Category Archives: Books & Writing

It’s Called Anger

When I punch the air

Why doesn’t it land?

I need something to connect

With my fist

Maybe it would ease the burn

In my chest

Cool it down

That’s too much, Kristina.

Why are you like this?

I am like this because I am sure I swallowed the white supremacy that I was force fed.

I cannot even face all of the slop that I have had to regurgitate.

Instead of the Black excellence

I’ve identified as Christian

And today I heard one refer to their privilege

As “White Blessings”

I hope you choke on it and it goes down like serrated knives

I am like this because my niece is scared for my life.

My life.

I want to tell her it’s not true. Her fear is completely irrational.

But I promised to be a truth teller.

I hate watching children protest

Not because of their awareness.

But because they are supposed to revel in their innocence.

It was NEVER supposed to be their turn to march about strange fruit.

I hate that I know there are other Black people whose ancestors were not born in Amerikkka and don’t recognize their Blackness.

You are BLACK.

You are BLACK.

You are Blackity BLACK BLACK.

Your first language, your gorgeous accent, your work ethic and your degrees WILL NOT SAVE YOU.

It is not a shield.

Wake up from your slumber

Your BLACKNESS burns

So damned bright.

Don’t be afraid.

Don’t believe what they told you.

AND I SHOUT THIS

As a Haitian-American woman.

You can own your BLACKNESS and your culture. They can live in the same place.

They have to.

We were enslaved and colonized

A world apart.

Don’t forget it.

We are cousins.

And I hate that I know there are those whose ancestors were enslaved in Amerikkka but are terrified of change and don’t want to rock the boat

And because of your fear, you spout tired and false claims about Black on Black crime and won’t look your Brothers and Sisters in the eye.

The flames in my chest that roar

The melancholy that invades

Because all who are lost will not be found.

 

 

 

 

 

Whole Black Self

My Black self is a whole human being

Who wants to celebrate other Black people

Who wants to binge on Black everything

I crave Black expression.

Who wants to sit on my damn couch eating banana bread

My Whole Black husband baked.

My Black self

Took a walk this morning

Made sure I stared right into the eyes of two Black men walking in our neighborhood and shouted a robust

“Good morning!”

And what I hoped I said was “I see you!”

My Black self cried and checked on friends.

I ignored the deafening silence today from people who should have been screaming all along.

And those who proclaimed “This is how you protest.”

My Whole Black spirit wrestles with defeat when I think of Black businesses who may never open again and Black people

Who will never breathe again.

My Whole Black self will pray, make love to my Whole Black husband and fall asleep

Wake up

In a rage

And do it all over again.

 

 

 

Go See This Film

On Saturday, a friend of mine asked me to go to the movies to see Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am. My friend and I had tears in our eyes by the end. I scooted to the edge of my seat several times as if I was at a thriller. It has taken me a few days to process what I was feeling. Inspired? Challenged? Convicted?

I don’t have all of the right words that won’t be a regurgitation of scenes from the film.

So I will just say all of this:

It made me feel like I could write anything or work on one dream while lifting up the dreams of others or raise children or write from a place that doesn’t take the white male gaze into account or be unapologetic about wanting to be celebrated and unapologetic about my Blackness or my faith or turn down the volume of doubt in my own head or from others or be fiercely private or lay it all out there for the world to see and hear. Embrace the sunrise as I put pen to paper. It made me want to… everything.

 

 

 

 

Better

Have you ever been grateful when something you hoped for didn’t work out?

I am not completely sure if I am just doing a deep dive for a lesson but when I got an email rejection for a residency recently (wasn’t even a finalist) I was more at peace with it than I expected. It is not as if I wouldn’t have done the work and been proud if I had but I was accepting that maybe it just wasn’t my time. All I wanted to know was how I could strengthen my application for next year and I sent that email asking for an answer.

I realized I want to be better. Better will come with classes, reading, continuing this blog, journaling, and writing fiction and poetry. Better will come when I choose to show up at workshops and conferences.

Yes, I was sad and I let myself have a whole evening to feel it.

But I know one rejection doesn’t mean everything and it means there’s room for other projects to take root and bloom.

And maybe it’s time for me to create these opportunities for myself.

EVIDENCE

I was preparing work for an residency application recently. To do so, I gathered up some of my journals and spent time walking myself down memory lane. I leafed through  pages of drafts of poems, words and phrases I couldn’t let go of, entries simply dedicated to gratitude interspersed with prayers asking God to save me in the midst of my most trying periods of anxiety and short stories created in my evening writing classes.

As I read, I realized I was going through more than whatever poured from me at the time, more than memories.

I was going through evidence.

Evidence that proved I didn’t want to keep it bottled up inside. Evidence that I have been broken, grateful, loving, miserable, joyous, creative, funny, scared, unapologetic, selfish, giving, a conduit for characters I didn’t know needed to exist, lazy, sexy, prideful, hard-working.

Evidence that proved I was a writer.

Evidence that proved I. WAS. HERE.

 

A Word

Last Thursday I went to a book launch for “Traveling the River” a moving book of poetry by my good (and wildly talented friend) Hope Whitby.

After congratulating her and taking pictures as if I was a proud mama, I took my seat and waited for the reading portion of the evening to begin.

A word kept coming to mind as I waited and persisted as Hope told stories of what inspired certain pieces and as she read her work to us. A word kept coming to mind as I took in the beauty of the Japanese artwork around me. A word kept coming to mind as I watched her supporters fill the seats, ready to toast her with cake and champagne.

Deserving.

I have spent many evenings in writing classes with her, around a table in reserved library spaces and cafes listening to her stories and poems and sharing literary dreams. She gave me my first book about haikus and was one of the first people to buy my E-book last year. When I heard she was asked to write this book, the first book by Valley Haggard’s Life in 10 Minutes press, it came as no shock at all. It felt right. It felt as if my friend’s time has come.

When your friend or family’s time has come, you stop and celebrate. You plunk down your money and buy. You gift it.

And maybe you even write a blog post about it.

 

 

 

Trust

I was recently asked what I was doing to take care of myself.

I paused and realized I didn’t have a good answer. I am unable to take the writing class I want at this time. The additional work I have taken on is worth it however, I have not yet struck a balance yet. Balancing work, home life, exercise and adequate rest. So I am making time right now to write, with eyes half closed, Sixers game in the background, contemplating reworking the poem I wrote yesterday.

I may have slowed down but not to a stop. I am also not discouraged. Maybe letting go of the pressure to post so often has been the self-care I need. I think there was a part of me that would have felt forgotten and all of my hard work would have somehow washed away if I took the break that I needed.

But that is just clinging to fear which serves no one, least of all me.

I am going to trust myself. Trust the writer I know I am and the audience who will find me.

 

Reconnection

A co-worker told me she rented studio space recently to begin doing her art again and it reminded me that I had let several weeks go by without writing.

I have added quite a bit of new work to my schedule which (predictably) sapped any creativity from me. There was also a death in my family which despite great sadness brought us together.

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Spending time with my cousins again was such a gift.

But with this death came reconnection. Not just with my parents, cousins and aunts and uncles who I sorely missed. We had the pleasure of staying with Hubby’s cousins in Georgia on the way down to Florida. We stayed with them almost 5 years ago on an anniversary trip to Savannah. They welcomed us with such warmth and exuberance I immediately remembered why I loved staying with them so much the first time around.

After coming back from Florida to their home, they took us out, fed us well and made us feel right at home. I even shared some of my writing with them and I got to read work one of them wrote. They gave us a surprise the night before we left. To honor my Haitian heritage, they gifted us with two paintings and a wooden piece purchased in an artist square on Port-au-Prince in the 90’s. I was and am incredibly moved.

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Our amazing cousins who gave us lovely Haitian art and made us feel right at home.

On the way back home, there was another reconnection.

A completely unexpected one.

Hubby and I reconnected. Between work schedules, doctor appointments and life in general, we haven’t spent enough quality time together. I am not counting time spent catching up on TV shows.

The long drives provided uninterrupted time full of conversation, laughter, 80s and 90s music sing-alongs and random comfortable silences.

When we finally came home, he went back out to run a quick errand while I started dinner. While pasta was cooking, I sat back down and an intense feeling hit me.

I missed him. We just spent almost 8 hours in the car together and I missed him. I hadn’t felt that way after just being around him since we first got married.

Although the trip was born out of a painful experience, I recognize and honor the blessings that came from it.

 

Second Life

I am finding out more about the kind of writer I am. I didn’t know when I started this novel writing class it would happen. The permission I gave myself to play worked. Even on the days (one of which was yesterday) I thought I had nothing to give, I manage an outpouring that is genuine and doesn’t feel strained.

Next week is the last class in this session. I fully expect to get direction on what to focus on until our next session and feedback on my growth. As much as it has invigorated me, I almost didn’t go last night. But something told me, even with my eyes half closed, I would regret it. And I would have been right.

The fellowship with the other writers, the prompts, the sharing and the encouragement gave me a second life. I can’t believe it’s almost over but now I know what I have to look forward to.

And I am not looking back.

 

 

Set Free

When I think about my writing class these past couple of weeks, one thing comes to mind: I was set free. I was understandbly attached to writing my novel, whether it was random paragraphs, potential scenes or referring back to my synopsis hoping to be inspired to go the distance. I was forcing myself to think of fiction in only one way. I trapped myself without even realizing it.

Since taking this fiction writing course, I have heeded my teacher’s advice to play. The last two stories I wrote had a possible salacious betrayal and one was written from the perspective of a ghost. I know I didn’t need permission to set myself free but it worked. I have a couple of months after this class ends to keep pushing myself and I look forward to it. I look forward to the release of expectation and the freedom it will undoubtedly bring.