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.
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.
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.”
The fourth day of my Cowboy Carter musings. Three listens. Back to back to back. Today’s track was “Protector” featuring her daughter, Rumi Carter.
I wondered if I was going to be able to write about this. I wanted to run away from it so I stalked my own floors in circles as if it were going to take me someplace else, far away from my wishes. In November of 2022, a door was shut on me. Life most likely would never be able to grow within me.
I booked first class tickets to the Santa Fe retreat that I planned on going to and I sobbed at a dancing hands ritual and wanted to take my bra off in the moonlight and panicked and wrote and cried and dreamed and laughed the whole time I was there.
Listening to this song also reminded me of the poem “Etch a Sketch” in my book, “She Lives Here”:
I maneuvered the white knobs in my head over the years.
Dexterous hands that exist only in my imagination
Sketched brows, thick, heavy, hairy
Noses with width and forgettable nostrils
Lashes so long they rested on the apples of the cheeks.
Narrow hands, bony fingers, wide feet.
An afro
Strands that are coarse, curly, silky, kinky spring to life on this
One head
A buck-toothed smile
He will need braces.
Diagnoses made, the other side of 37 reached and
I could not get my fingers to work,
Manipulate the knobs
Not even where my dreams reside
I picked up the gray, flat screen with the red plastic frame
And shook it
Until
He disappeared
And I crumbled.
The aluminum powder and the beads
Dissipated
Because he
Was never real.
Because he
Was never
Ours.
Even though a part of my heart will always be cracked, I know it’s because I yearn to protect and yearn to be needed. Maybe this isn’t always a healthy thing. But it’s real. And it’s God honest me. I remember wanting to protect my brother since we were both little (I am 20 months older) and peering over my sister’s crib, when she first came home. I wanted to make sure her jaundice was gone. I remember fighting two boys for a friend at 9. I still think of my guest room as a just in case they need it spot for my brother and sister even though that will likely never be the case. I journal about my dreams for nieces and nephews and hope they happily live out their own.
I long to be a resting place for them. Their Auntie who will always be there for them.
I even have to disentangle myself from those thoughts when it comes to my own husband. I want to be his protector but there have been times I have had to realize he wants to be mine, too.
That is the beauty of our love.
While I will not have a daughter where I see her father’s gaze, I know I am that for my mother. When I watch my sister cradle or embrace her children, the joy I feel for her is indescribable. It belongs to them.
When I hear my brother’s children speak or are reminded of him with their mannerisms, I can’t help but be transported to our childhood…it’s so damn beautiful. It all belongs to them.
Everything is as it is supposed to be even when it hurts.
Day 3 of Cowboy Carter was “16 Carriages.” Three listens. Back to back to back. I am solemn and while I listened, I was transported back to my mother’s sadness, my mother’s prayers and how hard she worked while I was a preteen. I know, as the song said, “Daddy grinded” but I couldn’t see his work the same way. I know I lived in the manifestation of his work aka the house but a mother’s work, a woman’s work.. oh it hits different, my friends.
I am 16, waiting for the world to open up to me but I didn’t know what that would mean. The anger, the loneliness, the numbing, the great love and a fear that I am still learning how to leave on a “back road on a holy night.”
We grow up and we want so much not to be forgotten but also remember that it only counts if the people who knew you remember how you loved them and in the wisdom of the late great Dr. Angelou , remember how you made them feel. I understand the yearning of legacy. I may never get it with a child but I hope when you close your eyes, and try to picture me, you are flooded with the deepest, warmest love and know I yearn for that warmth, too when I close my eyes.
So on with my Cowboy Carter musings. Today, I listened to “Blackbird”, the second track featuring Tiera Kennedy, Brittney Spencer and Tanner Adell. I was looking most forward to writing about how I felt after hearing this song the first time. As American Requiem fades and the toe tapping and guitar’s presence arrive, I am already in tears.
It may sound strange but there is a purity to the sound and the softness of these beautiful Black women’s voices that make me want to carry it forever. I am 11, swinging my little feet towards the spring sun, waiting for my moment to arise. It is nostalgia. It is the hope that nostalgia brings. I am sure the meaning of Sir Paul McCartney’s lyrics only make it that much more powerful as he wrote it inspired by the treatment of Black girls in the 1960’s, watching in sorrow from across the pond. As I listen, I see Beyonce being passed the baton by the spirit of these women and sharing it with Tiera, Brittney, Tanner and even me.
I carry the hope of the women who came before me and pray to make this freedom count.
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.
I scrolled on Tiktok and a creator referenced the notion that our art used to reflect the times. Many artists have mused that it should always reflect the times. I felt my pulse quicken (that also could have been the coffee but I digress).
I had to ask myself if my art is reflective of the time. The answer lately is if the time is about me and personal struggles, then it’s yes. But more than anything, the time we are living in as a global community has sapped so much from my being, tested my courage, my willingness to change, that creating art has felt like a long-lost love I am slowly finding my way back to. I want to shout at him and exclaim “I’m on my way…the train was just running late…but I am coming!”
I never really left you.
I told my husband, my therapist and a friend if I could turn into some kind of time-bending, immortal superhero with infinite resources who could protect the people of Haiti, Sudan, Congo, Palestine and hungry, near frozen people making concrete their bed tonight not ten minutes away from me, I would.
But I am a lone soul.
As often as I can fool myself into feeling completely helpless, the truth is I am not. You are not and although we will never be the fantastical superhero I described, we are not helpless.
Let me repeat.I am not helpless. We are not helpless.
I am at the very least capable of putting my drop in the bucket.
For me, it is writing here about the people I hope are freed and the peace I am so desperate for it aches. It is taking a small portion of our household budget monthly to donate to 3-4 trustworthy causes. Automate it and forget about it.
It will cost me less than I have ever spent on sandwiches and the mediocre cups of coffee I tend to sip.
So no, I am not helpless. I just can’t do it all. None of us can. Not on my own.
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.
When coming back from a trip, especially one as momentous as the Her Spirit Retreat in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I usually take a few days and then post a recap. I returned last Thursday and it’s taken me a bit longer to write this. First, I needed the time to process the experience and the next, to contemplate how and what I wanted to share.
I’ll start here. I officially heard word that I received a generous partial scholarship on 11/20/22. Her Spirit started on December 4th. I had little time to make plans, take the time I needed from work but I was determined to figure it all out. Hubby had just undergone a heart procedure to explore some unexplained weakness the week before my acceptance. I wondered if I should have been so determined to leave but my resolve strengthened a few days later.
As I have written here, I have been experiencing chronic pain for several months. I start going back to physical therapy at the end of October. I discovered a possible reason for this pain could be growing fibroid tumors affecting my mobility in my lower back. I set an appointment with a radiologist who confirmed my suspicions after reviewing an older MRI. Because of that and not wanting to live with large uterine fibroids period, I chose to move forward with a uterine fibroid embolization. Everyone in the clinic was kind and thorough which made my decision easy. After the appointment and in tears, my mind was made up to leave.
I no longer felt guilty about my husband because I could see he was fine, working and walking around. It was time to take myself out of my everyday, meet new people and open my energy up to this opportunity. I was at a dinner with a friend a few days before leaving and she encouraged me to make rest a priority as well. I took it to heart.
I booked tickets the evening of the appointment. I remember shopping and packing carefully, not wanting to feel rushed or overwhelmed. The flights were smooth and even though the altitude attacked my lungs as soon as I landed, I was aware of another scholarship winner, Catrice Greer, on the flight. We connected at the Santa Fe airport and she kindly offered me a ride to our hotel.
After checking in, I rested and got ready to meet the other winners on the rooftop floor. We sat in a circle with our chairperson Jane Sibbett, Chief Officer of Diversity, Candace Blust, faculty members Liz Hines, Rebecca Bloom and Rosa Salazar. We were lauded for our work, given thoughtful gifts and made to feel special. The other women were dynamic and from all over the country and across the pond in the UK. I also appreciated their attempt to make us aware that we would be the diversity in a group of over one hundred mostly white women.
I should be honest in sharing I was aware of this beforehand. Previously shared group photos of last year’s retreat on social media confirmed it and as a Black woman, I do feel the need to prepare myself for what I may be walking into to protect my physical safety and my mental health.
The mixer, the Native blessing, and the Zoom keynote speech by Friends and Grace and Frankie’s co-creator Marta Kaufman set the right tone. My intentions to connect and rest felt right after that night. I relaxed with some room service and although I didn’t sleep peacefully, I had no regrets and was ready to face my full Day 1.
I was comfortable enough to share vulnerable pieces right from the start. I learned about telling the truth and our faculty’s experiences in their respective industries. Even with altitude sickness, I could not ignore the beauty of La Fonda as I trudged up steps. This historic hotel was full of art, shops and pieces you could never find anywhere else. During dinner, I connected with more winners and other attendees, listened to the live country band and watched a couple of them grace the dance floor.
Later on that night, there was a diversity panel, readings, and another featuring documentarian Kate Blewet and director Beth Broday. During the diversity and inclusion panel, I leaned into my desire to affirm our need for well-written and acted representation. I have no need to shame anyone for their opinions or not articulating them well. I knew what was right and I am proud I spoke up. The rest of the evening brought us to tears as we viewed clips of Kate’s work that showed dying and impoverished children and the elderly from China and Bulgaria to the UK and Beth’s directed performance of Sting in Italy on September 11th, 2001. I stayed up late, in a few small circles in the lobby, cozy and curled up, decompressing from the evening, revealing dreams and laughing.
The next day I had the chance to sit in on my first table read and heard actors read from four pilots amogst other sessions. I took in the plaza outside of La Fonda’s doors and met artisans, perused art galleries and jewelry stores. That night, I attended a dancing hands meditation led by Jane Sibbett.
This is where it all changed. We were back in the rooftop room La Terraza. I walked up to the edge of my mat and within seconds, my calves and thighs quaked and I began crying. I sobbed throughout the entire hour. Within the circle, Jane approached each of us with direct eye contact, in her language inspired by Spirit but I could make out words like “love” and “hug.” The energy was thick.
We huddled closer together afterwards and upon my asking about what she felt or saw, Jane used the word ancestors. I had an intense need to remove my bra and sit in the moonlight. Instead, I joined a couple friends at the bar and as they snacked before dinner, all I could do was take breaths and drink water. I wanted nothing to do with food for a bit but eventually enjoyed a dinner. I spoke about the meditation, we mapped out a show for one of our fellow winners and headed to the open mic and to watch a Hallmark Christmas movie one of our faculty members wrote.
The next day I was drained. I honored the need to rest as long as possible before the first session. I did learn valuable tips with New York Times bestselling author Julie Cantrell about character development and bonded over our connection with one of my writing teachers Sadeqa Johnson. Brooke Warner gave many useful actionable tips for our author platforms. It was the last night and there was a beautifully lit final ceremony. The energy again was thick and as lovely as it was, I had an intense urge to separate myself from the ceremony after a few minutes. I left the room, sat in the hallway, short of breath and I let tears fall. I couldn’t go back. I retreated to the outdoors on the first floor and eventually to my room. I caught my breath, packed half-heartedly and sent some messages to make sure no one worried about my hurried exit.
I spent the last moments of Wednesday evening with a new friend, Babs and Liberty, an awesome young woman who has the capacity to make some real change in the world. I got the laughs I needed and the shared venting was absolutely vital. I woke up and got to breakfast early, a first for me. Our table got crowded as people said their farewells and we squeezed each other tight, almost hoping to take our essences with us on our flights home. I was encouraged, unexpectedly prayed over and walked back to my room feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
Catrice, Joany (the sweet mother of all Christmas movies) all said our goodbyes in Denver. As I walked away from our gate, I drowned the world out with the Lemonade album and started my trek to my gate which ended up being almost 80 gates away. My expectation was to have to stop for my back and hip, drenched in sweat every 5 minutes. That wasn’t what happened at all. I walked, only stopping once to check the gate change. I had to force myself to stop overcompensating by leaning on one foot. I didn’t understand what was happening.
Had I been healed?
I have been back over a week, in physical therapy twice and outside of a bit of tightness and pain my left hip, I can walk again. I have been hesitant to claim it because I have been living this way for so long now but I have to believe what is actually going on right now. My PT suggested there has been a reset of my central nervous system’s response to pain and my husband and parents believed I cried out the tension at the dancing hands meditation.
As for reflecting on the actual retreat, there has been enough time for me to say I would happily go again. I am also glad I went in with my eyes open about the lack of cultural diversity. I didn’t have to experience the burden of shock. And yes, there was a stereotypical statement made about Black people and a few could not tell the difference between myself and another Black woman although we look nothing alike. I was hurt and made jokes with a few who understood my plight. Although I didn’t love having to speak up about the need for quality representation at the panel, again I remain proud I did. I can report apologies were made to me and many privately told they were grateful I possessed the courage to use my voice. I was also offered opportunities to work with others and buoyed by an acknowledgement that I taught others in the room that night.
I will never be able to shed the challenges that come with entering these spaces in this skin but I would never want to be anyone other than who I am. I get to tell stories, love freely and passionately and proudly in this skin. I look forward to what’s next working and building friendships with these women as part of the Storyteller Foundation.
Special thanks to Alva for checking on me, to Freddie for your kind words, and Becky Strom for hearing me that very first day and blessing me on our final morning.
I want to say a special thanks to my fellow Rainbow Fund Scholarship winners: Catrice Greer, Babs Cheung, Shari Williams-Andrews, Sylvia de la Sancha, Ava Adams, Donna Pope, Tana Stephenson and Celeste Keplin-Weeks. Without all of you talented souls, I would have experienced an unwelcome loneliness I am grateful to have never felt. And to Jane Sibbett, Candace Green Blust and Liz Hines: thank you for your part in making our dreams closer to our reality.
Kristina Hamlett writes to connect, heal, and be a force for change. 