Tag Archives: Black women

“Tell Me Can You Hear Me Now.”

This was my last back to back to back listen. The last song on Cowboy Carter was “Amen.” It is precisely what I felt like saying at the end of it, too as an angelic chorus signed off sweetly singing “Amen.”

Beyonce asks us to tell her we can hear her. It is a definitive yes and can I have more, please? But I know she is not asking those who are already fans or beliefs most likely align with hers, she is asking everyone. Not begging. But telling them, I spoke, I shouted, I sang, I whispered and I growled on these tracks. Did you hear me? I invited Linda Martell, Willie Nelson, Shaboozey, Willie Jones, Dolly Parton, and a host of others, honored Mr. Chuck Berry and invoked the spirit of Ms. Tina Turner thee Legend. Did you hear me? I cracked your heart open with my ballads, turned you on and made you shake and sweat. Did you hear me? I didn’t stick to my lane. Did you hear me? I called out your hypocrisy and rejection. Tell. Me. You. Can. Hear. Me.

I did, girl. I heard you.

And your voice asked me to give you twenty-seven days.

Amen.

“I’m a F***ing CenterFold.”

I am back at it again. Three listens back to back to back of “LEVII’S JEANS” today. Reading the lyrics throughout it made me shout one thing or at least prompted an internal shout: “Hello Confidence!”

I know this song describes an undeniable, almost animal-like attraction and bond with someone but it still takes confidence to express how sexy and hot you feel even within the confines of the relationship. I have felt beautiful. I have sprinkled some sexy and gotten spicy but this level? Can’t say I have.

Centerfold? Nope.

However, this has me thinking. What if this is just an untapped part of myself, lying dormant, waiting to be awakened? Romance and love and cuddles and poetry and commitment? Fantastic. I’ve got it. I wouldn’t dream of letting it go.

But what about the confidence that developing your sexy for yourself brings?

I dare myself to find out.

“Making Waves in the Wind With My Empty Hand…”

Today was “II Most Wanted” on the Cowboy Carter album. Three listens back to back to back. I’ve listened several times before so it has settled in like an old friend. I didn’t have young “the first time I saw your face I fell in love” feelings when I met my husband but I knew early on he was causing the old me to make an exit. I learned to trust and see purity and goodness and intention without ulterior motive in a man.

I wasn’t afraid.

In the years since we’ve been together, I can conjure many memories of long car rides full of music, laughter and comfortable silences, and early rides where we pulled over to kiss frantically. Arguments and cold silences and ear and neck strokes. Sometimes, you know the love of a lifetime in those moments.

A whole lifetime.

I wish I could tell the old me that it would be alright, whether or not “he” came along but back then, I am not sure I would believe this time traveling version of myself. I needed to live it and breathe it…this most wanted love.

“How does it feel to be adored?”

I am four listens in to “Alligator Tears” from Cowboy Carter and I find myself thinking of every element from the meter to the chorus to the hook. I normally would never use those words but I attended my first songwriting class this morning. I cannot sing or play any musical instruments. I cannot read music but I was still drawn to this class. I told the instructor that I will never hear music quite the same and it’s already true.

I let myself get carried away but there was a second listen where I thought about what words were stressed versus unstressed. How deliberate the vocal arrangement is especially when she sings “Sunrise in the morning.” Most of the time and this will persist of course, I allow myself to be swallowed up by the music but I liked how learning new information expanded the way I experienced the music.

As for how I feel when I listen to this track, “I’m into deep.” I love it. I want to slow dance with myself. I want to slow dance with my husband.

It is a romantic lullaby.

I want to hug myself to sleep and wake up whispering “I adore you.”

“And I’ll Be Damned If I Cannot Dance With You “

Today is “Texas Hold ‘Em”, the seventh track on Cowboy Carter. Through each of my three listens, besides restraining myself from dancing in this very public space I happen to be writing in, I found myself wanting a good time. The good whiskey-guzzling, tornado-escaping into a dive bar time is something I may never have but it’s not the point.

I was nostalgic for the time where my friends and I used to dance at a bar over the state line in West Virginia because it was the closest thing we had to a club. Drinking and dropping it low and backing it up and laughing and slow dancing with our friends and crushes. A time was had.

I don’t crave that exact experience again but I am so damn happy I had it. I never have to wonder what it was like to have the “red cup kisses.” We didn’t do it for the gram or to be seen because not a single picture was ever taken at that club. We did it because we needed the release.

As I am writing this, I am realizing that is what never changes.

Needing the release.

Sometimes, the “you” in “And I’ll be damned if I cannot dance with you” is me.

Sometimes, that is all the release I need.

“Don’t Let Go.”

I almost didn’t write this today. After all, it’s “just” an interlude, “Smoke Hour” with Willie Nelson that features song clips from Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Roy Hamilton, Chuck Berry, Charles Anderson and Son House. But this sixth track isn’t “just” anything.

There was an intention.

It’s let me give you the history, the foundation on which country and rock and blues and gospel was built. You are going to hear it and if your ignorance won’t allow you to hear it, even with Willie playing it, that’s on you. You have chosen your truth even if it’s a lie.

And another truth comes into view: There is nothing new under the sun. We are ever in the practice of highlighting, attributing, borrowing, paying tribute with our homages, and being influenced by those who come before us. I spent hours today in the company of poets who read original work but undoubtedly there was the influence of religious texts, other poets, and musicians. It is all around us and we cannot help it sinks deep into our psyche, falling in step with our thoughts, coming out to play in the expression of our art.

We only need to say thank you and play the next song.

“So Be Fond Of Your Flaws, My Dear.”

Today’s listen was the 5th track from Cowboy Carter, “My Rose.” Three listens. Back to back to back. I don’t know who she is singing to but what I love about this song, this 53-second nugget, is the harmonies. Let me tell you why. When you hear anything that encourages the listener to “be fond of your flaws”, you want it feel like a chorus of people trying to lift you up with their voices, which is exactly this song did with her harmonies.

Sometimes, the negative voices seem to boom and drown out any semblance of positivity. We can focus on our thorns, not even believing ourselves worthy of our gorgeous petals.

I need every bit of power encouraging me, hoping the best for me, acknowledging my inherent “rosiness.”

Even if it’s just for 53 seconds.

“A Lotta Taking Up Space”

The other day while writing my morning pages (or in my case, afternoon or evening pages), I wrote that I needed to express how I feel about songs from “Cowboy Carter”, Beyonce’s latest album. I knew so because while I was listening to the album in the car, I cried. I uttered to myself or out loud “We can do what we want! Finally!” The decision was made that I, for as long as I wanted, would write after listening to one song (in order) each day. No boundaries..just my thoughts after playing a song a few times. Today was “American Requiem.”

I am aware many artists have and will experiment with many genres of music. But not all of them will be lauded for it. For some, the attention never came and never will. But because of her position in the world, Beyonce created a masterful work weaving country, rock, gospel, R&B, blues, hip hop and opera unapologetically that people will not only notice but give the time of day.

As a Black woman, that alone is revolutionary.

Expression without limits. There is judgment but it arrived. It got to be birthed. And millions, if not billions, will make a choice to accept, reject, or ignore it.

But it gets to be here. It gets to exist. That is enough for me to rain down tears.

Obviously, this is not just about one woman’s talent. I think she ripped the words from my throat, lifted the words from my pages when I chose to express we, as Black women, are not a monolith. We don’t all sound the same, love the same, eat the same, hate the same, move the same or want the same.

But we do all take up space as individuals.

We have a right to. I heard it.

I heard a reclamation.

Putting Aside the Pretty

Last month, while my sister and brother-in-law were over, I became I’ll with what I thought was food poisoning. A few hours later after not being able to hold down water, my husband took me to the ER. I threw up right in the lobby which made me terrified for whatever was happening to me. I was given meds for pain and after a few hours and a CAT scan, was misdiagnosed with appendagiatis (not appendicitis) which can mimic those symptoms.

I have a need to understand what has been happening these last couple of months. Writing or talking it out with family/friends/therapist or praying or crying alone and distracting myself with good TV and books is usually gets me where I need to go. But this has felt like a ride I cannot get off.

I was told I could go home and take Ibuprofen. It would all be over in a few days. I was given water. After a couple sips, I was back to writhing in pain. When I asked how could I go home and not drink water, the doctor asked me “So you want to be admitted?” I said yes even though he clearly didn’t think my condition warranted it. He made mention of having seen over 40 patients that night and having 12 minutes left on his shift. He did however agree to let a doctor know who would want to evaluate me for admission before beginning their shift.

It was strange and sad and infuriating not having my pain taken seriously by him. After the next doctor came in, she correctly suspected it was my gallbladder which was confirmed by an ultrasound. However, she made sure to show me a picture of my uterus, telling me “I had to take a picture of it.” I was thinking for what and are you planning on showing someone? I told her I was aware of my fibroid situation and my embolization was actually originally planned for the next week. She said she believed I could have both surgeries in back to back weeks because they are “different organs.”

I don’t know who needs to read this but we are not a series of parts. My body or anyone else’s should not be treated or spoken about as if we are a game of Operation. Healing and rest are essential. Taking your time is vital.

The decision was made for me to remove my gallbladder. There was no chat about drainage of the infection or anything else. Through a morphine-induced haze, I asked about medical nonsurgical intervention and she waved it off. The next day I was in pre-op and the doctor came to see minutes before being wheeled back. The anxiety I felt was unparalleled. I thought she was there to explain what was going to happen and provide a bit of comfort as this would be my first major surgery.

Not so much. She started one of her sentences by saying “This may not be the right time” and launched into pressuring me into getting bariatric surgery. I was flat on my back, panicked about going under anesthesia and praying for peace of mind. I was flat on my back having to turn her down and defend my decision not to undergo bariatric surgery.

I was exhausted, angry and felt powerless. My trust was broken. I trusted her to see me as a person in a vulnerable position, not some kind of defective set of parts or an amorphous blob. The nurses could see me and treated me with kindness and respect. This is what still infuriates and haunts me. Even though the surgery went well. Even though the rooms were clean, food was fine and my love was by my side in recovery.

A couple times, two of the nurses would either not not give me my full dosage of pain meds or just Tylenol. Yes, I had stitches and painfully practiced walking down the hall and had to press a pillow to my stomach not to scream when I coughed or laugh.

But I made it home. A few days later, my beloved grandfather died. A week after that, a friend who brought my husband into my life, passed away unexpectedly. Grief is a wild animal, feral. I have no idea when it will creep up and in floods fond memories, what ifs and the gut punches that sent me sinking into the floor.

The optimist in me wants to look for the happy for every sad: the service was beautiful, I felt strong enough to write a poem for him, I got to reunite with my father’s side of the family, all of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there, at least my surgery was successful and we flew to and from Florida safely, I applied to be my city’s next Poet Laureate during my recovery, met virtually with my Rainbow Fund writing group, and when my car didn’t start this week, we had another to drive Hubby to the ER (he is ok) and he is healing through a particularly painful flare while at the end of a stomach virus.

Tomorrow, I am facilitating a full class entitled “Our Whole Black Selves” and I have the opportunity to write and discuss our joys, strengths and triumphs in a safe space with other Black people. I need this time. Part of me wants to crawl out of a deep soaking tub and into the comfiest bed to sleep for a week. It sounds great but being in community, writing and releasing is truly where I need to be.

I should add I did confront the surgeon at my post-op appointment. Her apology was more of an excuse as to why she said what she said and in the vain of “I’m sorry you felt that way” and congratulated herself on the gallbladder catch. I wanted her to hear me when I told her but if she couldn’t ever really see me, why did I think her ears would decide to open? I told her I hoped this would make her a better practitioner and that her larger patients already know they are big. We have mirrors and other people regularly pointing it out. I emphasized that I never asked her about weight loss—not even once. I also dealt with a back up for my primary who was rude and blamed the onset of my PCOS on obesity. I was 12 and not big in the slightest. His bedside manner was atrocious.

I am unsure outside of filling out the hospital’s survey and speaking to my real primary if there much to be done. My fatigue is real but so is my hope and will to open eyes.

I love myself enough to know when to enforce boundaries, advocate, embrace peace without shame and search for the joy.

We all need it.

I am craving it.

I love myself enough to acknowledge it’s healthy to mourn lost loved ones like my dear Papa Ze and Ms. Tina Zapata and allow myself to move through it all even when it’s ugly —especially when it’s ugly.

There is strength there, too.

In putting aside the pretty.

Honor

In the past month or so, I have been doing my best to honor what’s within me. I needed to engage in what was in front of me and quiet the urge that often comes to immediately write about it afterwards.

One of the best things that happened was spending time with my nephew. He spent the week with us and I got a chance to take him to his first poetry reading (and hear me read for the first time, too), cook us a meal and watch him help my husband build a bookcase. He also was in a camp to make art out of stained glass! After sixteen years of being his Auntie, I was witnessing how he was growing into a young man, an individual: his creativity, his interests, his potential and the magnitude of his focus. There is so much joy and beauty in recognizing this.

I also had my first in-person reading at a bookstore. Chop Suey Books made the experience delightful and their staff was so engaged and friendly. I couldn’t have asked for a better setting for a signing and a reading. I felt moved to read several pieces that I have never read publicly with a few who had never heard them. There is a sense of freedom in giving voice to the hard things. When I read those pieces out loud, shame couldn’t rise over the sound of my voice, over the sound of the truth.

I am eager to present my book outside of the state for the first time. I was accepted to the Gaithersburg Book Festival in May but I got sick right before and could not participate. I said there will be another opportunity and it came! I was accepted into the Louisville Book Festival in Kentucky. This fall I will have the chance to share She Lives Here at a conference founded by a Black woman and explore a city I never have before.

There was a time, especially years earlier, that I would feel guilty for resting. I have since learned that guilt equates to wasted energy. Working, writing, posting, keeping up with everyday life will always be more than enough. The energy is precious. I want to spend that precious commodity being in my life, showing up for my life and letting the awareness in when I am not doing those things. I have lost a member of family recently and a couple others were hospitalized. This is a reminder (though unfortunate) to allow the people, the activities and the work I value to occupy this energy. And to honor one of my highest values—my peace.