when the walls we build don’t keep us warm

“I was pregnant once, married twice, never viscerally in love, and I’m not sure what this is, but I like having you around.”

It was one of those brisk and perfect fall days with its burnt orange, rust brown, magnificent red splattered everywhere that caused things to unravel from the tongue.

“I fast on Fridays, play my music really loud, and watch the television on mute. If I have to cry, it’s done once every four months, and regardless of how much a thing may hurt after that bout of tears, no more drops are allowed. It’s banked until the next ‘salt ceremony.’”

He didn’t hold my hand and pretend to genuinely commiserate or understand. We just walked in silence up the hill, through the Pathmark’s parking lot, across 125th and onto Berkeley to my apartment.

He made tea and baked an apple crumble pie. Who knew he could? It was a pleasant discovery but not the kind that would’ve made me want him around even more. I washed the teacups and admired him; brown V neck sweater, unbuckled dark blue True Religion, bare feet padding across the floor.

“I don’t usually allow men to piss around my territory. And I’m not permitting you to because you’re special. I’m just down on my luck and could use some company, someone to spend the holidays with ‘cause it kinda gets lonely.”

The thud of soles ceased, then resumed, fading until it got lost somewhere between the bathroom and my office. Swept the kitchen, emptied the trash even though I could have asked him to, but it’s my space and I must protect its sovereignty. When I returned, he was standing there.

“Your company is needed too.”

I stared at him, mortified by the hint of vulnerability. Awkward. And ignorant of what to do with my hands or myself. We hung there in all the rawness, until rescued by the obscenities filtering through the kitchen window from the street below. We smiled, then chuckled. It was our first for the day.

Several moons and many fall days later, we’re on a blow up bed in my home office. Our makeshift sleeping quarters so that he won’t sleep in my room, or on my bed, and I won’t have a litter of memories to dispose of in his wake. Just a simple quarantine, then allow them to texpire right here, when it all blows to smithereens.

As always, my thoughts were all my own; his attention lost on the fingers that mapped goose bumps around the perimeters of collarbone, areolas, hands, and legs. Desire took each breath ragged with electricity. We were charged between kisses.

And on that brisk and perfect fall day with its burnt orange, rust brown, magnificent red splattered everywhere, things unraveled from his tongue.

“I was never married, have been in love thrice, got my heart broken each and every single time. But still want children, happiness and a lifetime of honesty.”

Pink Floyd stopped crooning. U2 cued in; Where the streets have no names. Vertigo. His right hand snaked between my waist and the covers, curled and drew me closer to him. The other threw a bit of blanket across the slice of exposed skin upon my back. I felt compelled to tell him.

“I’m usually about the present; no children, marriage, happily ever after stuff, just a particular moment to behold and be held in. But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe one day I could have a child and maybe go to Thailand and Benin, or Egypt.”

We have been dancing in that room of pseudo dating for a while. No words of definition. Just weekends of hiking the Appalachian, sing-a-longs at Bruce Springsteen and Stephen Marley concerts, a trip to the doctor, swim trunks and an itsy bitsy polka dot bikini on a beach in Nevis, et cetera and et cetera. Always punctuated by the circling of our sharp edges. But on that brisk and perfect fall day with its burnt orange, rust brown, magnificent red splattered everywhere, things unraveled from the tongue.

“I’m happiest when teaching my Math 310 and 420 classes. It was a miscarriage. She would have been ten years old, and even though she’s no longer the reason for a salt ceremony, I remember her every so often. The first time I had sex I was seventeen. Three months later when my family found out, my mom, grandma, eldest sister and auntie, held me down and packed broken scotch bonnet and wiri-wiri peppers into my vagina. The fact that I don’t hate them worries me. I have this recurring dream where I’m always scared and running from the faceless person chasing me. I think I’m rambling, maybe I should shut up now.”

I chuckled. He was lost on an area in the ceiling, maybe thinking. Who knew? Until…

“I want what my parents have; the happy marriage and children. My brother and sister have that. But love has been so elusive. You know, I cheated on an ex who loved me to pieces and I strongly believe the three heartbreaks were my penance. Black Crowes’ She talks to Angels reminds me of you, and that fact should probably scare me, or at the very least raise some concern, but it doesn’t. I’m extremely happy. And I know you’ve got a tremendous history of scars, greater than any woman I’ve dated. Not to say I don’t have my own. By the way, are we dating? I mean, if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to give us shape, some sort of definition and get your permission to let the guards down. Give us a chance.”

I was afraid we were making a mess of it, yet, things unraveled from the tongue.

“You can’t ever try to change, or fix me. And I’m still not comfortable with you pissing around my territory, so no leaving a shirt or toothbrush, as yet, maybe later on. But we don’t have to always be in the office, unless you want to. It’s sort of awkward to say, but you’re the safest space I’ve known for a while. And if we’re going to give us a try, it can’t be the surface street kind. It has to be life affirming, and visceral, understand? Otherwise, I don’t want it.”

We agreed, but didn’t hold hands or look into each other’s eyes brimming with tears and kiss like the lead characters of romantic comedies do. We just aligned ourselves in a spoon on that brisk, perfect fall day with its burnt orange, rust brown, magnificent red splattered everywhere, and continued to unravel.

yardsticks & valuables: the ruth persico story

The day after is always the hardest and usually spent in delay; breakfast, writing, walking the Pomeranian whining behind the laundry room door, everything, postponed until sunset. She eyes the old playbill, an invitation to Cynthia’s baby shower, and the neatly stacked leaves of her manuscript resting on the bedside table. “You need to get up,” She groaned. Her body doesn’t budge.

She focuses on the congregation of sweat pooling above her upper lip, and is annoyed by it. Fear of a head on collision with several of the things she hates in his wake, like her fingers, dripping with the musk of her lady folds, and the memory of his hand forcing hers between them, keeps her palms at bay. Gently she rolls over, swipes her face against the pillow, then gazes at the industrial façade of her ceiling.

The vibration of her cell phone mildly muffled by the chaos of clothes and shoes strewn across the floor, distracts her. She doesn’t plan to locate it or take the call. Instead, she shifts her attention to the sprays of crimson spilling across her bed like graffiti on whitewashed walls. And welcomes it; sunset. The Who’s Baba O’Riley replaces the vibration. “That’s right, leave a message.” She grumbled.

Soon it will be nightfall and the day after will be no more. She’ll come alive like cherry blossoms and the other colorful things in the height of Spring. These kaleidoscopic images are abruptly interrupted by the obscene ringing of her home phone. She grabs a fistful of bed sheet and screams, “Go away!”

The ringing, like her body, is disobedient. Its incessancy plucks at her nerves. Rising before the city lights ignite is a chore she loathes more than ironing. And she’d rather bleed than iron. Each movement out of bed, and down the hall to her home office for the neon green receiver of the rotary phone, is forced. Her sister’s three octaves above C-note voice can be heard before the receiver is to her ears.

“Yes Dana?”
“Geez Ruth! Are you in bed already? Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
“Is mom alright?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
“Because I don’t want to be bothered.”
“I see. Did you get Cynthia’s invitation? And have you heard Karensa is getting married?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well she is, to Paul Mentore. You remember him right? I think you guys dated in grad school.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Dana, did you call for something?”
“Well I’ll be damned, one must have a reason to call their sister? How about to chat Ruth?”
“I’m going back to bed. Love you.”

She unplugs the phone from the jack, looks outside her loft window at the East River, and the Manhattan skyline beyond it. The Empire building bathed in orange, blue and white; the Knicks must have a game at home. Ships drift. Lights flicker. People are going and coming. She is in limbo.

It’s 5:15pm. The discarded clothes are in the washing machine, the pair of shoes back with their color coded counterparts, and amaretto flavored coffee brews while she’s in the shower. The almost scalding water whips against her mocha stained flesh. She vigorously rubs the loofah against her fingers, then her neck to chase the markings of his lips and teeth. The Jasmine scented body wash flushes her lungs. Tears and sudsy water slide down her body.

She feels the stinging of her inner thighs and knows he has left with a souvenir. Some men are known to take panties. He demands flesh and blood, like memory in indelible ink. She grabs a robe, scrambles two eggs, makes a pancake, lights a candle, says a prayer, eats, then gets dressed.

She walks the dog, purchases Cymbidiums, a few used books, stops at a quaint café on Bedford Avenue for their brand of overpriced tea and a brief observation of humans. A singular moment spent in the undertow. Her phone rings. It’s him. He isn’t due to call again, not until next month. She sends it to voicemail and heads back home.

Effortlessly, she prepares amuse-bouche for 20, then glides through the remaining courses. She slips into a vintage LBD, a drizzle of Christian Dior, her grandmother’s diamond studs, gulps some wine, squares her shoulders and steadies herself for the euphoria. Guests trickle in pairs and groups. The waltz begins; she dips and swirls with each change of topic, glass of wine refilled, and shift of background music. He calls again. Irritated, she excuses herself to answer in the bedroom.

“This better be good!”
“Can we meet?”
“Next week.”
“I’m up for partner, well, pending the outcome of this account.
“Congrats. See you next week. I’m in the middle of my life.
“You don’t understand. I need a tune up.”
“Look, I don’t do impromptu requests, demands or…”
“Mommy, please…”
“Shut up! I’ll see what I can do.”

She cuts the call, exhales and returns the ever gracious hostess. For the next three hours, she forgets him and the cell phone stuffed beneath her pillows. They discuss the future of publishing, independent films and documentaries. She requests their thoughts on her favorites; Favela Rising, Entre Nos, Pray The Devil Back To Hell, and The Price of Sugar. A petite redhead from her alma mater asks for her thoughts on professional women, love, and motherhood.

Her answer would reveal more than she wishes to . So she lets the words fall like broken strands of pearls in the silence of her larynx. Then offers a segue, “I’m not sure that I want it all, what about you?” This ebb and flow of thoughts continue until the last bundle of guests leave. She strips down to her underwear, powers up her notebook, checks on the articles for the next issue of the magazine and contemplates how entertaining him tonight will affect going to the office tomorrow.

Against her rules, she calls. And as if waiting all night for that call, he answers upon the first ring, then arrives 30 minutes later. “Thank you for seeing me before the…”
“You’re infringing on my time. Please don’t do it again. I’ll meet you in the tub.”

He fills it with water, undresses, submerges his body and battles the need to take a breath. She gazes at his fetal form and remembers the flutters of the life she once carried. The memory carries no warmth. She unplugs the tub and the water flushes like it did from her womb. She covers him in tarpaulin. He writhes, pushes, and registers a punch to her gut in the process. She sits on him. Birthing is painfully hard for both baby and mother.

She coaxes him to find the cervix, commands him to wait until it is fully dilated, then travel down the birth canal. They wrestle until she finally opens the tarpaulin. He’s out- wet and crying on the bathroom floor. Just like it happened many moons ago. She gently brings him to a breast and he suckles. She closes her eyes and thinks, a woman should not have to. Then gets up and heads for the bathroom door.

“Wait.” He begs, “What happened to the rest of infancy, and childhood, adolescence and discovering my sexuality?”
With her hand on the knob and her back to him, she answers, “Not tonight. I’m exhausted and I have to work tomorrow.”
“Please.”
She stiffens in remembrance of her own pleas.
“Shut up!” was the screamed response. She offers the same.
“Mom, I won’t make partner if…”
“If you try to manipulate me one more time with that ‘mom,’ you’ll have to find someone else. Put on your clothes and leave.”

After the door clicks, she runs towards it, seals the dead bolt and punches the lock key into the security system. She slides down the door sobbing. The memories are a stampede. Sleep won’t come easy tonight. The thumping grows louder until it crashes against her cranium. The migraines begin. She’s once again a little girl with unruly tendrils, bare feet and running with innocence. Replaced by a teenager with the mannerisms of a tomboy and a body sprouting with the glories of estrogen. Chinua Achebe was right, things do fall apart. Like nights when father figures uncover the nakedness of little girls who eventually become host to the prey that is both their sibling and offspring.

She staggers against the onslaught of memories, lifts herself off the floor, and begins cleaning. The tears tumble, the dishwasher rumbles, the vacuum cleaner too. She’d wanted an abortion. They said the womb is not a sepulcher. Its presence fed off her soul. A fraction desiccating with every passing month in gestation. The at birth adoption came and left sans sadness. Just a vacuum where normalcy resided. This is what she mourns. It is this black hole that hurts the most.

Scanning the expanse of her home, she observes its spotlessness, hard earned luxury, and the little things that disclose her penchant for creativity. It’s 3:00am. She remembers a Matchbox 20 song with the same name, and Rives’ Ted Speech about that hour. Cues both, sets her alarm for 7:00am, pops a valium, slips into her pajamas and finally her bed. She is a long way from getting it together. She knows this. But a wholesome moment with her faculties is her most prized possession, and when that slips, another to gather it again. Moments. That’s all she desires. They’re her yard stick and valuables.

Bumping into humor

Before the evening I sat in the condo of a Vanity Fair magazine writer’s living room, I had never heard of him or any of his shows. But as I waited in the awesome presence of books to be read, temptation got the better of me. And against the hammering of my mother’s caution, “do not touch what does not belong to you,” I reached for the nearest one, pried it open and was introduced to Dick Cavett.

“Being the offspring of English teachers is a mixed blessing. When the film star says to you, on the air, “it was a perfect script for she and I,” inside your head you hear, in the sarcastic voice of your late father, “Perfect for she, eh? And perfect for I, also?” -Dick Cavett, It’s Only Language, Talk Show.

As a daughter who also hears her (Headmistress/ Principal) mother’s voice, I could not prevent the laughter that spewed upon reading the above. To be quite honest, I laughed a little more quoting it here. With such an attention grabbing first paragraph, I felt compelled to dive into the advance copy of Dick Cavett’s book, Talk Show: Confrontations, Pointed Commentary, and Off-Screen Secrets.

When the VF writer appeared, I announced my discovery and how much the first paragraph tickled me. He raved about the wit and intelligence of Cavett, and luckily for me, after citing past shows, he said I could have the book. With my curiosity piqued to the height of Kilimanjaro’s summit, I wanted to Google Cavett but fear that the internet would taint my views led the other way. Whether on the 2, F, R or Path trains, splayed across my bed, or on the throne, I voraciously consumed the compilation of essays, page after page.

Sometimes unaware of my surroundings (because the book pulls you in,) I would almost burst at the seams of my ribcage with laughter. Other times audibly (but not too loudly) re-read the euphoria inducing words to the death stares of New Yorkers who would rather ride the train in graveyard silence. A few times, folks who witnessed my giggles, cast sideward glances at the book or inquire about the source of such glee. Like an Evangelist, I rushed to spread the gospel.

Talk Show is ladled with satire and intelligence. In the essay, The Wild Wordsmith of Wasilla, Cavett examines Sarah Palin’s famous ability to string words that make absolutely no sense. But if you think you’ve heard or seen that moot dissected and debated in every possible way, I say, you’ve never had it Cavett’s way. Whether he was unearthing encounters (private or on his show) with literary canons such as John Updike, Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal and John Cheever, or famous actors such as John Wayne, Richard Burton or Marlon Brando, he holds the reader’s attention hostage.

Imagine the delight to have read about another fraction of the Watergate scandal. More so Dick Cavett’s strand of that experience and how much of a fixture he was in the former president’s mind. Talk Show grazes in pastures most memoirs do not and is a celebration of diverse experiences. From his youthful days, to writing for Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show, and Jack Paar, dealing with depression, telling on himself and many embarrassing moments, politics, friendships, reunions, et cetera, it is the epitome of a life being lived colorfully.

However, it was not all giggles and doubling over with laughter. There were somber tones. In What my Uncle Knew About War, merely labeling wars as horrifically brutal and senseless killings was insufficient. Instead, Cavett carved a niche beyond the surface of the cranium and into the reader’s psyche. For example: ‘“Tom [his (uncle’s) best friend] and I were trotting along, firing our rifles, and I turned to say something to Tom and his head was gone…” He said the worst part was that while still holding the rifle, the body, now a fountain, continued for four or five steps before falling. He hated to close his eyes at night because that ghastly horror was his dependable nightly visitor for years- like Macbeth, murdering sleep.”

On the other hand, I have a single ought against, or should i say disagreement with Imus in the Hornets’ Nest. It is very clear that Cavett respects Don Imus in part for his ability, as one of the few public figures who does not assault the English Language, to pronounces all the c’s in arctic. But as an African woman, his nappy headed ho comment bruised. Cavett can not understand why the mob came at Imus because no matter how much he knows of slavery or segregation, he is not a woman of African descent. In said essay, he asked many questions, and to answer whether he (Imus) meant to harm or not, I say, it does not matter. Sometimes the best intentions do not make things right. It hurt. He should not have said it. Imagine a prominent African saying C****ker ho as a joke on the airwaves. That would definitely be career suicide. Or let’s take for example CNN anchor, Rick Sanchez being axed for his joke. I am not against free speech, but with it comes responsibility.

Nevertheless, the flavor of the book is not tainted by this. As a matter of fact, what is a book that does not enlighten, or evoke emotions that last a train and bus ride, or tickle the reader who in turn raises the ire of their fellow commuters? Cavett’s does all of this. Talk Show is a remarkable collection of essays from his New York Times column and a must have for the reader who appreciates humor, honesty and good writing. It will be on sale November 9th, 2010.

the things she could not carry

He hates mornings when the evidence of past lives and old moisture push upward from the carpet and hang heavily in the air. After they moved in, he had purposed to remove the once maroon, now rose pink number, but several other projects took preeminence. “Delay continues to bite me in the ass,” he notes and hurriedly ties his laces in anticipation of the outdoor refuge. It had rained and Bradley was hoping for the freshness of wet grass wafting to his nostrils. Instead, the shower exacerbated the acrid dog urine odor that now threatens to stifle him. “Too many damn dogs.” He laments and turns onto 9th Avenue. Bradley was never a dog person, often watched other folks with their canine friends and wondered if they slipped from the midwife’s hands and fell at birth. He could not imagine owning any animal other than his Canadian Sphinx, Luanne. And might have reconsidered purchasing the Brownstone if the block’s dog population was discussed at the signing. But he loves the coffee shops, myriad of restaurants, Prospect Park within walking distance, mothers jogging with strollers, dads strapped to the Bjorn dynamic of his neighborhood. He and Abidemi thought it would be fertile ground to plant roots. A sentiment he still holds dear.

He feels it coming, the wash of memories, and breaks into a jog to prevent the hijacking of his legs. Brad hears the thud of soles on concrete pavement, feels the stinging build up of lactic acid in his thighs and zeros in on it. “You’re a living thing, Bradley. A living thing.” he reminds himself between breaths. The lights begin to change on 10th Street. He quickens his pace but is too late. “Another almost. Another bloody almost,” he mutters as he runs on the spot. The light changes again. Sprinting to the park, he avoids the joggers’ course. They ran there. Now he maneuvers the tiny pathways within. If one route curves to an abrupt end, he runs across the green until another appears, until he is back where he started, outside the park and wrapped in the dog piss scent that irritates him. He does this today, but makes a brief stop to get bagels and cream cheese before the throng of parents, children, human and dog lovers flock the area.

Once in the house, he tries to air the rooms then brews a pot of Blue Mountain Coffee. Abidemi had introduced him to it’s addictively mild flavor. He wanted to know why she spent such an exorbitant amount of cash on coffee. Sometimes jokingly accused her of being a coffee elitist. To which she had replied, “I only love good things and that’s a compliment to you.” He remembers that day; the mocking expression on her face, the hint of Vertiver soap and the frankincense oil he watched her place on each chakra, marry and dance in the immediate space around them. He remembers the rise of her breasts and sharp nipples pushing against the baby yellow camisole and his left hand pulling her close to kiss her forehead. A gesture he also employed to communicate the wealth of emotions that threatened to breach the walls of his heart on Blue Mountain’s summit. The trip was a gift from Abby for his 30th birthday. They stood enveloped in each other’s arms watching the North and South Coasts of Jamaica, the outline of Cuba in the distance and the ocean beneath them.

Luanne’s purring against his leg breaks the reverie. He dispenses some dried food into her bowl. Reaching for a mug to pour his joe, the bright orange cup in which Abby loved to drink her coffee, seizes him. He suppresses the torrent of memories and reaches behind it for a plain white mug, grabs his bagel and heads for the garden level. It was the only floor they had finished renovating. The first half served as Abby’s dance studio and the other, his office. He would sit at his desk and watch through the glass doors that separated their space as her lithe body made abstract images. Images that inspired many of his award winning drawings. He loved sketching her in motion or in a quick pose, then imagined a beam or structure, sometimes a building in her form. Eventually creating a unique body of work that led critics to dub him an avant-gardist. Taking a bite of his bagel and two sips of his coffee, Brad wills his thoughts to gather in the present. “Power up your computer” he commands himself. These days he thinks out loud and encourages himself even for the simplest of actions, for he is afraid to forget how to function. He needs the encouragement and serves as his own pep squad. Another bite of his bagel. Another sip from the mug and he roves through his Gmail account, sending mails to his partners at the firm, a few clients, his assistant, then stumbles upon a notification for an upcoming show by the Alvin Ailey Dance Company. He considers cancelling his subscription then weighs it against purchasing a ticket, palms his face, sighs, then runs his hands through his hair. It resurrects the feel of her voice, her fingers tracing his scalp and another torrent of memories barrel towards him. She liked quoting ‘A Night without Armor,’ and in one particular instance, she called him “her blonde hurricane.”

“You’re my South African beauty,”
“I’m not South African, and you know this.” She taunted
“But your G.I Jane cut is.”
“That’s cause I don’t want to worry about my routine and finding a hairstyle. Plus, black girl hair has a lot of politics. Either way, I don’t wanna be bothered.”

She was always definite in her decision making. Something he had grown accustomed to and unknowingly took comfort in. So, on the day he knelt between the legs of her sitting form perched on the edge of the tub and heard her say, “I’m keeping it,” he believed the finality of her words. His mind whirred; they needed a nursery, some of the designs needed to change in order to accommodate a growing child and the furniture definitely needed to be child safe. He kissed her belly and the bedazzled ring jingled. She giggled. They called family and friends to share the news. She craved Hummus and would sit in front of the television scooping spoonfuls of it into her mouth. Some days she was a burst of sunshine. Others, she was a hormonal tyrant from the bowel of Hades. Together, they made waist beads for her expanding belly and an album of sonograms. He watched motherhood tattoo it’s marks on her derriere, she worried it would stretch to her abdomen. He kissed it when they made love. They named her Isoke, satisfying gift, and counted the time until her birth in days. Months seemed too eternal.

Towards the end of her second trimester, Abby’s mood plummeted. When she wasn’t agitated, she was withdrawn. Brad thought it was part hormones and construction noises. So he spent less time fixing things and more with her in the park, at home, or on dates. During one of these excursions, her eyes filled to their lids, she remarked “I am in over my head.”
Unsure of the best response he offered, “What ever it is, I’m here with you. You know that right?”
“I know. But it’s still too much.”
“Talk to me sweetie, What is too much?”
“This pregnancy.”
“Is there something I can do ?”
“Nothing more than you’re already doing. You’re fine. And that’s the problem, you’re just fine. Perfect, actually.” She sobbed.
“Is it the renovations?”
“I wish! I wish it was that and not this sadness. This ugly ineptness. This fat ugly feeling. I’m depressed and I don’t think it’s normal.”
He went to her side of the table, wrapped his arms around her, and offered assurance that they would get through it together. He reminded her that the gynecologists said being hormonal is normal.

The next day she told him she made an appointment to see a therapist. He offered to join her but she insisted on going alone and for three weeks she did. Some days she was herself and others she was worse. Those days frayed his nerves and they fought.
“I know it’s hard on you but don’t you think it’s hard on me too?” He asked
“What’s hard on you Brad? Being supportive to me?”
“No! Not that! Seeing you like this Abby!”
“Do you think I like being this way?! Well guess what? I don’t!”
“I know you don’t. But there must be something I can do.” He softly offered.
“I told you no. You’re fine. It’s me! I’m the defected one. ” She said between tears. “Why can’t I be like the happy pregnant women?”
“Abs, it’ll be over in 3 months.”
“I don’t think I can feel this way for that long. I feel like an alien in my own body. It’s as if it doesn’t want me in it!”
“3 months is 90 days baby. We can do…”
“No Bradley! I can’t do this anymore!” She interrupted
“What do you mean you can’t do this anymore?”

She paused. With hooded eyes and a voice as small as a whisper said, “I’m going crazy with misery and right now the only way to break free is a late term abortion”
“Abby you don’t mean that! You can’t mean that! Have you lost your mind?! The nursery is almost finished. We’ve already named her! She’s got a name! For God’s sake Abby, she’s got a name!”
“Don’t you think I know that? But do you know how I feel and the thoughts in my head that I wish weren’t there? How comforting the train tracks look when I stand at the edge of the platform, how I hold myself against these urges to jump, to harm myself. Do you know?”
“Did you discuss this with the therapist? What did she say?”
“Of course I did, we did exercises but the thoughts still come back. They always come back Brad,” she cried.
“Abby, there must be another option. ” He pleaded between tears of helplessness.
“What other option Bradley? You carry the baby?” She snapped.
“I would if I could.” He responded.
“But you can’t, and being pregnant is killing me.” she cried softly.

Luanne stirring on his thighs breaks his concentration. Blinking, he furtively wipes the calving tears as if there is an audience from which he wishes to hide his sadness. Grabbing his hair, he makes a voiceless scream as the tears stream, hot and broken. Luanne jumps from his lap, he bends his head and lets it escape in loud bursts. On the day of the appointment, he had knelt before her, arms wrapped around her swollen belly, his cheeks pressed against it with teary pleas for a change of mind, promises to throw up every time she vomits, anything, everything. She cried and begged for absolution. He refused to go to the hospital but an hour after she left, he wondered if she made it out alive. He dodged in and out traffic to sit in the waiting room watching the second hand complete it’s rotation and the minute hand shift in agreement, until he was finally allowed to see her.

In the months that followed, he watched her breasts leak onto the pillows, watched her place warm rags around them and amidst the love and sadness, an abhorrence took residence. She saw it too. And even though she was a seemingly happier version of her pregnant self, many times he saw her standing at the door of the nursery buckled over and sobbing. They would do this for 4 months until she said she needed to move in with her parents. He almost begged her to stay so that they could lean on each other’s sadness. Instead, he drove her to the airport and promised to mail the things she could not carry.

somewhere above the meniscus

She seemed to have been born with a certain brand of precocity and oomph. When she was old enough to go alone, she refused to be chauffeured but chose to take the minibus. As it climbed the hill, she would yell “the first house over the line.” Over the line, a colloquialism for the railway embankment on which the trains ran before the government claimed they were not cost effective, was where the porcelain veneer white house with ripe Surinam cherry colored roof sat. Every Saturday, Stella would pay the conductor then run to unlock the padlocked gates, run through the yard stripping to her underwear until she got to the creek and dived in. After her swim, she would sit under the laden Soursop tree at the edge of the water and unload secrets; “remember the Easter I was in Bequia? I discovered magic. But that Crapaud Dacia said I should repent after I showed her how to come alive and be truly born again…”

Sometimes she fell asleep until mid-day when the heat from the sun beaming directly overhead threatened to turn her skin into pelt. She would retrace her steps gathering her clothes, then enter the kitchen through the back side of the porch which enveloped the house. Inside, her bare feet almost indistinguishable from the lacquered floor, padded through the rooms as she opened the windows. In her favorite bedroom with its solar plexus custard yellow walls, custom made bed, plain white linen save for the cursive S.P initials, and gauze thin curtains flying in the Trade Winds, Stella would play Coltrane and Teddy Pendergrass until she fell asleep again. Often times awaken by the old fashion ring of the telephone that announced her mother’s worry. She always demanded that Stella call the minute she got to Lot 93. That is what they officially called the property. And later, in America, Stella would discover it is what Americans refer to as a vacation home, and the one in which she and her family lived, a colonial estate.

But tonight, after wiping the tables and counting her tips, she will return to her Crown Heights apartment with it’s putrid puke green walls and sleep for 4 hours before heading to her next gig at 6am. It’s how she pays for rent and the remainder of her grad school tuition not covered by the Grant. Every now and then, she questions her position and this place she is in. On the bus crossing Atlantic Avenue, she will wish it was heading to Lot 93 so she can sit by the Creek and talk about the first day she rode the number 2 train, and how a morning salutation almost cost her life because “she resembled the woman who gave him AIDS.” Maybe discuss the day she opened her building and was pushed into the lobby, then up against a wall by the stranger who dived his fingers into her panties then into her before running off. And the cold terror laced anger that causes her to spend most of her grocery and textbook money on martial arts classes. And of course, the resentment based anger she sometimes feels towards the need for independence. The same need that makes her a slave to the dollar.

Anger. Stella knows more of it now than she has ever before. Anger towards the customer who yelled as she threw pennies at her, “here! Take this for your GED you dumb bitch!” Anger towards the stingy Craigslist parents who demand university degrees for nannies but insist on paying $8 per hour. Anger towards the restaurant manager’s “this is Bed-Stuy baby, you gonna do or die? Lemme know!” Anger stemming from those who offer pity, assuming that coming from a “third world country” meant she was severely impoverished. She does not bother to inform them that it was in America she felt the first sting of poverty and took her first sip from the cup of need. Instead, she allows them the indulgence of their ethnocentrism, especially the ones who ask specific questions just to hear “the strange way her tongue clucks” as she pronounces certain words.

She knows that she can call home, and within minutes money would be wired. But it goes against the grain of her being, so she doesn’t tell them of her hardships. Not this aspect of it. She discusses the sleepless nights with which she embraces research for her thesis, or the neighbor in 3A whose music is obscenely loud and equally annoying as his ridiculous imitation of a Jamaican accent. Sprinkling it with the unbelievable glamour attached to being organic; something that is and should be normal. Her parents would listen then ask, “How are you doing? Are you okay? Do you need anything?” She always responds, “I am fine. You guys need to stop worrying.” It seems her father could see beneath the façade. Despite her refusal, he sends money, she pretends she doesn’t need, but eventually collects it for wet days. And there are a lot of those. It was on one such day she met Obi at the Western Union. He was sending money to Nigeria for his older sister Fumilayo to get her appendectomy.

Obi, an engineering student whose Yoruba name means ‘heart,’ would both unsettle and settle hers. She was 21 and in her second year of grad school when they met. He was three years her senior and in his final year as an undergrad. In the four years they’ve known each other, his pepper soup, pounded yams and fish have been extensions of comfort. The heavily accented speech tumbling from his lips, even heavier in spirited discussions, have been her pontoons. She sang Pendergrass and taught him how to come up against her when Soca plays. He read Soyinka and taught her to cook Jollof Rice and the difference between fresh and stale Palm oil. Somewhere in those moments, her independence became interdependence so she gave him ‘Bequia;’ the only painting she brought with her. He wanted the back-story, so she told him about that Easter she spent in the Grenadines, of the knowledge the land gave her and that the painting was bought in honor of it. That evening he made her come alive like she used to solo.

Tonight, she wipes the table thinking of how things changed not only between them but altogether. With the year left before graduation, she plans to go skiing, and secure an internship. One she knows she needs even if it is unpaid. She shared this with him. Bitterly, he remarked, “My girlfriend and her Aspen dreams. What’s next Dr. Stella Peterkin?” She knows he’s not threatened by her. It is the way his American experience seared him. The alternative music she plays in her apartment became an annoyance. “What’s with all this white music…What happened to Pendergrass and Coltrane… I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he would say as he turned to the hip-hop station. A genre she knows he is not a fan of but endured to swing the pendulum. She knows it had to do with her choice to stay in America. When she told him he almost yelled as he said, “Why do you want to be a slave to these people? You don’t need this place. You’re not poor like the rest of us immigrants!”

“Yes I am! I live in this sardine can and it is all I really have. That money back home is my parents’ not mine!” She retorted.

“No Stella. You’re not poor. When your parents are gone, it is all yours.”

“Yes, but they are alive and it is theirs. In the meanwhile, I want my own.”

He never said anything about it again but he didn’t need to. His passive aggression bellowed his disapproval. The way he spaded the Gazpacho and lamented “no more Escoveitch fish, pounded yams or rice and peas. Only American food now.” To which she responded “It’s Spanish. Not American.” He left the table. She followed him.

“Obi, you know in the grand scheme of things I am the same person!”

“No, you’re not! You’ve been wiping their babies shit and snot, cleaning after them at that restaurant that now you believe beneath them is where you belong! We can go home and live big! Do you think you’ll ever be one of them by going skiing and cooking their tasteless food?”

“Fuck you! I’m not trying to be like anyone. The person you met has always and still is open to new places and things!”

“You curse because you can’t stand the truth! The truth hurts Stella!”

“The truth? You wanna know the truth? The fucking truth is I am tired of you and your pissy attitude. Yes! America fucked you, but who hasn’t been fucked by it? You wanna know what hurts? It hurts to see you become a man who wants to live off the milk of his woman’s parents!”

He glared at her then walked out the apartment. Part of her wished she did not follow him, wished she had kept quiet. That same side wanted to run to the door, fling it open, run down the hall, undress and dive through the meniscus of his heart with apologies upon apologies. But the better part knew she had to stand still and so she did. It needed to be said. Two weeks passed without hearing from Obi and the emotional ulcer of missing him festered. She passed the days working on her thesis and developing an appreciation for the annoyances of the neighbor in 3A. She knows she pierced him where it would hurt the most but she was tired of ducking daggers. He is a proud man and when the door closed quietly behind him, she knew he would never set foot in her apartment again, knew the door was closed to them. So it did not surprise her when the brown package came with ‘Bequia’ and a CD with the song “Loving You Was Good,” from the 1982 ‘This One Is For You,’ Teddy Pendergrass album. In return, she sent him Coltrane’s “Africa/Brass.” They were rescinding the interdependence. Tonight she misses him more than the others. And in the dim of the empty restaurant where sadness swells and threatens to drown her, she wipes her tables knowing that one day she will no longer swim in these waters.

against the prevailing ethos

she admires them. invertebrates. and contrary to popular belief, not for their exoskeleton; a clichéd parallel people enjoy drawing between that characteristic and the seemingly impermeable demeanor she totes. they’ve often complained about the harsh line that tightens at her jaw every time a dash of unnecessary human attention is solicited. the same jaw that photographs exquisitely but doesn’t quite submit to terms such as ‘beautiful.’ what she is, is a polymorphous unit of too complicated features. if described, one realizes aesthetically this collection should not fit. but to look upon her, you notice each -pair of eyes, nose, lips, teeth, ears- is symbiotically related to the other. and if you dared to bare yourself, you would admit she is attractive.

she didn’t have a traumatic, foundation shaking, break your heart into innumerable pieces back story to blame for her disposition. nothing that makes her this way and she knows it. just a product of well meaning parents and the occasional sibling fights in an i love you nuclear household. it is her staunch belief that people are what they are and each of us has the right to be who we are. so she exercises this franchise. spending time with her squishy in the middle hard on the outside friends. learning them by their species names like Anisodoris nobilis or Nautilus pompilius and listening as it crashes against the ignorance that preceded it. she likes crashes. not automotive but the sound of things colliding; varying belief systems, knowledge against ignorance, body upon body. i am sure they will never assume she enjoys the mending of hills and valleys as one body dips and the other inhabits. or the feel of tip of finger on tip of erect nipple. palm tracing the body’s international date line- running down the inferior vena cava to land in eden. yes, the real first wonder of the world. a fruit so decadent it ought to be revered.

she doesn’t like to be called ‘doll’ or any flower such as ‘buttercup.’ however, silly saccharine terms of endearment like ‘snow cone” or ‘demerara brown rum’ are welcomed. because she considers herself a cool sugar rush on a hot day, sometimes a few snap glasses of intoxication. and it is not a secret she guards; it’s just that nobody ever bothered to ask her about her. they assumed she is simply an emo-nerd fascinated with the atypical. and since she’s not the talkative type they’ll never hear her rhapsodize about those sometimes when she is that very hybrid who paints her nails black and self-gratifies before the acrylic dries. but like i said, she doesn’t talk much. she admires invertebrates. earth’s most abundant creatures doing the least damage to it, themselves, and each other.

and

barreling down the tongue
twisted from the larynx
said like the conjunction it is
pressed on prolonging the subject.

say it:

i loved her
“and ”
i married him
“and “
i was raped
“and”
i hate
“and “
i’ve force-f*cked a lot of things
“and”
i lived
and…and…

say it just like that
but remember it is about
the beginning that became a poem
that woke me mid morning
before sunrise just after midnight
like little drops of april and july
like crimson calms & jabs
saying handsome things about
the palm from which it read
sing-song style across beauty marks,
removed warts, fraying cuticles
and old manicures.

say it with emphasis raw
because it is about the gestation of words
deep in construction feelings
doing holy things at ungodly hours
for milk spilled
with no tears shed no fuss made
because it would have spoiled anyway
the very next day…

all of it is about innocence
hushed in life mimicking mid-town traffic
it is about anyway;
that adverb with its
“despite what the situation is…”
type of meaning
that keeps the walk in motion
until no detour leads to perfection
and one is left asking
is there really any way?

it is about an epic
where the hero is hailed
for discovering a new sense of candid
not for inventing cures
or landing a plane on the hudson
but for simply being open
about the truth of their person.
this is about what happens
when emotions take over
and it can no longer be contained
save for a poem
at mid morning…

what questions did you ask?

A writer/poet friend of mine who migrated from England to the US in her formative years once asked what poems or books were offered and taught in our (Guyanese) schools. I remember saying there weren’t many American writers on the curriculum; we studied mostly Caribbean literature such as V.S. Naipaul, Derek Walcott and others. But I forgot to mention we also studied the works of African authors too.

Several days later while daydreaming on the L train, a piece by Nigerian poet J.P. Clark came to mind… my brain fired in exclamation “i studied him too!”

It was the first poem that Mrs. Walcott gave in order to examine imagery. Ibadan! I remembered loving the feel of that singular word rolling off my tongue, how i felt reading the piece but mostly the feverish search for its meaning. My 10 year old self learned Ibadan is a place in Nigeria and was ecstatic to re-visit the poem and peel back the layers with a new perspective. O, how that piece of knowledge was pertinent to both my understanding and appreciation of the following and its inevitable influence many many years later:

“Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold – flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
china in the sun.”

……………14 years came & went when I wrote

“dulcet

in the reticence of solitary
i heard the vibrations
crumble pretension into shards
of unwanted china.”

At the conception of the above, I was unaware that Ibadan played a pivotal role in its construction. More particularly that image of broken china. That is, until deep within my daydream at the Wilson Avenue stop on the L train where i remembered that poem and my friend’s question, when the parallel was drawn.

This would not be the only instance literature would climb through the fissures of my brain. Things Fall Apart was the template for my disapproval of the war in iraq. I remembered how occupation/invasion affected okonkwo and the characters of that novel. In moments like those i appreciate the richness of my education and how it shapes my political views, my womanist perspective, appreciation for Africa, and the pride in my tongue and South American/Caribbean culture.

From Chaucer to Achebe, Kincaid to Nichols, Salinger to Soyinka and the line that still walks with me: “the broken silence of the heart,” I love good literature!

Margaret Atwood said “The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.” This leaves me wondering what questions did i ask, if any at all? And were they the right ones? I’d like to believe they were.

exposed

Three weeks ago, a child at work- well she is 13, so that makes her a teenager- asked if I cry. My answer? “sure I do.” She wanted to know when was the last time. I tried to recall then told her this summer. She wanted to know why? I told her my mom’s visit was cathartic. She further inquired “and you haven’t cried since?” I replied, “no I haven’t.” Almost complaining she said, “that’s months ago… what about before that?” I couldn’t remember. Told her this and offered the endnote, “I’m not a cryer.” She said “I cry a lot.” I suggested, “it may have to do with your hormones; puberty can have that affect.” She said “no, I cried a lot even before…movies, feelings of being overwhelmed…you name it, all make me cry. I cry almost every day.” I said “okay. That’s fine too.” She said “I know.” Then asked, “how do you not cry in months?” I answered “I don’t know.”

And I really don’t know because in the past couple of days, I cried more than I did this entire year.

mommy dearest

“I wouldn’t write about people who are living and who are close to me, because I think it’s a very violent thing to do to another person… And anytime I have done it, even in the disguise of fiction, the results have been horrific.” -Zadie Smith (NPR– Brave, Brainy, Changeable — Zadie Smith Revealed)

Unlike Miss Smith, who gives the above as reason why she only wrote about her father after his death in Changing My mind: Occasional Essays, whenever I’ve felt the need, people close to me have been incorporated in my writing. Some celebrated. Some surreptitiously ranted and lamented about. Some overtly raged against. If this, more particularly the latter, was/is considered a violent act then gladly I bear the onus for every intended casualty and collateral damage that resulted from being honest. Quite frankly, there may never be any remorse. Those in my circle know the creed: I’m a writer. if you’re in my life, you’ll be written about. The context or tone is the sole responsibility of that individual. On the other hand, minor arguments and petty disagreements do not serve as fodder for writing. However, when significant things transpire in and around my life, a deep sense of compulsion to write about it follows. For example, my mother‘s visit in the summer of 09. But in this particular case, my earnest desire is for these words to function as capsules of truth. and respect. I really hope they embody love and are the epitome of non-violence.

After five years we were sharing space under the same roof and I pondered if a mother could truly accept her daughter is a woman. Surely she can recognize glimpses of her own childhood and adolescence bygone and surely she can see the independence, but does she ever really acknowledge the woman her little girl has become?

Over the last few years, my mother and I discussed the mundane to the very important; menopause, career, my first time, my most outrageous, the best to date, and migration hardships, over a phone line. Many times I considered what it would be like to have that kind of open communication face to face. This summer the opportunity presented itself through the most unforeseen circumstance. For those of us who hail from developing cities, towns, villages and islands outside these United States, the difficulty connected with getting a visa is a story we are pretty much aware of. Either a friend, family member or we, know the ordeal. Nevertheless, my mom was sent on a conference to a US territory where they granted her two entrances and a six months stay. As we counted the months, weeks, then days to her visit, my excessive anticipation and euphoria gave way to worry. Would she enjoy staying with me? What can I do to make her stay worthwhile? Would Brooklyn be too much? But most of all, would how I live disappoint her? Would she like my apartment? Would it be too small? Would she demand that I return home?

Why wouldn’t she? Home is a two storey five bedrooms, two full baths, three living rooms, library, dining room, porch and veranda, house sitting on a sprawling landmass of mowed lawns, coconut trees and a sprinkling of other exotic fruit trees that she shares with her husband and my two siblings. Why wouldn’t she say forget this garbage and move home? And in this instance, garbage is not a figure of speech. My apartment is a dump in comparison to the aforementioned. I have an ongoing war with roaches. HELL!!! As I bomb them from my abode, their friends and kinfolk move from the hoarder down the hall and the war wages on. So for the first time, I compared myself with this 48 year old woman I call mom. This woman who has the career of her dreams, a beautiful home, a loving husband in an imperfectly happy marriage [we know perfection is not to be had], and children who are mostly obedient and doing very well in school.

Why would I do such a thing? Well, I came into knowing my mom the individual, the woman when she was in her 30s. By that time I was an early teen and the only child, and now, as my 30s approach I can’t help but draw the lines. She was more than a decade into her career of choice, in love , and passionate about her NGOs, and the list goes on. On the other hand, I am a struggling artist whose moonlighting gig is her real job, living in an apartment that is less than half the size of a storey at home, and love? Well love the way I want it evades me. And children? Non at this point but I am quite happy about that. The lines do not connect horizontally. They have to be drawn diagonally for point mommy to match point me. So I worried. And as much as I didn’t want to fight during our first meeting in what seemed like light years, the willingness to hide insecurities behind resolve was there.

I want to make it on my own. I want to be in New York doing this writing thing that has become my fulcrum. Nevertheless, I was still a daughter- my mother’s daughter- whose mom was coming over to stay. Therefore, I cleaned the apartment which is usually 99% in order on any given day, did laundry and stacked the cupboards with her and my kind of food. The next day her plane arrived early. Traffic to the airport was lousy. She called. I missed the call. She was upset. I finally got there but the line to the terminal snake like. I crossed the distance by feet and was amazed that she hadn’t aged; still molasses coated, bald & beautiful with the black girl bottom that has escaped me. The same derriere I envision on jeans & bikini days. Teeth ever rivaling porcelain with a gap that needs no braces to be called beautiful. We hugged and stayed in the embrace that was needed for a very long time. She smelled divine. A hint of ocean and lots of allure. Definitely something expensive…something I hoped to snatch before the visit was over.

The drive home encompassed chatter about family and the joy of being in the flesh with one and other, smiles and the ease of falling into the ever familiar Creolese only to find mine laced with American speak. Six years and I had walked a significant distance down the Decreolization Continuum. At home, she wanted to “cuddle & smell me.” Indeed a familiar past time of ours, but at twenty five cuddling lost a great chunk of its storge, philia and agape connotations when it became associated with the opposite sex & post orgasm conversations. She asserted, “one is never too old to love up on their mother.” I knew this bunny behavior is part of her varying ways of saying I love you so with the memories of blissful screams filed, night found us nestled in the crest of arms where sleep came easier than it did on most days. However, my mom snores louder than I on the hardest work day. The night cap became a feat lost until being too tired to count the length of each drone forced a collapse into the quiet of night.

The following morning worry returned to inquire whether she sees me as a woman and what kind of woman. Although it mattered, I was willing to let on otherwise and refused to ask. Still insecure about the apartment, over breakfast I fired question after question wanting to know if the space was too small, if she is uncomfortable to the loving reply, “I am fine…just really happy to see you sweetie.” Yet, that wasn’t good enough because she failed to mention anything about the apartment. I replied, “I am really happy to see you too.” And I was. “but what about the place…will you be comfortable here?” she said “it is fine. I‘d be comfortable anywhere with you .”

The days eroded during an unseasonably cool summer where we visited relatives, went shopping, waxed nostalgic and cooked delicious but unpretentious meals reminiscent of my childhood. Meals that lost their authenticity at my hands. Our first spat came when she insisted on eating bakes (fried dough) after 10 at night. My fear for her health gave rise to arguments that would eventually try our patience. She would run several guilt trips of being unwanted in my home; the music that came from the headphones was always too loud, she can’t sleep with all that noise….I’m forcing her to go to bed hungry….she’ll develop an ulcerated stomach. On the other hand, my demands for phones and text messages to be put aside whenever we conversed annoyed her. How could a mother be more attached to technology than the child born of the digital age? She claimed she has other children, younger children, that needed her attention too. This gave rise to a slighted feeling on my part; after all this time, don’t I at least deserve a few moments of her undivided attention? She tried to text less but then the demands of being an administrator stole her fingers and the keys clicked in between our words. Feeling very much like the unattended lover, and in this case I was displacing or maybe after everything I had gone through here, my inner child needed nurturing. I didn’t want to be mature. I just needed my mother and I didn’t care much about the woman she thinks I am. I wanted to tell her how alone I felt in the beginning and how hard it was at times to adjust to the blinding lights of neon city. Where was the open communication? Lost in between pride and the desire not to hurt her feelings.

Growing up, we were each other’s companion and cheerleader which provided a conducive environment for fierce loyalty and love. So being fully aware that hurt people hurt other people and that I was hurting from wounds only living in New York can inflict, I allowed sleeping dogs to lie. We sauntered on. She bonded and went shopping with my friend, cooked for another to rave reviews and despite the hiccups we were still very happy to see each other. Under the covers of my bed- not hers where we used to paint toes, read the Sunday Stabroek and discuss the week before- I asked about undefined, on and off, in limbo relationships, their repercussions and discussed my passion for a lover. One that makes me come undone, inhabits my art and heart and with whom most of my days were spent. My mom, who is one of the most liberated and outspoken women I’ve met became bashful, stuttered and denied having any of ‘those.’ As a matter of fact, when words finally found coherency she reprimanded “you need to slow down and that’s what you need to do!“ Me? Slow down? Reminding her that this lover was my first of that nature; a precarious situation indeed but different from always being in a serious relationship or single, only set the tone for a diatribe about how much I had changed. If my mind served correctly, we had discussed one such relationship of hers ; one she used as a testament of women’s lib. Unearthing that memory only served to put her defenses on high alert since she saw it as an attack on her morals.

I wasn’t charging after her morals or placing them on the chopping block but she was correct about one thing. I had changed. Always a precocious child then an independent adolescent, as an adult I found little need to demand a sovereign space. Instead, a desire for interconnectedness and the truly candid communication only sisterhood can provide took its place. Also, I started measuring my success against hers and with it came a slew of insecurities. On the other hand, I was less prudish and very much in tuned with my sexuality where she found religion and closeted her womanist behind prayers. I was convinced that the years had dug a ravine between us. An urgent phone call from home would force the premature expiration of her visit. Still concerned with how I would be perceived and too proud to beg, I clothed myself in alleged maturity to help with packing and acquiring the new ticket. Until mid act when all pretenses crumbled into shards of tears. I came apart. Sobbing child like because time had vaporized, my insecurities still wrestled on the inside, I was afraid we had grown apart and had gotten accustomed to sharing space under the same roof with her again. Eventually, I broached the subject and we tangled. Attacking the crux of the matter, ignoring the surface stuff that served as distractions, I’d expose how much her perception of me matters, my new desire for sisterly camaraderie and the extent to which the visit reminded me of that. She in turn stated that being more spiritual would never efface the sometimes ribald woman of her flip side and how it aches to leave. Among the words uttered from her lips, these would stick closest to the heart, “it is a sincere honor to be your mom.”

The fifty ton gorilla had left the room. Our conversations grew lighter, laughter punctuated many more sentences, shoes were bartered, and the perfume I wanted to snatch stayed with her. A lot had changed in a matter of weeks, from being consumed with what type of woman she saw to understanding the woman being revealed. One who understood that as much as I wanted to be seen as woman, sometimes a petulant child reared her ugly head, that my mother and I will always have open communication whether near or far and like me, she will continue to change. From these changes, a few head butts are guaranteed but if we continue to make common ground the goal, our relationship will grow stronger.

Days later and over our overpriced JFK sandwiches, she said “this city bothers me with its constant motion and buffet of stress activators. I couldn’t live here. But you are a stronger woman than I was at your age. It is something I admire a great deal.” Boarding call interrupted her speech. Teary eyed she continued “I’m so happy I got to see you. You’ll never really know how much I love you ‘cause there is no way to show the full extent of this love…maybe when you become a mother you’ll understand…but I love you dearly.“ We embraced then garnished our goodbyes with humor about tear stained cheeks, snotty noses, balled up tissues and next year’s visit.

Back at home, I opened the door to the roach infested abode that houses my emotions with gratitude for the space that now holds precious memories and one of my most cathartic experiences. It has been months since her visit but every now and then, the insecurities surface except they are now accompanied with a stronger drive to persevere, to excel. To write. To evolve. How can I not? I’ve got my mother. The very person who introduced me to the arresting beauty of literature; the power of honest words, the comfort of prose, the life of poetry, and the dance of musings as inspiration. As a prime example. As my catalyst.