GV Poetry Anthology

In many ways my last job was my dream job. I was doing something meaningful, taking teenagers to Guatemala, teaching social justice and helping connect young people to their communities and beyond. But there were some things I missed, like painting, writing, and having a life outside of my job. So it was not entirely altruistic that at the start of my second year that I chose to add poetry to our curriculum. It helped that one of my participants was also a poet who had competed nationally through Youth Speaks. He was both a help and an inspiration.

Ultimately though my biggest motivation was somewhat selfish, because if I made the kids sit down and write, then I too would have to write. And write we did. That was the easy part. I had a few reams of blank paper, a Ziploc bag filled with pens and a few prompts hastily scrawled on a white board. They did the rest. 

What we discovered is that even those who were self-declared poetry haters, when given 20 minutes of mandatory silence, a pen and a piece of paper, had something to say...something to write about, an experience to share. Even participants who rarely talked during our group reflections were able to express themselves on paper and the poetry they created was brilliant, too brilliant not to be shared.

So we formed a committee of other dedicated youth and together after months of editing and meetings and voting on everything from the cover art to the font size and type, we finally finished it. Click on the link for a peek. It is available for purchase.GV Poetry Anthology 

All proceeds will go towards the scholarship fund to ensure another class of visionaries can afford to embark on their journey. Hope you love it as much as we loved putting it together.

NaNoWriMo Excerpt- Current word count 28,000

NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. This November, writers of all ages around the country are engaged in an endeavor to complete 50,000 words by the end of this month. Travel and general life distractions have thrown me off my daily word count, still I am making some headway. My novel is tentatively titled Jane and John: The Shim Diaries. After the death of her mother, Jane's choices land her in Juvi. Once out, she is sent to live in a state run group home, completely disconnected from her family and the life she used to live. With only one year left before she ages out, she must put her life back together all the while figuring out who she is and where the edges of her gender and sexuality blur. 

An hour later I made my way back to Gethsemane to find Franny nursing a bloody nose. Sean Jean’s revenge. I felt my hands curl into fists.

“It was an accident,” Franny said preemptively.

“What, Sean Jean accidentally punched you in the face? Where is he?”

“Jane, it’s not worth it.”

I stomped passed him into the boy’s side letting the screen slam behind me. This was personal. It wasn’t Sean Jean who was waiting for me though.

“Hey Jane,” Omar said casually.

“Hello,” I replied back because he was the kind of person who didn’t like it if you skipped the formalities. I scanned the living room. Ace and Dodger were playing cards while Wayne watched baseball.

No Sean Jean.

“Looking for someone?” Omar asked, knowing full well exactly who I was looking for.

I didn’t answer, just moved through the doorway into the kitchen which was empty, a glance through the window revealed an equally empty basketball court.

“If you’re looking for Sean Jean, he’s up in his room on punishment. You want some tea.”

“No, thank you.”

I started toward the stairs. “Have some tea with me Jane,” He said in that tone that made sure I understood it wasn’t a request. I felt the heat all in my face. My fists clench and unclenched, but I turned back towards him like a good little girl. “Have a seat,” he directed, so I took my place at the table while he filled the electric kettle and pulled two mugs from the cupboards. He scanned the tea basket for the remedy.

“Tension tamer,” he pronounced. “That’s what we need.”

I rolled my eyes. What I needed was to take Sean Jean and dribble him like a basketball, pound that hard head of his into the concrete a few times. It might not solve anything. In this house there would always be another Sean Jean, but it would make me feel better and that was something.

“Jane, I’ve read your file. And after getting to know you, I can tell you’re not a lifer. I mean some of these kids, they’ve got no chance. They came out of the womb addicted to meth or crack or just the chaos of being in abusive relationships. It’s not that they were born bad, it’s just that the way they came into the world didn’t give them much of a moral compass. Sometimes those kids can catch a break and get themselves together, maybe get a job or find a way to make it through, but more often than not they’re stuck. That’s not you Jane. You’re different. Sounds like you were in a pretty messed up situation. You made some bad choices. But you’re not out of options. You can still turn things around. That’s why I don’t want to see you get in trouble. Where you are now? I know it’s not ideal, but you’re smart, you work hard, and I know you can do better. But Franscico? He’s got his own path.”

Omar ran a hand over his shaved head. He had skin the color of caramel and just as smooth. The kettle clicked off. He paused to pour the tea before sitting across from me at the table. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a hardness to him, a serious look that warned you not to fuck with him. And he was righteous, not in that pious out there way like John Stanford, where it was all an act so that people would like and respect him. No, Omar, was just one of those good men who did things because he thought they were right, not because someone was watching. I respected him, but he was wrong about Franny.

“I know you two are friends. And I think it’s good. Everyone needs a friend. But you can’t keep fighting his battles. He’s got his own agenda and I don’t want to see you getting dragged into someone else’s trouble.”

I guessed my own trouble was enough.

“You better keep Sean Jean away from him then. I don’t like bullies.”

“I understand that. And I’ll do my job, but that is my job, not yours. And I hate to break it to you, but the world is full of bullies.”

Which was true enough. Though not all bullies were so out there putting themselves on blast. Those were the easy ones, the ones you could spot. John Stanford was one of those less obvious ones. He was the kind that made it hard to tell what was leadership and what was just bossiness. He made it seem like he was doing the right thing, that he was only pushing you because he loved you. And maybe he did. Maybe he really did love me, in spite of everything, but that was a long time ago.

Omar and I finished our tea.   

“I talked to Rickie. He says you need to get a job.”

I nodded.

“So what have you got going on today?”

“Nothing really, I just had to meet with Rickie.”

“So how are you going to spend you afternoon?” He prodded.

The required answer was clear.

“Looking for a job,” I said dutifully.

Omar nodded his approval.

“Good plan. I hear Subway is hiring.”

“Thanks,” I muttered and made my way back out to the front porch, my body still coursing with anger, but with no place better to go. Franny had cleaned up his face, but his shirt still held the blood stain.

“I’ve gotta get a job,” I told him.

“Me too.”

“Wanna walk down to Subway. I hear they’re hiring.”

“Yeah sure, just let me go change.”

I looked down at my own rumpled appearance, but stayed seated on the porch. I could’ve thrown on another shirt, but I didn’t really have any nice clothes anymore and I’d just cornrowed my hair a few days ago, so nothing need to be fixed there.

I ran a hand over my hair and couldn’t help but think about my mom. I used to sit between her thighs watching movies while she combed my hair out. I wasn’t tender headed like Emily. She couldn’t stand getting her hair braided. Me, I used to look forward to it. Mom would take her time, part my hair into sections, smearing blue magic on my scalp. And then when she was done she’d say ‘there’s my beautiful girl. Go look in the mirror.’ And I would. She never did it the same way twice. Sometimes she’d add pretty barrettes. Sometimes she’d make the rows squiggle. I’m not fancy like her. If my braids came out straight and roughly the same size, that was an accomplishment.

Missing her was this dull ache that never quite went away. I hated days like today. I could just imagine her up in heaven looking down at me shaking her head, that troubled look she’d get when things were out of place. She wouldn’t like to see me now.

“Ready?” Franny asked. I nodded and the two of us set off down the street.

Omar was right, I wasn’t a lifer. I grew up in the North end, in Queen Anne in a picture perfect house, blue with white trim and a porch swing. It was me and mom, my little sisters, and John Stanford. John Stanford was a literature professor at the U and mom was a stay at home mom, the best, the kind who made cookies from scratch and sewed Halloween costumes. I grew up with Sunday dinners and walks to the park. Franny grew up with rotten parents, people so irresponsible that he was in foster care by the time his 8^th birthday. While I was going to private school and SAT prep courses, Franny was getting molested by his Uncle, then moving from one house to another, then in and out of Juvi because no one taught him not to steal when he was hungry. But at Gethsemane, just like in lock down, it didn’t really matter where you came from or who you used to be. We were here now. This was life now.

“Stop looking so blue girlie.”

“I’m not.”

“I think a song will cheer you up.”

“Please don’t sing.”

But it was too late. He had already started belting out the gayest version of the Sesame Street theme song that I have ever heard. I didn’t mean to smile. I could usually hold it together, keep my stoic facade, but as he shimmied and pranced I couldn’t help it. When he started to do the tootsie roll I lost it completely.

“You are officially insane.”

“You love it,” he grinned. I kind of did.

Yesterday’s sun was gone, but it was dry still, just that dull gray that made the green stand out. Except there was more trash and broken bottles littered across empty lots than shrubs and grass. The ghetto Subway was just a short walk down the hill. I never ate there. The floors were dingy and Rita, one of the girls of Gethsemane had gotten busted turning tricks in the bathroom. That alone, was enough to turn my stomach, but a job was a job.

“Hello,” I said to the blond girl behind the counter. She probably wasn’t much older than me, but she was at least five months pregnant and had this flat ‘I hate my life’ expression that made her face look ancient.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, we’re here to apply for the position.”

“Hold on,” she said in that a tone as flat as her facial expression. “Mr. Rogers,” she hollered. “Some kids is here about da job.”

“Genevieve what did I tell you about yelling?”

“Sorry,” the girl replied in a tone that said she didn’t give a shit.

Mr. Rogers pushed his way through the swinging doors. He was a stubby looking white guy, with a pot belly and glasses and sweat stains darkening his work shirt at the arm pits. I really couldn’t imagine him effectively selling food. His nails were grimy and his comb over gave him the scum bag look of someone who could guest star on CSI as a pedophile. Then that thing happened that always happened. He looked me up and down and then looked Franny up and down, and his whole demeanor changed.

“Position’s filled.”

“But the sign’s still in the window,” Franny motioned to the crooked piece of cardboard.

“You deaf? I said the position is filled.”

“Come on,” I grabbed the back of his shirt, cause I could just see him getting all wound up. He snatched the sign off the window as we cleared the door.

“Guess you don’t need this then,” he said and ripped it up dropping the pieces in the entryway. “Stupid motherfucker! I wouldn’t want to work at that shit hole anyway. Greasy, dirty, fuck. You think you’re better than me. You’re not shit,” he muttered, though we were already out the door and out of ear shot.

“Forget him. Who cares? That place was nasty anyway. Let’s try the Taco Hell.”

Franny nodded, but his face was one that said he would not forget. He would never forget. We went to Taco Hell first, then Slaveway, then Kickin Chicken, but it was the same bullshit. It’s like delinquent was tattooed on our foreheads. No one wanted to hire kids fresh out of juvi, especially not the Mexican fagot and the black bull dyke.

I could hear John Stanford in my head. ‘Look at you,’ he would have said if he could see me now. He’d have that sneer on his face, that look that said you were stupid for even trying. ‘No one is going to hire you looking like that. Have some respect for yourself. Stand up straight, make eye contact, shake hands like you mean it.’ It wouldn’t have killed me to put on a nicer shirt, a button down and some khackis, something preppy, except all I had left were my court clothes and I couldn’t bring myself to wear them for any other reason than being legally obligated.

It had started with clothes. I was an athlete. It was normal that I would be in warm ups and sports jerseys all the time. All the girls were. It was how we were, and it didn’t seem to be a problem until around 8^th grade. Then suddenly it was ‘Janey, why are you always dressed like that? No one is going to ask you to the dance looking like that?’ And though it was true, no one I wanted to go to the dance with was going to ask me anyway. Still, it’s like all of a sudden he had started to see what he hadn’t wanted to see. That it wasn’t a faze, the whole tomboy thing, or if it was, it wasn’t one I was growing out of. It was okay to be a rough and tumble 7 year old. It was cute even, but the taller I got, the more my body expanded, it lost its charm. Sports shaped more than my schedule, but my demeanor the way I walked, my jock swagger. Then I was all muscle, cut, but not in that fem Buffy the Vampire way. It was more menacing than pretty, the way my body was shaped and I liked it that way, being able to walk down the halls with no fear because who would want to fight me.

I’m pretty sure mom knew I was gay when she caught me making two Barbies kiss. I mean, she was always around. If she didn’t know me then no one did, but we never talked about it. I just didn’t know how and she never pressured me or asked about it or said anything about it one way or another. I was just her oldest daughter, her tall young lady, her Janey and that was enough. But Dad, he had clear notions. He knew what kind of daughter he wanted. He drew me a map or the life I would lead, signed me up for debate team and National Honor’s Society, demanded I maintain an appropriate GPA, no less than 3.8. He didn’t mind the sports as long as they didn’t interfere with my academics because that was normal. They would make me appear well rounded on my college apps. But the dating, that was normal too. I needed to date and not just anyone, nice boys, brown boys with educated parents, college bound boys. And he did manage to bully colleagues into setting their sons up with me. I went to Homecoming. I even went to Winter Formal. Mom dressed me up, pinned flowers in my hair to match my dress. She even put some make-up on me. And even though I didn’t want to go, even though I felt like a fake knowing just as well as those boys knew that we weren’t going to have a happy ending, she made me feel beautiful. It made her smile to see me like that.

But then she was gone. It all happened so quickly. Or maybe it was a long time, between when she first started to feel sick and when we knew it was cancer, between her first treatments and when we were sitting with her in hospice. Time became irrelevant. Every moment was both forever and also so fleeting, smoke through closed fingers. When she was gone, we lost more than a mom and a wife. We lost balance. We lost perspective. I keep wondering what would have happened had she just stayed a little while longer. But she didn’t.

No Love Poem For You

Last Tuesday I had the privilege of being the featured poet at the Des Moines, Poetry Slam. It was an awesome experience. This poem will be in my next book tentatively titled: Love and Guatemala, to be released in January.

Art Show At Health First Chiropractic

Here's some pics of my new work:

Justice At Walmart: Standing in solidarity on Black Friday

Usually on this blog, I try to stick to discussing art or writing, but I have to make an exception because this is just too important not to talk about. I want to talk about one of the biggest corporations on the planet, Walmart.

I attended the first strike in the state of Washington in Federal Way hosted by UFCW 21 and the members of O.U.R. (Organizers United for Respect at) Walmart.  There were workers present from three different Walmarts in addition to people from several local businesses, non-profits, and unions. We gathered for a common goal, to raise awareness about the corporate practices impacting our communities and to stand in solidarity with the workers brave enough to openly participate in their union.

Here is a short video of a man I met named Gerry. Gerry has worked for Walmart for the last 6 years and recounts the story of becoming injured on the job and being denied compensation for three whole months.

http://youtu.be/ItmwYu8ZUlw

 

For those of you who haven't seen it, the documentary Walmart: The High Cost of Low Prices really gives you a great understanding of why the workers need to strike. Here is a link to youtube where you can actually watch the entire movie: Walmart Documentary.

After watching this documentary several years ago, I stopped shopping at Walmart. I also encouraged my friends and family to do the same. This became a bit contentious because at the time my cousin was working for Walmart. My grandmoher flat out refused to stop shopping there on the grounds that at least they had given my cousin a job. Well last year my cousin became depressed and ended up being hospitalized. Walmart fired him for missing work.

The workers I spoke with talked about being full time for 10 weeks and then being dropped to part time so that Walmart wouldn't have to pay their medical benefits. Employees are highly discouraged from joining the union. Those who do often suffer from management retaliation. Workers are told that Walmart has an "open door" policy, but when put to the test, management has failed to address employee concerns from benefits, to interpersonal conflict, to workers comp and wage increases. The people I spoke with actually love their jobs. They have been with Walmart for years and years, but they hate the despicable way they are being treated.

I understand that I am citizen of a capitalist country and that the almighty dollar often takes precedence over common human decency, but I am also the citizen of a nation built on the principals of justice and freedom of speech. It is my belief that everyone has the right to be fairly compensated for the work they do and that we also have the right to stand up and be heard. Walmart may just seem like one corporation, but it is global and if workers are able to demand fair treatment... when workers are able to enact change at Walmart, they will not just be changing their job and their store, the ripple will be felt across the world. How long is it going to take for us to make this shift? I don't know, but I am excited to be a part of it. I stand in solidarity with O.U.R. Walmart and I hope you will too this BLACK FRIDAY when workers around the United States will be exercising their right to strike.

Here is a link to a website where you can find out more information about where the strikes will take place and why workers feel it is necessary: http://corporateactionnetwork.org/causes/walmart

NaNoWriMo- Which Novel Should I Write?

NaNoWriMo, otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month is November. It’s a challenge/opportunity to finally put all your thoughts together and take that book from your head to the page. This will be my first time participating. As always I have lots of ideas, but what I need is direction. The following are excerpts from 3 projects I am working on that I hope eventually to turn into novels. Please feel free to comment on which one you would like to read more of. Thanks.

#1 The Shim Diaries

Honey is vindictive. Just look it up in the Webster. You’ll see her staring back at you all hard eyes and soft curves. I bite my lip and shake my head the way I do every time I see her. I can’t help it. She is a worrisome creature, an ACME anvil in a slingshot hurtling towards my face with all that pow and bang, thick brown country girl body. Girls like that should come with a warning label: Damaged Goods. Look, but don’t touch. If you can peel your eyes off the booty or those pouty painted lips long enough to really see her, it’s very clear. But so few people actually look at one another in more than a perfunctory way. Most people don’t get past the tongue ring and the double D’s. Which is probably part of what got her here.

                “Stop looking at me Nelson,” she sneers. I don’t much mind the menacing glare, but her tone set my teeth on edge. This is part of what got me in here. Inhale, exhale. The edges of my rage gather together near the base of my skull, a storm cloud collecting condensation. Winds rise. Inhale, exhale. I sit down in the circle to keep from acting a fool. Honey likes to push.

                “Ain’t nobody looking at you. You’re dirty.” I say and drop my eyes into the space before her. I don’t have to look up to see her cut me a rank glance. Here comes the dyke speech. I’ve heard it before and I’ll hear it several more times before I escape this particular slice of hell.

                “You da nasty one,” she takes a few steps closer. Her legs come into view, brown cocoa buttered legs in gold Sketcher platforms and a too tight, too short spandex skirt. She lowers her voice. This is personal. “You think I don’t see you watching at me. I know you want to fuck me. You just a big ole nasty black bull dyke, mad ‘cause you know you can’t have this.”

                I lift my gaze slowly until my eyes meet the hardness in hers. I see you, I tell her silently. I see right fucking through you. You think I ain’t had girls like you before? I’ve had a hundred, a thousand, a million nothing fucks in dark alleys and beneath the stairs of Gethsemane. Juvi was full of Honeys, dead eyed girls, hard and soft, angry and afraid who wouldn’t hazard a glance my way beneath the fluorescent glare of day, but in the shadows of lights out…they’d come to me begging. Fix me, their eyes would plead. Hold me. Help me escape. And I would. I did. I bent them this way and that, kissed and stroked the feeling back into their fleshy bodies. I raised them up like Lazarus and never once asked for thanks, but ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna fix this dirty bitch. You want a healing? Go to the doctor.

                “Keep pushing Honey. You won’t like what you get.” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear, the low rumble of my voice powerful to my own ears.

                She looks like she wants to rip me apart with her bare hands. I don’t even bother to stand up. Honey is hood tough, scrappy and mean, an Oakland chick, but after lockdown and six months spent lifting and fighting and lifting some more, even hood don’t spook me. Not to mention I’ve got about 6 inches and a good hundred pounds on her easy. She’s like a yapping dog. She’ll bark her ass off, but she won’t bite. No one bites the pit bull.

                “Okay everyone, let’s get started. Honey, have a seat,” Miss White-lady-who-grew-up-‘round-black-folks-so-she’s-comfortable tells her. She goes back to her side of the room and I roll my eyes as Miss White lady leads us in the Serenity prayer that somehow never makes me feel more serene. But the surrender piece is key. Anything involving a corrections facility has to include surrender. It’s a core component to the re-programming process. You must give up any illusion of free will.

                Miss White lady is talking again. She loves making references to what got us in here. She scolds us for our bad choices, our negativity, our fears, our lack of vocabulary (to which I always have to stifle my ‘Bitch please. One of us scored in the 99th percentile on their Verbal SATs and it wasn’t you.’). If she’s feeling all “fight the man” she might mention poor school systems and that terrible unstoppable, indefinable evil: Racism. And maybe any one of those things might be a contributing factor to why I ended up on probation and in Anger Management before my 18th birthday, but for me the real reason can be summed up in three words: John Stanford Nelson, otherwise known as my dad.

#2 The Seventh Daughter of Empress

“Tell me of your dreams child.”

                Jossy hesitated. The old woman turned to face her. Before her sat her youngest granddaughter, the one most like the Empress in looks, from her flawless ebony complexion to the jut of her cheekbones. Yes, she was her mother over again in miniature. That alone was enough to send Carrow into a cold sweat, but she was still just a girl after all, with this one there was still a choice, still so many choices. This time would be different, she hoped. Yes, that was the strange unfamiliar feeling tingling across her skin, not chills, not fever, something far more sinister, far more contagious. Looking at the child, her round brown eyes almost too big for her delicate face, twin braids hanging down her back, Carrow could not help but hope for something better. She knew it was silly, but still the seed was persistent, a nagging growth at the edges of her mind. She had the feeling that this was her chance.

                “It’s alright child.”

                “But you told me not to…”

                “I know what I told you child, but I need to know. And you need to talk to someone. Remember that. I won’t be here much longer. The elder women sing to me nightly. So you must remember as much as you can.”

                “Don’t say that Myasha,” the girl pleaded, her dark eyes somber and dry. Carrow bit her lip at the name, one of many, so many names and Myasha was as ill-fitted as the rest of them. How she longed to hear the child call her by her true name, but such things weren’t done.

                “I speak only truth little one. Come child. Come and sit with me. There is still time yet. The drink is nearly ready and there is much for us to share.”

                Jossy rose from her place by the hearth and set about readying the table with the look of someone intent on her chores. Carrow knew differently. The child was thinking and thinking quickly, wondering who to trust. Her instincts were true, a necessary advantage for any daughter of the Empire. Even a lowly born girl, a seventh born who would never inherit needed to mind her position. Every girl child was taught this from birth, but still some were more savvy than others. So curious that she should be the seventh, Carrow thought with a grimace. She had the bearing of a first born…another misread vision. What a curse it was to see all the pieces and never the entire puzzle, never until it was too late.

                “Myasha, shall I bring the cups.”

                “No child. Light the candles and seat yourself. I’ll bring the drink.”

                Jossy lit the candelabra from the inside out until the whole table was illuminated beneath it’s woven branches. It was a beautiful piece of artistry made by one of Carrow’s sisters, another low born like Jossy, with the luxury to choose a vocation. Jossy stroked the base admiring the lines. Perhaps she too would be an artisan or a trainer. She had a way with horses. Though it was still years too early to think seriously on such things. Carrow returned with two earthen cups steaming with well spiced drink. She placed one in front of Jossy and sat opposite her at the table. Jossy waited, as was custom, for Carrow to speak a blessing.

                “Goddess, all thanks for the blessing of this drink and for those who are about to partake. May your abundance stay us in good stead forever. So be it.”

                “So be it,” came the echo in a small voice.

                With that Jossy took her first sip, reveling in the array of spices that warmed her from the inside out. Though the drink was common throughout the Empire, every family of women had their own special blend of spices and as the safe keepers of the realm, it was said that the drink of the Clan Empress was by far the best. Jossy, having never tasted any other would have readily sworn to it.

                “Myasha…”

                “Yes child.”

                “Speak your heart. I feel the weight of things unsaid.”

                Carrow grimaced again. Did the child not understand how disconcerting she could be? This would never do. But still she answered with truth. “It’s as I’ve told you. These dreams…it’s complicated.” Carrow paused, searching for the right thing to say. This conversation would be an important one. She wanted to set the child right. “Dreams are like swords. They are tools, nothing more. You must learn to use them and use them well, but also understand that like any weapon, they can be turned against you. For this reason you must never rely only on dreams. But neither can you ignore them.”

                “Why do they come to me Myasha? You know as well as I that this is not a gift of our Clan. Was it my father? You knew him? Please tell me who he was.”

                Carrow ignored the father question. That would lead the girl nowhere. “Don’t be silly. What difference could a man make in your bloodline? Besides which that is not entirely true child, you mustn’t buy into the legends of our Clan. Those stories exist for a reason, but the truth is that there are many unspoken gifts in our Clan. The why is neither here nor there. The point is that you have them. Listen closely, no one else must know.” Of her own dreams she said nothing. Not all truths were meant to be shared.

#3 The Road To Santa Fe

                My dad is in love with a dead girl. Her name is Nadine Silverman. On Saturday mornings when he thinks I’m still asleep, he walks down to the corner store and buys her flowers, usually roses, a dozen red roses. Then he walks down to the Jewish cemetery where she’s buried and replaces the last week’s flowers with the fresh ones. He doesn’t stay long. Sometimes he’ll kneel by her headstone and talk to her. I can see his lips moving, but I never get close enough to hear what he says. Sometimes he just stands there and stares at her grave with the saddest look on his face. She’s why he never remarried. She’s why he never goes on dates, even though all my teachers and all the women at the gym and the grocery store, and basically everywhere we go, do everything short of throwing their panties at him to get his attention. Sometimes he tells them he is too busy being a dad to date, but mostly he just avoids them because the awesome dad thing just makes them like him more.

                “Oh Solomon, you’re so responsible. It’s so nice to meet a man who is open enough to be such a caring parent,” they tell him. And he is. He is the best dad in the world, which almost makes up for my mom. She’s not evil exactly. She’s just…complicated in a way that sometimes makes me sad and sometimes makes me insane.

                My mom is Nicole Marie Shores-Lancer, the wife of Richard Lancer, the football player. I checked once to see if that’s what she puts on her business cards since that seems to be her primary occupation, but instead they read freelance beauty consultant. That’s a nice way to say people pay her to boss them around and to teach them to be flawless at every moment of everyday, even on Saturdays when you would think it would be okay to wear your pajamas into the kitchen to eat cold cereal (God forbid someone actually make pancakes). Appearing in pjs, even designer pjs, always earns me a: “Zorah really? Can you please go upstairs and change.” It’s a statement, never a question.

You can’t be sure when a journalist might be coming by to interview Richard Lancer. And where there are reporters, there are pictures. Or worse, mother might be ‘working’. She works from home, which means there is a continuous stream of pre-pubescent aspiring models and worse still, pageant parents. Pageant people are like some mutant breed of hairless show dog that has learned how to walk on its hind legs and apply spray tan. Most of them are totally nuts, not completely potty trained, and almost always on the verge of tears or complete hysteria. Just yesterday Betsy and Beatrice James showed up on our doorstep in tears (Beatrice, not Betsy) because Betsy gained five pounds and couldn’t squeeze into her size 0 custom made ball gown.

             “Zorah sweetie, why don’t you show Betsy your room while Beatrice and I have a Voss.”

             “Sure Mom,” I told her. I knew the drill. I escorted Betsy and her lemon chiffon dream poof to my private quarters. I will say this, I may not enjoy Richard Lancer very much, but he has good taste in houses, or rather he lets my mother’s good taste pick houses, one in Green Bay, one in Orlando, and one in Madison. The Green Bay house is for the football season. The Orlando house is to show off. And the Madison house is for the school year. My dad has primary custody of me. When Mother married Richard Lancer she thought she might be able to convince the courts to give her joint custody so she could move us to Green Bay, but even Richard Lancer couldn’t erase five years of abandonment and the negligent parenting charges. The judge had told her that while he appreciated the fact that she had worked hard to reconnect with me (lol), parenting required stability and my dad had proven that he could provide that just fine. Motion denied. But instead of bailing on me (again), she shocked us all by staying in Madison, at least during the school year, so I can see her on the weekends that she isn’t off being a trophy wife. Or, if I’m unlucky, she’ll take me with her to make an appearance as trophy step-daughter. Apparently I’m great for PR.

An Actual Writer-Me? YES.

There is so much that I don't remember, so many missing days. My parents tell me these stories about things I said or did and maybe that's the way it happened, but great chunks of my childhood are a hazy mystery to me. There is one thing I remember, one moment that never disappeared. I remember writing my first book. It had a white cover with thin plaid lines (red, green, and blue) and it was little more than a few sentences about flowers. It wasn't more than 7 pages long, complete with illustrations, but I remember the weight of it in my hand, the sound the binding made when it opened, and most importantly how it felt to have created something.

I have known for a long time now that I am supposed to be a writer. I won't be so cheesy as to call it destiny, but let's just say I've always had a strong inclination to put pen to paper and no matter what else is going on in my life, whether I am stateside or abroad, working or playing, there is usually a notebook in my purse and a pen behind my ear. I like to write everything: random thoughts, poems, song lyrics, essays, angry diatribes, novels, you name it, I've written it.

So why am I not a full time writer? Well at first it was because when I was 9 years old my mentor told me that in order to be a good writer I needed to have something to write about. Growing up in Wisconsin, arguable one of the more boring places to be me in, I didn't think I would ever have too much to say if I didn't escape. So off I went in search of adventures, and I found them on multiple continents, in bars I shouldn't have been in, on buses I wasn't quite sure were going where I thought they would, in grocery stores, in classrooms.

Everywhere I've been has been a story and I've been writing all along, but something happened during this journey. I stopped believing that I could be an actual full time writer. The only sensible way to do that would be becoming a journalist or something, but while I did write some articles, that wasn't really my thing. But the novelist thing? All the novelists and poets I knew were also professors and the writing was the side gig. So I did what I knew how to do, I worked hard doing other things and traveled and launched myself into all sorts of ridiculous situations in search of fun things to write about...and from time to time I published an essay or a poem. When I lived in Japan I even had a bi-monthly column. But mostly I have just been amassing a stack of full notebooks.

Finally two years ago, my mom mentioned (for the millionth time) that I should maybe take some of my poetry and put it together in a book. Christmas was near, so I thought, okay, sure, why not. And thus God, Hair, Love, and America was born. And there was that feeling again. I held the book in my hand and thought...I want to do this again and again and again.

But that was two years ago and a lot has happened between now and then. Once more I got sidetracked, but now I think I might actually be ready to stop making excuses, to stop being practical, and embrace the idea that I can do this thing I love to do and actually have it be enough.

To that end I am ditching my day job effective October 31 and will be exploding with new projects. Stay Tuned!

Catching Up On The Last 2 Years

Okay, so here is the recap for the last two years.

The trip to Morocco, Ghana, Spain, Portugal, New York, DC, and The Badlands was everything I hoped it would be and more. Thank you to all who helped me to create beautiful memories and also to discern my next steps. Upon returning to the States, I made an unscheduled detour to Iowa where I spent two months getting reacquainted with my grandmother and I finally achieved my New Year's Resolution from 2008, only two years late, by winning the Des Moines, Iowa Poetry Slam in December of 2010.

In Seattle they have a saying: It's not about the points, it's about the POETRY. And yet poets from around the world flock to the Slams to read, to perform, and to share their work for points. It's a somewhat sadistic thing to do...to get on the mic and in three minutes or less (with a 10 second grace period) read the bloody ink of your soul to a group of strangers who may not get, may not like it, and might even hold up a score card that reads 0. And yet still there are some of us who have this strange compulsion to be heard, to get on stage, put it out there and hold our breath waiting for that first inkling of response, a laugh, a sigh, anything that says there is someone out there listening and understanding. And if we're lucky we'll get it just right and the judges who could be the anyone from Toni Morrison to some douche bag who has never read or written a poem in his or her entire life, will hold up a score card with the perfect 10. It's a high.

It was also the first time my mother had ever seen me Slam. I read two pieces, one of which appears in my book God, Hair, Love, and America. It has become a bit of a signature piece for me and it's called The Afro-Petting Zoo is closed.

At beginning of 2011, I made my way back to Seattle and accepted a position with a small non-profit where I continue to work. I facilitate a youth leadership program that culminates in a two week service learning trip to Guatemala. 

This has left a lot less time for art. I did manage to have a show at a local cafe a few months ago, but mostly I am back to writing. I am currently finishing my second collection of poetry aptly titled: Love and Guatemala. I hope to release it in January 2013.