What’s In A Word…

What’s in a word? Sometimes too much and yet not enough.

A friend and I, who had not seen each other in a long while, were on our way to dinner when I ran into an erstwhile colleague. As we exchanged greetings, I introduced them to each other as such, friend and erstwhile colleague. When we parted ways, my friend asks why I was so specific in my introductions. As a response I asked her the names of my children, their ages and my birthday. Basically things most of my casual friends would know, but not necessarily a colleague or an acquaintance, especially a former one. The colleague would not have known such information about me when we worked together; he and I were never friends. I’m not even speaking on good friends or best friends here, just friends. You know the people who have not risen to such importance in your life that you would invite them to join in on your vacation, but you would be happy to have them over for a back yard barbecue. I have colleagues I consider friends and would them invite to barbecue. There are other colleagues that I will hang out with socially for the occasional happy hour after work get together, but would not invite to my house. Then there are the ones, like the one above, where my only interactions with them are on the job.

We have become this society so afraid of hurting another’s feelings, that we oftentimes will give elevated credence to people to avoid potentially embarrassing or insulting them. The advent of Facebook has truly downplayed the definition of a friend. It is even sneaky in that you can set certain people to be an acquaintance without them knowing it. Yes, technically it is so you can post things to your status that your only friends can see, but they themselves would never know that you only consider them an acquaintance, not a friend. We  differentiate friend from good friend and best friend. One really has to earn their stripes for those titles, but dumping everyone one else into this generic friend folder does not work for me. Just because you are not a complete stranger to me does not automatically make you a friend, let alone my friend.

So what’s the big deal? How much does it really hurt anything to call someone a friend who is not? What’s the harm? For many – there is no big deal. It will not hurt a thing. When someone I consider a friend introduces another to me as a friend, I immediately presume that this new person is at the very least of some minor importance to the one doing the introductions. I may be more open to that person, give a certain level of respect to them based on that information. After all, based on the mutual person between us, a friend of yours is a potential friend of mine. However, if a friend introduces someone to me as a co-worker or colleague I am immediately friendly, but guarded. Until indicated otherwise, s/he is not necessarily a person to start sharing embarrassing remember the time? stories with. For me to casually introduce him as a friend a) elevates him to a status he has not earned in my life and b) undermines the importance of those in my life I truly consider friends. And to me that is harmful.

In the midst of a conversation regarding people who carelessly or blatantly misspell a person’s name someone exclaimed to me “Oh, don’t you just hate that?” Without really thinking about it I said that I did not hate it. So yes, I with the unique, some would say weirdly, spelled moniker was looked at with obvious surprise. And be honest, we are all guilty of casually throwing out the hate and love words for really trivial things from time to time. I explained there is a reason people complain that words like love and hate and friend has lost the power of their meaning. Collectively they have become so over used for such meaningless things as to be near meaningless themselves. Hate is all-consuming. Hate drives your day-to-day existence, becomes your most prevalent thoughts in all things. You channel so much of your energy into that which you hate, nearly all else takes a backseat to it. The barista at Starbucks who wrote Raven on my cup when I clearly spelled out R-A-I-V-E-N-N-E was worthy of my pissed-off tongue lashing when I saw it. Once I said what I had to say, I walked out the door not giving it or him a second thought. Because annoying as it was — why bother having me spell it if he was going to do whatever he wanted any way?– it was hardly worthy of my expending such energy required as to hate him. I’ll save that for the racists, sexists etc. out there who deign to wreak havoc on people’s lives for no other reason than their own stupidity and yes hatred. See? There is an enormous difference between “Oh, don’t you just hate fat people? And “Oh, don’t you just hate when people misspell your name?

Conversely…

“I love crossword puzzles.”
“I love those shoes.”
“I love sports.”
“I love my best friend.”
“I love my spouse/significant other.”
“I love *insert deity of choice here*.”

Yeah, I am not even going go any further on the far too many ways in which we abuse the word love. That one word encompasses so much, to make it feel so belittled sometimes.  After all, how I feel about Doughnut Plant’s coconut creme filled square doughnuts, while pure, deep  and true, is hardly comparable to that of how I felt about my late-husband. Yet,  many others would use the word love to convey both feelings – that’s how little credence  we’re now giving to the word.  Other languages, especially Asian languages get it right in having specific words/phrases for different types of love to solve the this.  I think the English language fails us greatly here to have one such word encompass so many things. And as a poet it is a major frustration on just how limited it is to rhyme!

It is true – any word we use only has the power we give it and conversely the power we take away by the over use of it. Certain curse words/phrases hold their power because we are told we not supposed to use them. The power of those words has carried on through the centuries at least until recent modern times. They are used so cavalierly these days, the shock value of them is slowly wearing off. Hopefully not in our lifetime, but soon enough, the washing of a child’s mouth out with soap for such an offense will be a dying antiquated notion.

There is a reason we have all these different terms for people and things in our lives. The people we have as friends, share our love with, even give our hate to should never roll off trivially from our lips, yet they do because the words themselves, that should be held with reverence and spoken with care, are becoming trivial. We should learn to use at least those three words friend, love and hate,  for their specialness as intended and use them properly.

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Come see what other slices of life are happening this week:

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

 

 

 

 

Slice of Life Writing Challenge : Two Writing Teachers

The Blues Singer

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First look up and down she seems cool
Someone urban, yet proud with a touch of sass
She chooses a sofa over a stool
For the main support of her ample mass
Some truths settle in so cruel
You just know she is no vapid, hoity-toity lass

Her maquillage is a multihued blend
Colors not in vogue for a human face to adorn
Velvet yards seemingly without end
Feather a figure where it really shouldn’t be worn
A seam or two will soon need a mend
But what will mend her expression so forlorn?

There’s a distant pain in her eyes
That feels like no amount of warmth can overcome
Merged with an air of deep despise
Red talons sift between rest and a hard tapping drum
On the table top as smooth her most painful lies
Yeah, you recognize that kind of hurt and then some

Was this hurt from just yesterday
Or precious moments trampled in her distant past
Was she plotting on viable ways to pay
Or wondering if ever again she’ll laugh last
Then somewhere a piano starts to play
A chord that hurdles through her sorrows vast

You watch her venture to the stage
As she take the mike her rouged lips starts to quiver
The notes cradle her gritty voice of rage
In a vernacular that causes the soul’s core to shiver
It takes berth as both fresh and sage
Through heartbreaks where she was never the giver

Her look now seems less like a sin
In the glaring spotlight it’s subtle not cheap or crass
Still sipping inspiration through her gin
Reminding you of all the pain you’re trying to pass
Still you think, as you feel it all within
She’s the saddest girl to ever hold a martini glass

She takes you ‘to the river’ in tears owned
Her voice filling the virtual vacuum of her surrounds
As she layers Janis on Billy in tone
Her notes vary rising high only to vale to the ground
You wonder is it the song or a true moan
Notes you’ll hear days later when there’s no one around

She sings a provocative mix
Watching the audience eat out the palm of her hand
For you know it’s how she gets her kicks
By taking you on this tearful journey she’s planned
But for now you sit totally transfixed
Leaving only when the pain is more than you can stand

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I was at a jazz club in Harlem with a heartbroken friend. Usually there is upbeat jazz, fusion bands, the perfect thing to help start the healing, but that night. That night the Fates decided clearly more wallowing was needed.  It was not the night for the melancholy to be there. The above is a poetic rendition of how one singer broke nearly everyone there down. I had started this poem that night while we were still there. The above is the end result.

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

 

 

 

 

Slice of Life Writing Challenge : Two Writing Teachers

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: More Monday Morning Madness

I am on the subway, on my way to work, minding my own business when this happens:

I am reading my graphic novel when a masculine hand suddenly hovers into my view forcing me to look up. I know my resting bitch face was on in full force as I was at an interesting plot twist in the story and was not happy about the interruption.

Him: I just wanted to say “you’re beautiful” to my future ex-wife.

My exact initial thought: No, really?  Not that there’s ever a good time for such bullshit, but really dude? First thing on a Monday morning? Get the fuck outta here!

I was considering whether I should pull a Luis Suarez (the biting soccer player from Uruguay), on the hand still hovering over my novel or only verbally chew out the idiot when I’m pretty sure my resting bitch face quickly morphed into my resting I’ll cut a bitch face as our eyes made contact and he just as quickly withdrew his hand and grinned. And just when I thought my already low opinion of him could not decrease more – it did. He had on grillz. Seriously, he was wearing grillz.

What. The. And. Bleeeeeep?

The amount of jewelry  in his mouth could have fed a starving child in a third world country for a couple of months. Besides I thought that nonsense was finally out of style, having it was only adding to rapidly declining thoughts of him. Not knowing what I was dealing I opted for a third choice. – and please note the following exchange is happening on a crowded subway during morning rush hour.

Me (sounding official): Would you, whoever your are, take me, whoever I am, for your wife?

Him (confused, but playing along): I would.

Me:  I now pronounce us, whatever and whatever.  You may not kiss the whatever. I want a divorce!

Him (turns and walks toward the doors): Good, I’m out of here!

Me (snorts, neck rolls and snaps fingers): Poof baby! Don’t let the sliding doors hit ya where the good Lord split ya!

He exits the train at the next stop and I open my graphic novel.

Woman sitting next to me (chuckling): Damn! And I thought the Kim Kardashian marriage to that basketball player was short!

Me (deadpan): It was a good run while it lasted, but in the end it was like we didn’t even know each other any more.

It’s only Monday morning folks.

Countdown

Always the adventurer, I did not want to take advantage of the soulmate clock when I was in my late teens as most do. I wanted the joy of discovery, the surprise of finding that perfect person for me on my own, you know? I hadn’t told anyone at the time, but I was afraid. What if the clock said my soulmate was years, even decades away? It was always possibility. Did I really want to know that I could be an old lady before I met *the one*? Therefore, I did not get one. However, I had promised my best friend that if I had not found the one by the time I was forty I would consent to get a countdown clock. One spectacularly failed marriage and my fortieth birthday later, I was held to my word. I got a soulmate countdown clock and I waited.

And waited.

Oh, trust me, I had me some fun while I waited, but I waited.

Twenty-two years, three months, six days and far too many hours, minutes and seconds. That is how long I’ve waited.

Per the usage rules, depending on the time frame, a client comes in the day before or morning of the event horizon to have the device checked one last time. Apparently, there were many people in my area who were meeting their soon to be significant others today. The place was so packed it was literally draw by straws to parcel folks out to other units to handle the load. Even so, I was among the last seen for the morning appointments. Still, I have to admit, after waiting all this time; the excitement gripped me as I finally hear my name called.

Martin is my friendly neighborhood technician and runs through the required spiel. Reminding me of all the things which I have heard countless times from other clock users over the years. That, in a nutshell, the clocks can only predict when you will meet, not how long you’ll live happily ever after and after a certain age the clocks are less reliable and while essentially love can be found at any time in one’s life, this was pretty much my last shot with the clock for my old ass. I try not to roll my eyes as Martin states all of this in much more diplomatic and politically correct manner, of course.

From another room, we hear a young woman’s squeal of excitement.

“Oh I know that sound!” Martin, grins. “That’s a new one whose clock has just turned on. It must mean her soulmate count down is really short. She’ll be meeting him or her soon, the lucky gal! Hey look, you too!” Martin turns my wrist to show me as if I didn’t already know that.

0y, 0m, d, 0h, 4m, 42s. Holy shit! I didn’t know!

“That’s less than five minutes!” I yell totally caught off guard. What should have been a 30 minutes process had cost me nearly half of the morning.

“Well I know it ain’t me, honey! Get the hell out of here and go meet him! GO!” He literally pulls me out the chair and opens the door, shooing me out of the room.

I hurry to the now empty waiting area. I glance at my watch, 0y, 0m, d, 0h, 3m, 31s and beeline for the main door to the street.

With a couple of minutes to spare, I straighten myself out as much as possible. I toss an errant curl behind my ear before I spot him across the street. Tall, salt and peppered curling hair, to match his equally salted stubble and our eyes connect. I feel a pull. I feel it from the depths of my being as my breath catches. I can tell it is the same for him as he gasps.  He glances at his clock and I glance at mine…

0y, 0m, d, 0h, 0m, 51 s.

He grins at me knowingly, as the street light changes and he steps from the curb.

I am looking at his face, loving his smile, watching the confident strut of his stride all the while chastising myself for being all-aflutter when a cacophony of sound draws my attention. A soul wrenching combination of yelling, tires screeching, glass breaking and metal crunching together. My soul lurches again as I realize my newly found mate is no longer striding towards me, but is now several feet away a tangle of blood and bones. I don’t even think about it – I run to him.

The moment I grasp his hand all sound mutes, but that of our hearts falling into sync. He turns his head to look at me, he tries to smile, to speak, but he can’t. I happen to be holding the hand with his countdown clock and quickly glance at mine comparing times 3…2…1…

0y, 0m, d, 0h, 0m, 0 s – they match.

His hand goes limp in mine and I know.

I use my other hand to close the lids on eyes that no longer see me.

One Chance

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I watch her walk away
Admire her hips’ swing
The heat of her strong gait
The clink of her bracelets
Her back solid and straight

I watch her walk away
Her dress I guess is silk
It melts like second skin
Then vales in gentle folds
Accents all held within

I watch her walk away
Her looks water my knees
There’s one chance left to take
“Miss Wait!” I want to yell
Instead hear my heart break

I watch her walk away
And do not say a word
Inside I start to cry
Too shy to say hello
I’ve sealed the deal goodbye

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My take on the dVerse prompt on when words fail…

dVerse ~ Poets Pub  | MeetingTheBar ~ When Words Fail

Not The Same As…

Someone recently wrote:

Saying “I don’t date fat people” is the thing same as saying “I don’t date black people”.

No. No. No. And just no.

First let me state the following is how it looks from MY experiences, others may be similar, but mileage will vary. Every person has a right to date, or not date, within her/his own racial preferences. This is not about that. This is about the apple/oranges comparing/pitting one set of struggles against another. This is about how as a fat woman of color deep in the midst of both struggles, being able to say how and why they are not the same and how it affects me.

For most of history, if you dated/married fat, it was mostly just a descriptive. Yes, being fat has always had its own stereotypes, but until semi-recent times these were based more on the physical aspects of being fat, than on the intellectual or psychological state of the fat person. A simpleminded person was deemed so because of his or her behavior, regardless of size. Nowadays some will determine a person’s intelligence, or presumed lack thereof, solely based on the person being corpulent. It is as insidious as incorrect as the presumption that all overweight people are unhealthy based solely on their appearance. And all of this is regardless of race.

So let’s not ignore the elephant in the room from where a lot of this black/white nonsense springs. Regardless of corpulence, historically here in America, it was not droves of fat white people shipped over to pick cotton, tobacco etc. With our history, white dating color, but black in particular has always been fraught with issues. Some of these issues still persist, on both sides, to this day.

A few years ago, a white guy expressed his understanding of why blacks would want to date/marry white because it is “stepping up”. Conversely implying that we [blacks]-were somehow *lesser than* and should be grateful. He was not grateful for my response.

  • Is saying “I don’t date fat people” the thing same as saying “I don’t date blondes”? No, because a fat person can become blonde.
  • Is saying “I don’t date fat people” the thing same as saying “I don’t date people who wear glasses”? No, because a fat person can get contacts.
  • Is saying “I don’t date fat people” the thing same as saying “I don’t date (insert religion) or people with piercings”? No, because again these are things that can be (granted, not easily) changed, should a person so choose to make that change.

Let’s try saying “I’ll drink Cherry Kool Aid” but “I won’t drink water”. One maybe be somewhat malleable to change, the other is not. As a fat black woman I can, to a certain extent, change my flavor (my weight, my hair color, my hair, and as a person of a certain level of melanin, to some degree my complexion – my l Kool-Aid if you will). However, whether I am a glass or a pitcher, none of that changes the fact that no matter what flavors I choose, at the core I am still Black (water).

When I read someone does not want to date black people, it is a dismissal not just of the outer layer of our physical being; it also dismisses the core of who we are as a culture and as individuals. I don’t mean just the blacks the follow the Hip-Hop/Urban/R&B culture. I know blacks born and raised here in New York City who would recognize the music of Luka Šulić and Stjepan Hauser of the “Two Cellos”, but if shown pictures would have to guess the difference between T-Pain and Li’l Wayne. Neither of which would matter; to those who would not date them, simply because they are black and therefore will be immediately dismissed. Regardless of where we as blacks are on the socio/ economic/class line, it diminishes our individual experiences, our hearts, our souls, our humanity on top of what makes us black, what makes us – us.

So yes saying “I don’t date fat people” is the thing same as saying “I don’t date black people” is flippant, dismissive and frankly out right insulting.

“I may date a different race or color, it doesn’t mean I don’t like my strong black brother”
“Before you can read me, you have to learn how to see me”
/En Vogue – Free Your Mind

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday Slice of Life Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

Yes All Women

I fully admit the character limit of Twitter and I are not the best of friends.  Still every now and then, even someone as verbose as I must concede on how much can be said with so little. If you have not joined the conversation I urge you to follow, read, absorb, think and engage in the #YesAllWomen conversation happening on Twitter.  Do not dismiss these voices as ranting and/or misandry.  Read it, not just the surface words on pixels, but the words of those who have put their stories in 140 characters or less.

Read it, not just the surface words on pixels, but the words of those, female and male, who have put our stories, our hearts for your perusal  of the female experience as it pertains to men, in 140 characters or less.

Yes, several of the stories told are tragedies, but the fact that this still needs to be a conversation in the day in age is the bigger one.

#YesAllWomen on Twitter

Packed Away

Through the myriad rays of
Late afternoon sunlight
Dust flecks shift, flicker flow over
The slowly opening trunk of
Packed away memories, not mine

In fluid pen, on lined sheets
Harsh words of war, of need, his
Contrast the soft verbiage of home, of desire, hers
The sharp scratches, on unlined vellum
Scant hints of Chantilly scent
The barely there waxy impression of lips pressed
Of my triple, double and solo great grand predecessors

From a time not so long ago
When letters with news were already
Weeks old upon receipt
Instead of the instant access
That we come to expect now
No now, no now, no now, no now…

Baptismals, confirmations, certificates of life and death
And though it is not the same , freshly printed emails in san serif,
Screen-captures in HD sharpness and clarity join them

I jot a quick note of reference in cursive,
Giving the only human touch
To more papers becoming
Packed away memories, not theirs
Of my future solo, double and triple great grand successors
Before I softly close the trunk on it all,
Setting more dust flecks to drift
flicker, flow in the myriad rays
Of the fading late afternoon sunlight.

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Theme  Thursdays | Paper

At a Slant

I do not understand this slant
The course of which to rhyme
For my natural flow of banter
Escapes its rhythm binds

Is it on consonant or vowels
In which diction should rule?
Syllable counts have me scowling
In fret of lines I’ll misconstrue

Erato and I scratch our heads
And ask a boon of Calliope
For even Euterpe deeds
This may better suit Melpomene

Above lined paper my pen pauses
To wit my brain cells are not bent
I’m feeling like a poetic pauper
No, I do not understand this slant

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So at dVerse Poets Pub, Karin/Manicdaily has us using slant rhyme in poetry. Well, others are using, I’m weakly attempting, as I cannot seem to grasp my cranium around the concept. Still, The Little Engine That Could in me never says die. So as I’m wont to do when I don’t get it – I had some fun with it instead and hopefully my frustration becomes your enjoyment.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting the Bar at a Slant

Bring Her Home

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The multiple hues a cacophony of color
Cascading twixt tired fingers
She sighs knowing,
She should go do something
She should go do anything,
Anything but the nothing she’s doing now
Still her fingers swirl as she lingers

Her thoughts as deeply jumbled
as the colors before her
While she ponders the fate
Of the little girl who owns them
They will be hers again she thinks resolutely
Because she cannot think of her daughter in past tense
No, she cannot think that it is already too late

This room that hurts the most to dwell
Yet her heart carries it along anyway
When to other rooms she roams
She lifts her head to sky her heart sees
Beyond the walls of the room she stands
Praying her prayers are heard,
Praying her prayers are answered

** Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there
She is young
She’s afraid
Let her rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring her home
Bring her home
Bring her home

#BringOurGirlsHome
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** Gender switching the heatbreakingly beautiful “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables.

Today at dVerse we’re challenged to write a poem about NEWS of any type. From personal to local, national, international, past, or present news. And this just happened to be sitting around…

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics – Good News, Bad News, Your News!