian religious background. Unfortunately, Roberts public platform at CBN, a Christian broadcasting channel, on its show “The 700 Club” enables Mr. Roberts to continually expound on newsworthy events with raw and tacky comprehension. Of the Petraeus and Broadwell scandal, Roberts essentially landed all of the blame on Lt. Col. Broadwell’s doorstep. Roberts flawed logic begins and ends with Lt. Col. Broadwell’s aesthetic qualities. “The man’s off in a foreign land and he’s lonely and here’s a good looking lady throwing herself at him. I mean, he’s a man,” he said on Monday’s episode of “The 700 Club.”

It’s disturbing that this blame pattern, typifying beautiful woman into sluts intent on using their female wiles to bring down powerful men, isn’t only coming from the likes of Pat Roberts. Since this scandal was unearthed pundits and journalists of both genders have quietly inserted a disturbing thread to the story: how could a man like General David Petraeus have allowed this woman to end his sterling career?

Let’s discuss first that, this woman, Lt. Col. Paula Broadwell is not a witless bimbo seeking to destroy her paramour. She is no Alex Winters, driven to contaminate her lover’s life with venom for accrued wrongs. Broadwell has credentials. Impressive credentials. She also has a husband and two children. She had a career long before she stepped into this landmine affair. She graduated from the prestigious West Point Military Academy with degrees in Political Geography and System Engineering as well as countless other educational and career distinctions. Let’s not pretend this is a woman who needed to have sex with Petraeus to better her career or life.

Let’s not reduce a woman who has obviously made risky and questionable decisions based on her libido into a slut.

Society has done its best to classify women as simple creatures with distinct roles. Slut. Mother. Wife. Daughter. Either of these assigned not based on any true assessment of the female complexities other than being born with a vagina. We blame rape survivors, and domestic violence survivors. We tell little girls that men are stronger and smarter through marketing messages. We tell them that men are powerful and to be powerful you have to either act like a man, or sleep with a powerful man. We confuse them by encouraging them to get an education only to then tell them that the glass ceiling will never break for your entrance.

We do this to our little girls.

Not only has the media shifted unfair blame completely on Petraeus’ purported mistress, it has also shamed his wife of 37 years into being a frumpy mess who couldn’t compete with Broadwell’s youth and beauty. Holly Petraeus is said to be understandably “furious” at her husband’s fall from grace. Who wouldn’t be? She is also a well accomplished woman who finds herself in the harsh spotlight of her husband’s messy uncrowning. Holly Petraeus has shared her life with Gen. Petraeus, stood in the shadows while his career grew, mothered his children, and managed to carve out a role outside of being a military spouse. In 2011, Mrs. Petraeus was appointed by newly-elected Senator Elizabeth Warren (MA) to a position in the Consumer Protection Financial Bureau as an assistant director of service-member affairs.

It’s the same animal that bit into Hillary Clinton when her husband’s affair came to light. Less than glamorous wives are seen to be lacking in departments that sexier counterparts are not. Younger. Vivacious. Risky. Holly Petreaus has not been spared this typifying humiliation.

I am not siding with mistress or wife. What I am saying is that women have to stop being sacrificed in the fire pit every time a man is caught with his pants around his ankles. When I think of slut in this case, Paula Broadwell is not the image I see wearing that shameful name.

There is a reason I haven’t written much about David Petreaus directly–it’s not about him. It’s about being truthful about what happens between two consenting adults and how both parties should be subject slut shaming. Not only the one who has a vagina.

Julia Sugarbaker lands the point perfectly.

Sweet Girl, Don’t Take It Personal


Sweet Girl,

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you,

believe me when I say he doesn’t

understand how grateful he should

be. You could have chosen someone

else. Don’t take it personal. He hasn’t

figured out his own worth so how can

you expect him to recognize yours?

Mr. President, I am so proud of you.

For me, it started eight years ago at the Democratic National Convention to nominate Senator John Kerry as the representation of our best hope for shifting our country away for the doctrine of cynicism and war. I admit, I didn’t really connect with Sen. Kerry. He was, after all, another wealthy white man trying to speak to our worries and fears of the future without an ounce of charisma or real credibility. I didn’t knock him for what he lacked. I stood with him by campaigning and voting for him. You did the same, but this is where I first took notice of your particular brand of politics.

You were on deck to give the keynote address in that sea of hopeful people, citizens who were truly exhausted by the first four years of the Bush administration. We were all war-weary, and wary of what another four years of President Bush’s politics would mean for our country. These were people hungry for a hero. I don’t know if you knew it, but you walked onto stage and struck the right chord with your opening line: “Tonight is a particular honor for me because, let’s face it, my presence on this stage is pretty unlikely.” 

I was sitting in front of my television, thinking exactly that. Your name had a foreign ring to it. They’d given us small details before you took the stage. A state senator from Chicago, you were the biracial son of an African-born father and a white American mother. I listened for more, thinking pragmatically, how is this possible? You told us gracefully: “My parents shared not only an improbable love; they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. They would give me an African name, Barack, or “blessed,” believing that in a tolerant America, your name is no barrier to success.”

I remember applauding like a school girl at those lines. In an intolerant America, unusual names are often associated with a lack of education and financial resources. A truer term would be ghetto. I had been carrying the weight of my own unusually spelled name for years. You spoke an ugly truth about a judgmental country intent on staying the same. Behind that podium, you demanded more of us. I appreciated you for it. I listened for more. Over and over, the idea of dreaming, the possibilities of reaching beyond your beginning to discover a successful middle and end touched my heart. I mean, how could one not hear the audacious hope here: Go into any inner-city neighborhood, and folks will tell you that government alone can’t teach kids to learn. They know that parents have to teach, that children can’t achieve unless we raise their expectations and turn off the television sets and eradicate the slander that says a black youth with a book is acting white. They know those things.

You described the America I’d grown up in all too accurately. I understood that you knew what it was like to be a black child who wanted better for everyone, but couldn’t get a leg to stand on for themselves. I understood that even if you had lived decades before me, your compassion for my future was genuine. You spoke and I wondered why you weren’t the nominee for president. But then I remembered, black men don’t run for political office other than to show the establishment that our voices have to be heard as well. We didn’t typically expect any black candidate to ascend to the highest political office in our country. That’s just the truth.

However, you, like Dr. King, taught us to dream bigger. I believed in you that day. I’ve never stopped believing. And when you announced your candidacy for president, I admit that I was slightly ambivalent. You were running against a woman I admired greatly. You were both the highest ideal of who I wanted running our country. There was that awful primary season between the two of you. It split my heart in two. You all wanted the same things; I know you both had our bests interests in your hearts but only one person could represent us. I was tugged on both ends. To see a woman in a place garnering respect in the male-dominated political world gave such credibility to a belief in a better country. I know Hillary Clinton is/was more than capable of handling this country. I believe that she can still do so. You chose her for a prominent position in your administration, so I know that you also believe in her.

But, you…you grabbed my vote with your dedication to hope, to dreams. I recall that people made fun of you trying to inspire a generation using the avenues of possibility. I recall some pundits and politicians saying that you were just using words. They made light of their significance. But without words, without language, then we have nothing. We have to effectively communicate what ails us. Without language, we are a hopeless voiceless people. So, when you speak of hope, I hear that truth in it. After all, you, Mr. President, said it best: “There has never been anything false about hope.”

Personally, if you never say another word about taxes and immigration, any of those other social issues that people argue about, I wouldn’t mind. I didn’t vote for you because of those things. Though, they are issues that matter, they are not the supreme reason that I entrusted my vote for both times. I voted for you because I believe in your heart. I believe that you believe what you say.That’s all it takes with me. Integrity.

There are things that you have done that I disagree with strongly. It’s important to note that your convictions belong to you. I hold out for the most genuine you to occupy the White House these next four years. I think you have a strength that carries you through all the insanity of the office that you hold. Being the president, while it may be the most awesome job one might seek, is not a place that isn’t without cons. There are decisions that we don’t know about that you make daily. Your beautiful family has to share you. Your wife is expected to present herself as a role model even while others throw dirt at your names. Your children are open to the judgments and curiosity of the nation and beyond. None of these things are taken lightly.

I pray that you take everything that you believe and continue showing us how to believe and dream. After your re-election on Tuesday, many facets of racism crept up in my social media timelines. Many disturbing comments. It makes your election sweeter because you’ve seen all of these before and yet, you still believe and do your job daily.

People assume that black people voted solely on race. I just don’t believe that is the totality of our decision. Of course we voted with our hearts, but in the black community loyalty is utmost. If we actually felt that you weren’t in that office at least attempting to improve our lives, the black vote might have been smaller. It wasn’t. We understood that maybe Mr. Romney had the business background and a legacy to fulfill, but not our backs. We could read the truth in his 47 percent comment. We know that all of those coded words flung so destructively into the world meant that he was incapable of understanding how to help build the nation’s lower and middle classes because he saw as something other than human. And even with all of those ugly moments, you withstood all that they had to say about you. It makes you exactly who I thought you were in 2004.

It’s 2012. I am tired of being denied. The denial of the dreams of our ancestors, taking away our leaders, leaving us as aimless orphans. 2008 showed me a side of this country I never thought I would see. I started to see integrity in my white brethren, not only because they voted so overwhelmingly for you but because they stood to defend you when others used racially charged language to discredit you. We were standing across this nation as one people. It was awesome. It can be again. You can do this. I know you can bridge the divide and inspire another generation to leave this country better off than they found it.

Mr. President, I am truly proud of you.


The First Year

You don’t have the ability to read (unless you’re not telling me something) but in a couple of years, my sweetheart, you will understand. You’ll know how much this day means to not only me but also to you. We’ve done something amazing, Daughter. We’ve survived the first year. You didn’t have any clue that you should have been frightened by the prospect of being mothered by me. I’ve never done this before. I know, I know–Mommy makes it look so easy.

The truth is that it is easy but it’s not because I am so amazing. It’s because you are. At one year old I am giving you permission to keep being just that. Don’t lose the special joy you share with me everyday. Don’t lose the light in your brilliant eyes, don’t let the shadows remove the heat of the sun from your face. You, my dear, are amazing. I’m telling you this now, at one, so that you’ll remember at 5, 13, 18, and beyond (when you really need to know it). You are amazing because you were born with God’s Grace and Love, and to be amazing and feel amazing requires only that. I’m giving you permission to be you. To grow your teeth slowly, and walk when you feel confident enough to walk. Don’t listen to the judgments. You’re not in competition with anyone except for you. I’m allowing you to let your hair grow at it’s own pace, suck your thumb if you like. Be exactly who you were born to be.

You’re one. The world will impose on you soon enough so enjoy this time of innocence. I didn’t know how special innocence was until I saw it glowing on your radiant face. At one, it’s a treasure; by eighteen, a liability. You have my permission to treasure the innocent time you inhabit now. You are a glorious child on whose face I see God daily. I won’t have to tell you how much I love and cherish you because it’s my plan to show you loudly everyday. You are my special, kind, bright, brilliant genius-in-the-making and I love every glorious cell in your glorious body. Thank you for being an amazing child to mother.

Lucky for you, Mommy’s a writer and she has to express herself or she’ll burst. This will embarrass you in the future but for now and a couple years, I hope it warms your chubby cheeks and huge heart.

Happy Birthday Poopy Monster

The Small Things

The Small Things


Let’s talk loudly about it all.

Stop whispering and crawling

Around our secrets.

Let’s be real.

Open yourself wide.

Bend toward this truth.

The small things.

The small truths.

The smaller lies.


I know now  that you don’t have it in you.

Your mother encouraged your rage.

Unloved and unkept,


The poison paralyzes the small rooms

Where you pretended not to see her

Wildly forgetting to be your mother.


For women, your rage blossomed.

A woman,

The wild empress of poison

Crowned you Prince of Unforgiveness

Because you kissed her hand

Drawing her disgust

Your lips lie with smiles.


Love for you is an act of treason.

You don’t trust it.

You don’t share it.

The poison is all you have

And want to give.


But the small things.

The small things badger

Those vile nights.

Those when you came

Only to conquer,

To take more

Than you are willing to give.


Appreciate the small things.


The small things suffocate.

The smell of your wild skin,

Blue under the television’s light.

Strong hands, demanding, pulling, stroking.

Your bold lying voice


 my name.

Bitch before we climbed into bed

Where you forget

The anger until it’s over again.


These are your small things.

All that you have to offer.

Spread between the many faces

Of wild women you’ve fooled.

The small things.


Fuck the small things.

I’m taking me back.


June 2012