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?