I choose me.

almost posted a video
lambasting lies like I'm not Judas
putting half of my dirty drawers
inside out
and pretending the stains are
transparent.

I beg for honesty
when I can't find the space to tell my truth
I duck and dodge
bullet barrages
shirts torn open
and it's not a fad.

Truth ain't as easy as it sounds
in a country where
scavenges trump
and trickery is something
we wish to obtain
even as we unlearn the lies
tears in our eyes
we still cling to the only dream
we were allowed

And that's what hurt
the shackled misinformation
pulling us back
into systems we didn't create

we are bi-products
procreating a piece of ourselves
some amalgamation
of erasure and demi-goddess
tattooed to a tshirt
we rock
b/c our lives
depend on these images

I wonder if
we are more than we see
the invisible experience
when 2 are apart
or alone;
in homes
we decorate
our insecurities
mount our dreams on the walls
and wait for the doorbell
to ring;
public address
isn't public access
who lied to you?

You did.
You built trust on vacancy
big words
and hollow points
aimed at old wounds
aching fm alcohol
and self-denial.
You did.
You played poker
like spades
trump tight
instead of cutting your losses
and renigging.
You did.
I never claimed angel's wings
or a savior's snatch
but you gave me power
marianetted to your ego
tethered taffy
stretched beyond sweetness.
You did.
I mustered more dawns
and unslept nights
endured stacks of dead trees
just to sign away my life
so I could have it back again
broken
and disheveled.
You did.
You confused love with service
contracted me
infected me until
I needed to be treated like a cancer
radiating me
to shrink down to none
of what I used to be.
You did.
You slipped me a mickey
clouded me
until you tasted
bad enough to swallow
hollering burn
sliding down my throat
almost Arielled me,
but I didn't make a deal
with Ursula.
She gave birth to me
pushed me outta that
black magic
until I sang
myself fm sleep
and swam
beyond the fins
grew some feet
and checked
who's truth was worth
the sacrifice;
yours or mine?
I choose me
every time.

©2016 Lavinia Jackson

doing me

Absence and presence are more than habitual practices or well developed coping skills. They speak. They have varied voices. They can be pitchy. They are loud. They are necessary. 

What does support really look like? Is it anxiety ridden discomfort masked in pretty clothes with smiling make-up? Is it likes? Is it hour long conversations? Is it encouraging words? Is it expectations we will never meet? 

I'm present in community. My absence is felt. My absence is that test, that break showing me the river is deeper than some folks can swim. It becomes safe. It rescues me from the pressures of people pleasing. I do me. It looks like I don't care. It looks like I have other things to do. I don't move like that. Maybe I should've been in a band. 

What happens when who you really are ain't who folks want? What do you do with yourself? I stay home. I see who shows up. I count the texts. I watch the timelines. I realize my values are, again, different. 

What is Love?

English is such a limited language. It arrests it's speakers with words that handcuff them. They are policed by context, tone, and maybe intention. They sit on a bench built by conflation. English can be the jail we have no choice but to live in.

If you've studied other romance languages and other indigenous tongues, you will find that expressions are varied and different. There are many words to express a concept. Love is one of those words. Love isn't reduced to the romantic. It is grand and beautiful. It's friendly, familial, and firm. English denies us this pleasure.

And, now that we type far more than we talk, we are bound by how social media and different writing styles deliver expressions. Character limits and grammar rules. AP and Chicago styles. Text and threads. The absence of inflection. The interpretation of tone. Millions of people who have never spoken with each other are now reading each other's voices. As a writer, it's a goal. As a reader, it's overwhelming.

I love Love. I love how it shows up and defies the constraints of English. How it exists like a fine mist around us. How it is as unique as the person expressing it. Love is and it isn't. It's not only the memes and short, vanity blogs. It can be a one night stand in Barcelona. It can be 57 married years in Culver City. It can be smiles from babies. It can be a choreographed dance. It can be none of these and altogether something else. 

When we choose to limit ourselves, we fail. We have permission to be bigger than English(colonialism) says we are. We are full human BEINGS. English does not define our love. We define it. We are wordsmiths. We write the dictionaries. Define love as you see fit. Polyamorous, asexual, and everything in between. Just don't let your definition condemn another.

Menopause, Men on Pause, Middle age Musings

There are assumptions we make about lovers. For instance, they improve with age. Humans are evolving. We can move on from people without regret or extended attachment. HAHAHAHAHA!  Getting older only confirms what we knew as children. Some people fire our synapses. Some folks are the collagen, the connective fibers, to who we are.

Do you remember your first kiss? Your first boy/girlfriend? Your first crush? Your first love? How do you hold these memories? Do you laugh at your innocent akward? Do you savor fine details like a particular shirt or class? 4th grade was the year Black men became beautiful for me. They taught me French and Math. They got me to run faster than ever. They led my elementary school with a loving discipline I'd not known before.

I love Black men. From my father to deacons in my church, my affinity is cellular. My momma thought, at one point, I was gonna marry a white boy. They were not my John Henry. They didn't know the unsaid parts of being Black. They had no swag. They didn't love me the same. The only loves I've know is from Black men.

And Love ain't all it's cracked up to be. We have casserole dishes full of baked macaroni and cheese we've perfected, but cain't nobody be honest 'bout how long it took to get it right. Why is Loving seemingly so hard?

 Some folks are acquaintances. Others are family. A few are friends. Then, there's lovers. I used to think of a lover as reserved for LGBTQIA. I used to have this notion that monogamous relationships had to be titled boyfriend/girlfriend. We don't always act lovingly with these people. Often, we are more loving, freer when we have no titles.

Black men are my forever loves. They are the ones I chose to marry and divorce. We have children together. They make me laugh. They write songs and poems about me. They trust my creativity. We are intimate. They talk me through my worst moments and hold my hand. They love me.

That love doesn't come without risk. It demands I trust beyond trauma. Yes, their trauma and my trauma. What they've been through and what they inflict. It asks me to always see his humanity. So, the greatest hurt has come from Black men. I wouldn't have it any other way. To be in relationship is to be open to all a person has to bring, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Where else will they unpack the anti-blackness that won't love them back?

The song says we can be lovers and friends. My friends don't love me the way lovers do. The dynamic is different. The expectations are different. Maybe, that's my downfall. For me, Loving is Black.

Feb U Are Worth it

A new month presents the challenge to begin anew, to tackle some internal struggle. I played with doing a new journal with inspirational thoughts. That fizzled. Instead, I've been quiet enough to hear the messages. Friends, who don't know each other, echo sentiments. They are more than encouraging. They demand I hear the universe through them. It comes in conversations. It came in an astrology workshop. It even came in group therapy.

My worthiness tastes like I'll never deserve to be happy. It's sour and thrilling, as if I am watching from the top of the roller coaster. The twists and turns come fast. I still leave the turnstile alone. Roller coasters used to be my greatest escape. Then, I stopped riding. It wasn't becoming of who I was supposed to be.

I've spent so much time inside someone else's box, I assume I am not enough. This is why I see the humanity hiding behind a monster's actions. That light is all I need to see. Where did that come from? 

Psychology says I was born into it. Circumstances molded me. My bloodline talks out either side of its neck. I am both great and no better than where I came from. I can't escape the violence. I can't educate my way out, without the greatest guilt.

And, then, there's Love. February is all about Love. I'm wired to remember past lovers with a smile, to forget others. Some became the blur of survival. Others are eternal. Loving is different when you're never sure if they love you. Or if you could ever love them grandly. 

To be hidden means two things. You love to be shown off and you prefer the dark to the light. My whole story has hidden parts, redacted, to make me more lovable. How do you love when this is your life? You accept the secrets nobody shares. You assume you will never fully know a person. You trust the moment without attachment. You love as openly as you can in a few slices of time. 

My most familiar is the distance that love brings. The distance from the top of the roller coaster back down to the bottom. Some say I'm worth more than the design of a passionate thrill. I deserve to be the ride everyone waits in line for. The highest point in the park. The reason people come out. I've performed for more strangers than friends or lovers.

Life has taught me how to injoy the ride in my preferred seat, either the first or last car. Love feels good in both. I don't want to be in the middle.

The Dichotomy of Disaster

How did we become monsters? How did being the bi-product of colonialism turn us on ourselves? We are never human enough to consider our complexities. We only account the acceptable accomplishments. We use harm to get there. Then, we don't really want to fix anything. We only want to be classified away from it.

Monsters are born in disaster. They don't choose how they become. They are reacting to the life they are born into. Some monsters are eloquent. Some are talented. Some look just like you and me. The word monster separates. It sounds disgusting. It sounds worthless. Same as Black. Same as other. 

I am a pretty monster. I am light enough to bare the mantle that less melanin carries. The access it garners. I am the salve that turns white discomfort into temporary acceptance. I am not a house Nigga. I'm fucking and loving field hands, when nobody is looking. I know they are hurting. They hurt me, too.

Death doesn't write it's own epitaph. He leaves life to do that. He leaves us funeral rites. He lets us wrestle with the Monsters we've become. Monsters so consumed with the hierarchy of compassion we fail to see the monsters in ourselves.

None of us is as crafted as the lies we tell ourselves. The lies we show the world. We hide behind comparison. We compete for scraps of insecurity. We expect praise. 

The greatest disaster is that we have reduced living to either side of the spectrum. We refuse to ride the pendulum that swings in between. Monsters don't live on the outskirts. They live right next door.

To be human is to see the whole monster. To be a monster is to see the whole human.

The silos are calling

I wrestle with my worth as a writer and a reader. Are my accolades representative of my body of work or is it vice versa? Am I not as crafted as friends? They, too, are distinguished poets. They are recognized by their peers. They have proximity to what seem to be my goals. Am I still good?

My writing comes from a different space, gathered in between the folds that whiteness creases. It's a subtle defiance. It's an epistle in a world of preachers. It mocks the system by engagement. Unfortunately, the bell rarely tolls for me. It rings loudest for experiences I've read about, only to draw parallels. I found my voice in a book. It was amplified on stage. My worth is in my words.

Is that a commodity? Am I worth less when I'm less engaged? What's the cost of true craft? Writers are critical competitors. It masks our self-righteous fears. In an era where self-promotion and proximity solidify relationships that garner recognition, how do we truly know if we are good writers? The silos are calling.

Maybe she's worth it

Worth is subjective. It's the sum total of the value, or lack there of, of our experiences. What if all those experiences taught you, told you you'd never be worthy? Are you always looking to sabotage your way out of relationships or are you forever proving your worthy? That slippery slope is my life.

I've been in recent conversations. They are cathartic. They are intimate. They are frighteningly distance. Each saying very similar things. My expectations far exceed my reality. I hide somewhere in between. I bring all the baggage I pretend I dropped off in the last relationship. I am yet grateful. I don't believe I'm worthy of more. The most I want is what others would call leftovers.

After my 2nd marriage failed, I swore off the the institution. I decided I wasn't bringing anyone home, unless he was truly worthy. A man of a certain caliber, status, etc to make up for my 3 children by 3 men. A man to prove I was worth loving in spite of myself. I never brought that man home. I dated and was in long term relationships. Nobody saw them, outside my children.

Was it shame? Was I that embarrassed? Did I think my family was that bad? I just knew their standards. If I didn't meet them, I knew the men I dated wouldn't. I dated men who seemed to like me. I fit. I looked the part. I was low maintenance. I didn't ask for much. They could depend on me. Kinda a Ride or Die. Even after that, I still wasn't worthy. I expected that giving me what I could was going to turn into something more. I was ill-equipped to do more. I didn't and don't know how to ask.

And, then, I tumbled into this almost in love. That's when I run. Ghost. Pack up. I'm gone. I've delivered the messages from the universe. I've healed them. I've seen my capacity and his. Men always want someone other than who I show them. Being me isn't worth that further investment.

So, I don't meet the family. He won't meet mine. We won't do holidays or gift exchanges. Even with all the professions of how important I am, I get absence. I've never know the Alicia Keys, Unbreakable, type of love. My marriages had so much space in them. We spent more time apart than together. So, that became the blueprint. A man living with me was more of a rescue or a demand, rather than an agreement. I was only worth what I could provide. Or my need to be close wasn't even in his thoughts. Needless to say, that didn't last long, a matter of months.

The men who find me worthy enough, ambush me into meeting the family, are often the ones I didn't choose. They chose me. I should feel valid, right? Nope. I feel trophied. I feel like I'm a step up. I feel worthless. I'd rather not meet anyone, if all I am is a fulfillment.

I'd rather be alone than to feel worthless or, at best, transactional. I'd rather pretend to know my worth, running away, than to stay and prove it. I don't know my worth. I do know I'm worth more than that.

I remember me

2020 rang in with 30 years of compartmentalized survival. Writing is both skill and passion. I'd forgotten how to stay sharp. Poetry had pushed it's way to the front. It dressed in cadence and cheap heels. It lusted after celebrity and recognition. It forgot who she was.

I could give some roundabout, long-winded, well-crafted, way rehearsed explanation about why poetry. I can lift up my grandmother's foresight. I can still smell the Negro Encyclopedia. I can hear the many, many stanzas I got wrong. Poetry gave me space. Poetry safely swelled me when the world refused to see me. Poetry masked my misfit. It didn't care about how I came to be. It gave my voice a direction steeped in tradition. It became the only friend an only child could count on.

Even still, I let poetry define me. I clung loosely to my Lorraine Hansberry dreams. More like, tucked them under the weight that death brings. My music teacher gave me Maya Angelou. She took me in. She showed me that my voice could take up as much or as little space, on a page, as I chose. I didn't need a stage or a church audience. I was okay without performative proof.

Poetry rescues me. It shouts my anger and sweetens my tears. It gives me the process nobody else does. I don't have to apologize. I do have to work at being a better poet. At relying on editing more than my ego. I don't think my work is great. I think it's okay. It needs the thai massage and a chiropractor. It has kinks. Knotted thoughts that can only be worked out in spaces where performance ain't on the table.

I love to read. To peruse the packed pages bound together. To examine. I don't read enough. I skim. I buy books to support. I skim, promising myself I'm coming back. I read like a writer. I'm in dire need of the surprise connection. I'm lost without books. What I read is important.

I'm building something exciting. It requires research. Articles that spread themselves across the screen feel like they are books in my lap, in a library corner. I'm at peace. My love of complicated writing is satiated. My undergrad degree was worth it. Why am I not writing like this?

What I've come to love isolates me, leaves me silo'd in an ivory tower. I need celebrity to pull me down those stairs. I need the rush of acceptance. I need the performance. You won't see me otherwise. I become a misfit, only befit to be a scholar. Scholarship ain't easy.

Poetry gives me platforms, connects me to past and present. It helps me help others. I'm mo' than a poet. I carry 3 decades of dreams. I've learned denial and survival coexist but they ain't happy. Who will love me if I am not doing poetry?