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WordPress recently reminded me that I have passed the five-year benchmark. Sometimes I think I feel every single day of it, but most times it still feels as though I’m just getting starting. It’s also March, time for renewal and re-awakenings as well. I figure it’s a good as time as any to participate in  the 8th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge which is to post everyday for the month of March. Along with other writing challenges of which I am a part of I think I can finally ace this thing. (I failed miserably my last couple of attempts at this.) It’s day five and so far so good – yay! And sometimes, when blogging, you have to take things easy and back to basics…

So let’s start with whyRaivenne-lations”?

The name is just me being cute, a portmanteau of Raivenne and revelations, from back when I thought this blog would be less about me revealing things in my life and more about how the things in life reveal themselves to me. It has instead morphed into something part semi-stream of conscious and part the abject randomness of my mind as I relate to things within my oh so small microcosm of this world-at-large.

And the tag line? “Doing what you like is freedom; liking what you do is happiness.” That is there to remind me that one -doing what I like- is just as important the other -liking what I do- and to constantly strive for a balance of both within my life.

See? No lofty goals here.

I post – some of you read, some of you comment, every now and then I strike a nerve or a smile, and hopefully all of you enjoy.  I, the Gods, and likely a handful or so of you must be crazy, to paraphrase the classic line. Thus, I am very appreciative of those of you who arrived, read and have chosen to follow along this ever winding trail with me.

Thank  you!

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Also, see how others are slicing it up this month:

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This Morning I Woke Up

This morning, I woke up…
To invisible hands
Covering my ears, eyes, mouth
At news of conflicts,
Sights of damage,
Speaking of war
My mother trying to protect
What’s left of the innocence within me
From the evil around me
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To grit in my clothes
That no amount of shaking out
Can ever seem to set free
The fine silt of cracked walls
That permeate  the very air itself
It becomes a part of the ink
That is my bloodstream
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To shattered windows,
The latest of blasts bursting the last of panes
In the former still of the night
Too much to bother cleaning then
Now a glaring hazard in the early light of dawn
Still it’s almost a relief,
No longer having to worry
About breaking what’s already gone
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To wishing those invisible hands
Were still there to provide the bliss
Of the ignorance of youth
For now they know I know
And there is no going back
To the unseen, unheard, unspoken
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To one hand holding a pen
The other a rifle
Pondering
Which holds more power
The o
ne for fighting what’s without
The other to keep it from becoming
What’s within
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To remember my only choice
…and picked up my pen.

This morning I woke up…
…and picked up my pen.

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At dVerse  we’re invited to write poetry against the world today when the outspoken are being killed. It has been a subject at the back of my mind for a while now, brought a little closer since the death of Charlie Hebdo, but with the recent deaths of Avijit Roy and Boris Nemtsov it’s moved to the front.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Make our voices heard

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Also, see how others are slicing it up this month:

8th-annualc2a0slice-of-life-story-challenge-invite

Don’t Fill In The Blank

Someone referred to me as African-American. I corrected her by saying no, I’m American, no modifier. She didn’t get it. Her expression clearly wanted to ask questions she was not sure how to phrase. So I asked if she referred to herself as British-American, which of course I knew she did not. Her response was to patiently explain, as though speaking to a young child, how her family has been here for a few generations now, they do not claim their roots from long ago, they are simply American. It was as she reached the last few words that I saw the light bulb go on for her. I then asked, so why does everyone else in a similar vein get a modifier? To her credit she had the grace to be embarrassed as it sank in.

When I was a child, oh SO long ago, we were Black, White, Spanish and Chinese. The only time a modifier came up was to differentiate between American Indians and Indians from across the ocean or a specific Asian culture. Regardless, if you were born here you were automatically American. Naturalization information did not take family background or culture into consideration. On US passports you are not African-American, Irish-American or Spanish-American etc. If you chose to become an American citizen, you didn’t abandon your culture, you mixed it in. People came here on purpose to be American, not _____-American.

American.

Then something happened in the late 70s – early 80’s. People wanted their familial cultures, individuality recognized and thus _____-American became a thing. The flavors in this melting pot of the USA no longer wanted to blend in, but to stand out. Individual cultural pride not-so-slowly began to override national pride. At what cost?  Sometimes it feels as though, instead of a melting pot, America has become this barrel of crabs in which each race, ethnicity, culture etc. is simultaneously pulling the other down while clamoring to the top.

It took 9/11 to make us one nation indivisible again. Like most families, we may pick on each other, but don’t you dare pick on us. All prefixes dropped as we clutched our flag, like pearls, to our collective bosoms; “America The Beautiful”, “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “God Bless America” in our ears and on our reverent tongues. Still, it was a short-lived patriotism as the strands of solidarity popped when the finger-pointing began.  Because like most families, once the immediate threat to the overall clan seems over we are right back to ripping each other’s guts out.  We had a slight, and I do mean slight, resurgence of national pride last year as some stood up in proverbial arms when North Korea made threats against America for the release of the movie “The Interview”. After the movie was re-edited, to be slightly less offensive to the North Korean government and finally released, we learned the film was not worth the brouhaha being made over it and national fervor melted faster than an ice-cube in the desert in summer.

Why do we need something to hate collectively in order to not hate each other individually? In the past century we’ve in turns have had beefs with Japan, Germany, Russia, and the Middle East. Now we have “tensions” on multiple fronts. I am not advocating another tragedy. There’s enough in our history books as it is. We should not need a common threat to find common ground, but what will it take for us to be just American again?

Diversity is not supposed to be divisive.

Train Pain

Took the uptown #2 Local one stop uptown to catch the express because nothing was stopping on the downtown local stations due to signal malfunction.

Get put off the express #2 after a couple of stops because the train itself was malfunctioning.

Get on the #5 Express into lower Manhattan to transfer to the A train that places me less than a block from my job site.

Get to the A train platform only to learn there are no A or C trains running downtown because of a problem at Canal Street.

Play Human Triplanner.MTA.info Guide to about five different lost and clueless commuters in the interim.

Go back to the 4/5 Express train to get into Brooklyn and walk the five blocks I was trying to avoid in the first place.

Mama Mary gets her and her temporary Lost Little Lambs into Brooklyn and part ways.

Finally reach work and what is the very first email I see? “MTA Unlimited Ride MetroCard Fare Increase…”

Dear Universe, apparently, you got jokes this morning!
HA HA very funny muthafugga!

To Hug Or Not

kitten-no-hug

Usually proficient to a fault, an administrator at one of the venues where I teach was really having what Mama would have called a day a few weeks back.  We had never had a non work-related conversation before that day, but clearly something was troubling her and she was about to break down. When the session was over, I invited her into the room, locked the doors, sat in one chair and literally ordered her to sit in another and spill it right then and there before she totally lost it. Long story-short, she got it out of her system, and I offered advice, opinion and platitudes along the way. While the problem itself wasn’t solved that day, the pent of frustration affecting her performance at work and her over all mood was released and she was much better. I packed up and went on my way, thinking nothing of it. Anyone trying to suppress emotions to that degree will swear on bibles they were getting away with the subterfuge. Almost always the distress is transparent, it just needs an outlet. Surprisingly, it took me, a near stranger, to get it out of her. Then again, maybe not all that surprisingly. After all, we’ve all heard of how many will confess deep sorrows to a random bartender that wouldn’t or couldn’t be told to friends.

Returning to the venue again last week for another class she and I were exchanging our usual pleasantries when she suddenly reached out and bear hugged me. I understood she was grateful and was thanking me for showing care that day when even her co-workers could not have been so bothered, but having just shy of totally forgotten our last encounter I was not mentally prepared for it. In total opposition of my behavior the last time we saw each other, I was not gentle at all when I pushed away, just short of snarling for her to let go of me. She was understandably befuddled so I had to explain.

Now this is likely going to surprise some people, but here goes. I really do not like to hug or be hugged by every body. The expression of the black kitten from the above picture is me on the inside 90% of the time when being hugged.

Obviously, there are those with whom I give and receive hugs freely and willingly. With some other people, it could go either way as to who’s the top or bottom (< see what I did there?).  Nor is it a religious, germ-a-phobe, or I hate people kind of thing because none of that applies here. I do not get the urge to run off and wash head-to-toe when I hug, I just don’t like the contact. I do not like being mauled, you may call it being hugged, by just any and every body.  I am not even going into the whole cheek-to-cheek whether to kiss, to air-kiss or not to kiss  at all aspect. And yes, while I fully concede that for a self-proclaimed Social Mothra who is constantly milling around people, this is a baffling complex to have.

When I do the hugging thing, it is with people who I see on a regular enough basis to have become accustomed enough to let them within my personal space without cringing. I can, and often do, the one arm around the shoulder thing socially without a problem. It is, the full wrap both arms around the body and squeeze thing that is the problem for me. I feel that much physical contact should be reserved for close family, good friends and other loved ones.

As with most things there are exceptions. Though certain friends and I had known each other for years it was only online. As the opportunities arose for us to finally meet face-to-face individually and collectively the giving and receiving of hugs was never in question. I hugged, happily and joyfully.

This becomes a problem when in a heavy social setting where I am standing in a mixed crowd where some people I really know, those I somewhat know, but am not close to and the ones I barely or do not know at all. Those I barely or do not know are easy. They are not expecting to receive a hug from a relative stranger, and there is no reason to give one. For everyone else, rather than explain, one more time, yet again, that it is nothing personal, but I really do not like hugging. It really is just easier to grit my teeth, suffer through a series of quick hugs and just be done with it. For some reason it is okay for a seated person not to stand and hug.  And it is equally okay, if the one standing does not desire to lean down and give a hug, unless it is for close family, friends, loved ones. For that reason, I try to be seated, if I can.

Luckily, the venue administrator understood. Apparently she has a family member with similar view and thus took it in stride.  But for many it then becomes this but why? situation as though not wanting to be hugged by every one on the blessed earth must have been caused by some traumatic experience.  And even if it were the case, if they are someone I don’t want to hug, what are the odds they are someone I would share a traumatic experience with? Because, let’s be honest, not everyone who holds the title of a friend is also a loved one. There is no way to be honest and be kind in that situation.

Everybody has his or her thing/s. Hugging is one of mine. So depending on the person, the situation and especially my mood please don’t take personally if I don’t elect to throw my arms around you. In this case, really, it’s me not you, I promise.

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That’s my two cents, let’s see how others are slicing it up for the week:

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Battle Lines

I am sure most of the nation has heard/read about Officers Wenjian Liu and Rafael Ramos of NYPD who were murdered over the weekend. And while I sincerely wish that I can say that I am surprised that this has happened, I am not. As word of the officers’ deaths hit the news Facebook and Twitter went berserk as the immediate bastions of gut reaction opinions flew. What I am surprised at is how quickly battle lines have emerged because of this.

While few argue that the killing of the NYPD officers was wrong, posts/comments/private messages along the lines of “I guess you’re happy now” that popped up over the weekend gives a definite sense that some who are against the protests in Ferguson and NYC seemed to think those who protest and/or support the protestors are somehow engaged in Schadenfreude over this weekend’s killings. Are you fucking kidding me? I was so aghast that anyone would ever think such a thing  of any protestor, let alone me personally. I unfriended them without even bothering to engage in debate.  From what I’ve since gathered from the handful of mutual acquaintances among us it’s just as well, but as the kids say “I can’t…”

This is not an either or situation. The support of #BlackLivesMatter does not negate support of #NYPDLivesMatter.

  1. The deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner et al, at the hands of their respective local police is a tragedy.
  2. The assignations of Officers Liu and Ramos at the hands of Ismaaiyl Brinsley is also a tragedy.

In a previous posted I asked “Or Does It Explode?” The fuse, already lit in the aftermath of the Ferguson and New York City grand jury decisions, has the general vibe between police and minorities at a high level of tense. Both sides were walking on proverbial eggshells. Things have yet returned to anything near normal levels of tense – whatever the hell that is; the killings of Officers Liu and Ramos this past weekend have not helped at all.

Just as at our cores we know that it is #NotAllPolice are out to get us, we hope they equally know #NotAllBlacks are out to assassinate them.  The LAST thing we need is for a black man to be accidentally taken out while jogging on the street or while walking a dog because he got too close to a police car because the officers inside perhaps felt threatened.

I am praying and praying hard that the actions of Ismaaiyl Brinsley have furthered that ignition along the fuse.

#AllLivesMatter

Or Does It Explode?

I can see my personal quest for inner calm is in direct defiance of my continual reading of news regarding the lack of a grand jury indictment in Ferguson, MO.

When I first read about the verdict I literally threw up my hands in frustration. That action immediately put to mind the classic Marvin Gaye song “Inner City Blues” which I posted to my Facebook.

ferguson

I wake up this morning to the snippets of the evidence presented at trial all over the news and social media. If what has thus far ben released to the public as a way to substantiate the grand jury’s correctness in their decision, it has backfired greatly my eyes.

I’ve seen some of the photo evidence of Office Wilson’s “injuries”. They range from what looks like razor burn or heat rash to a simple scratch. I’ve marred myself more popping a pimple.

And as I angrily posted this morning upon seeing the above picture:

ferguson2

That was his personal evidence? THAT was worth someone’s life? NO!

I know. I KNOW, I was not at the trial. I have not perused all the evidence that was presented to the grand jury – now released to the public. I have seen several snippets that have thus far been posted to news and social media. Those alone, at least to me, make it worthy of a trial.

All I can think right now is: Has the value of black lives, which were always of questionable value in this country historically once we stopped being chattel in the country anyway, lowered so far down the scale that the death of one in such fashion is not even worth a damn trial?

Last night’s outbreaks of violence in the aftermath of the verdict, reminds me very much of what happened after Rodney King. And to be honest, while I understood the anger that drove it, I did not understand the point of the LA riots in 1992 any more than I understand these outbreaks in Ferguson now. Being afraid to step foot in or out of the door of your local business because your own neighbor may have a Molotov at the ready, does nothing to help the situation. I’ve lived just long enough to see that while the details change, it still all feels a harsh ring of deja vu with history repeating itself.

Here we Americans stand some two hundred and thirty plus years of freedom from England. We blacks stand some one hundred and fifty years free from slavery, but sometimes I feel like we’re still bound. The Civil Rights Movement has done much for the outer trappings, yet we are still such a long way from the inner heart of the dream of Rev. Dr. King. And it seems every generation or so, a match gets lit to a powder keg to remind of us of just how far we have left to go before that dream comes true. In the interim, it still remains a dream deferred and Langston Hughes best explained the possible ramifications of such…

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

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It’s a pretty pissed off Raivenne slicing here – come see how others are slicing it up today:

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Weekly Prompt – Share Your World – Week 45

Over at Cee’s Photography I’ve discovered a weekly challenge to “Share Your World” via random questions. While photos are not required, I agree they do enhance things. Here are my responses:

What is your favorite color? 

shades-of-black

Black. I know part of my love for the color is because of my aversion to all things pastel as a child. As a teen and adult, the appeal for me is the mystery attached to it. The color of darkness; the touch of badness; the hint of the illicit and the simple perversion of liking something girls are not supposed to like. I was Goth and Metal and Leather, a good decade before those terms existed in my lexicon. Back when it meant something rebel, mysterious, dark not to be the near casually tossed out adjectives as used today.

In what do you find the simplest of joys?

 

Bacon Mac and Cheese

Macaroni and cheese – with bacon!

 music-is-what-feelings-sound-likeMusic! Music! Music!

Food and music. A bowl of mac & cheese in general, but especially with bacon can bring out of just about any foul mood and put a smile on my face. It makes a good mood feel even better. In either case at least until the bowl is finished. * Big Grin *  Such simple ingredients at its base – yet so complex in how it just works. There is a reason it is high up in the list of Comfort Food for so many.

And as much as I am a logophile and bibliophile and appreciate the ability of words to reach and touch me to the core, music gets me there deeper and infinitely faster. I can hear the opening of certain songs and/or music pieces and feel my mood shifts on the first note of recognition. At least in my head I have to do the call backs of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” (bom-bom-bom <– see?! I just had to, had to include it!), and unless I am carrying a very heavy load, I still cannot resist the urge to drop everything in order to “air drum”, the drum solo in Phil Collins “In The Air Tonight”. I have clutched my heart and been brought to tears over a piece of music as book has ever done so – yet. I am not always eating, but there is always music -or easy access to it- around me.

Would you prefer a reading nook or an art, craft, photography studio?

studio_1

Oh, the art studio hands down.  I can make a reading nook out of just about any where I choose to sit and read. I do not work on a lot of the art things I would like to simply because I do not have the space to pursue such within the limited confines off my apartment. I am pretty sure my landlord would very much object to a kiln for glass blowing or a pottery wheel in my living room, not to mention the mess acrylic and oil paints can make. I already know should I hit the big lottery; whatever home I build will have a studio nearby where I can work on any of my various artistic pursuits at will as well as a library.

What is at least one of your favorite quotes?

 orig-copy

Everyone is born an original; sadly most die as copies.

freedom-happiness

Doing what you like is freedom; liking what you do is happiness.”


Bonus question:
What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

grateful
Last week was seeing the first New York Festival of Light and getting to spend some time with my eldest son in the process. The Festival was in its inaugural run and it was sweet being at the very first of something new. Years down the road from now, there’s going to be a certain cachet in being able to brag, I was at the first one. I took pictures, unfortunately not a single one with me and my son in them as proof we were there – d’oh! I am already looking forward to next year’s Festival – I know it will be even bigger and better! As for this week that is already more than halfway over, I am looking forward to the “Color Play” opening reception at La Maison d’Art in Harlem. Like the Festival I rarely get to many such events on their opening day, not to mention hardly attend any events in Harlem any more – to which hang my head in shame. That is a slight I plan to rectify starting with this exhibit.

Come Share Your World at Cee’s Photography.

 

She Had It Coming

Watch this first:

He smacked her like she cussed out his dear mother. Like a mother smacks her child for using a really bad word. Like a soap-opera actress slaps her paramour after discovering an affair. Let’s just say he slapped her – hard. So hard I said “Damn!” and rubbed my own face.

The initial reaction most have had he didn’t have to smack he like that, but I also add – she had it coming.

I have no idea what instigated the young woman clowning all over the young man, but clearly she had been running her mouth for a bit before the start of this video. Yes, she was talking much mess, but it was all words. She was all in his personal being stupid and he was mostly ignoring her. With instigating of her girls as Greek chorus riling her up to spew even more bullshit, she was getting worse by the minute. The additional audience of some of the other passengers laughing did not help and realizing she was being filmed on a cell phone only made it worse; escalating the situation rapidly.

When the target of her tirade had enough, whether he had reached his stop or not, he had started walking away from her. Let me repeat that; he was walking away from her. When you do hear him speak at last, it is evident he has an accent, but she tells him he sounds stupid. I bet she did not give one thought to what she must have sounded like to him while she was going off. He took all her bullshit pretty much wordlessly, but he had enough and called her out of her name. Was he wrong in how he chose to call her out?-yes. But was he wrong in calling her out?-no. After all the crap she spewed to him, he earned a call out.  That she did not like it –too damn bad– she had no business slapping him in the back of his neck because of it.

She clearly took a couple of seconds to think about it before she punched him – that was an intentional response. Granted, he had no business smacking her in retaliation period, but he just as clearly did not think about it; immediately turning back to slap her – that was a gut reaction. He did not beat her, he did not punch her. He did exactly what she did – slapped and stepped back.

Some females count on the adage that a man will never hit a woman and misuse it to berate men. She had a public audience; she had her girls as back-up and she was surrounded by other men aw swell. She was so secure in the knowledge that she could mouth off, being all Betty Bad Bitch and get away with it knowing he was not going to be stupid enough to touch her. Or so she thought. To quote Lincoln – “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt” and that girl was acting “all kinds of fool” as the old folks say. I think he was trying to be a gentleman and let her act like the clown she chose to be.  As I said at the beginning of this, it was all words. However, once she slapped him all bets were off.  Even in the imbroglio that followed, it was less about the other men protecting the female from the one guy, and more keeping the females off the one guy.

As Mama always said: Keep your hands to yourself.

I feel no remorse whatsoever for her, it was not right, but she had it -and all the memes that are now spinning from it- coming.