What if I punctuated every utterance with: "I'm from Seattle" or "I went to Spelman" or "I once lived in Hong Kong" or "My father isn't speaking to me" or "My mother and I argued two nights ago" or "My mama always calls me when I'm at the club" or "I REALLY love my Mama" or "My sister holds me down" or "I bathe every night" or "I battle fear each dawn" or "I am silent more often than I am honest" or I am not angry" or "I am disheartened by 2 dear friends" or "I see insecurities like Haley Joel Osment saw the dead" or "I love to laugh" or "I hate to smile"? Would you know where I am or even where I am coming from? If my words are not enough, are my actions? If so, what if no one is looking. Does my story end there? Does it ever begin?
What happens when you run out of words to say? Do you dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore--and then run? Do you stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet. Maybe you just sag like a heavy load. Or do you explode?
J "Invoking the dearly departed Langston Hughes on a banal work day" B
Happy Black History Month!
More on the BS that was Unforgiveable Blackness later.