The Dandelion House

Dandelions are a child's first flower; abundant, brilliant, sunshine sprouting past the earth. "You can't catch me, you can't catch me," they chant in unison like the children who pick them one by one. Dandelions make up a mother's first spring bouquet, as both mother and child delight in the wonder of God's creation and 1st love. "Mommy, this is for you." 

As the years go by and the heads of dandelion's get popped off in childhood rituals that mimic maternity and childbirth, somewhere in the midst of all the magic, the secret is shared. But not in a whisper, like any respectable secret is told, no nothing hushed or considerate about its spread. "Stop picking those things, they're weeds." Weeds? Now, they no longer convey sunshine, spring or new births. The white wispy wishes so fun to blow through the air have turned into poisoned truths. 

But how do you tell a dandelion; a little black girl birthed special by Mother Earth herself to stop emerging, stop dancing with breezy blue skies, stop being easy on sunny summer days. Quit playing, laughing, enjoying life, you ugly; a weed, unwanted with poisoned seed. Naw, the dandelion just gonna keep growing until you forced to pick it up and see the butter reflected on your chin. 

I know firsthand bout sadness. In fact me and sadness take long walks together arm and arm down winding paths through nature's ravines. When we have to be a part for more than a week or two, we write five page long love letters, the kind schoolgirl's put harts on to make schoolboy's blush. All written out on hand-painted stationery with endless green meadows; sans the dandelions, chirping birds make a fit replacement. Yes, the birds sing each lyric painstakingly composed to convey - sadness and I will never part. 

I'm sure we just close friends and not real lovers. We got separate rooms, although whenever she can't sleep, she come to my room and keep me up as long as she please, rustling around and stealing the covers, a few times up all night with tears streaming down her face. I do my best to comfort her, but really, I wish she'd just go back to her own room and leave me be. We break up every so often. I think the longest she staid gone was six months. 

"Did you miss me?" is always her first words clamoring through the door, out of breath and perspiring like she traveled land and sea to get back to me. I just pretend I don't see, hear or even know she back - go on bout my business. But I guess in a way I do miss her. She real familiar like, and I ain't made room for nothing/nobody else.

I would like to marry an artist; a painter to be precise. Someone who specializes in abstract works but performs a miraculous feat in realism - at least once a year. So I can be secure in the fact that his genius is genius. Okay, I know this is asking a lot, but someone who is appreciated, celebrated, compensated while living. 

I would be his wife. Conservative in comparison - his eccentricity would over shadow my quirks. I'd be safe and keep him covered. He wouldn't ask much of me at all because the magic would reside inside his head and be interpreted through his hands. Whenever he comes out to inhale something other than paint fumes, I'd be the first one he'd see applauding his brilliance, framing and hanging his masterpieces for all to admire. He would never witness the price tags and sold stickers I brandish with delight while he's abracadabra-ing our existence. Only I would never sell the ones of me, the miraculous feats in realism. 

He lives in his head, and I live just outside in an art gallery of historic proportions; big and modern, some fancy architectural creation. We got loyal people too, staff - folk to cook, keep the children, keep us safe from intruders, maids. Only we can't seem to keep a gardener. They get so mad at all the weeds on the property; say it reflects badly on their craft, like they an artist or something too. But my husband love him some dandelions; say they his muse.

The Best Night of Taylor’s Life

Taylor sat still while her makeup was being applied. She felt like a real celebrity. Hair, wardrobe, makeup, mani/pedi you name it; she was being primped and pampered for what would be the best night of her life. Prom. Her dress was still hanging on the door. She admired the sequined bodice that flared into a beautiful ball gown. Yellow. Taylor scanned her closet its door ajar and saw nothing yellow. Her eyes perused the floor that had as many clothes strewn across it as were hung. One lemon tank top that she never wore peeked out from the corner. Taylor looked horrible in yellow. But after trying on at least thirty dresses, at what felt like as many stores, this was definitely the one. Well, the only affordable one. There were other dresses, but before she could reach out and brush her hand against the boning of their frame, her mother had the tag in her grasp and announced “No, this is not a dress for someone with a baby.” Taylor heard that every day of her pregnancy and into the first 5 months of her daughter, Drema’s life. No, that makeup, salon, shoe, clutch, limo, lip gloss, hair moisturizer, toothpaste, cereal is not for someone with a baby. Taylor was amazed that her mother could make the same statement, with the same inflection, and maintain the same grave intent without breaking into laughter. Taylor and her twin sister, Abby, stood out of her sight and mimicked her exact words.

“What’s funny?” her mother’s voice raised like a hand ready to swat. 

“Nothing, Momma.” Both girls assured her as Taylor pulled her to the clearance rack with the yellow dress.

Abby did Taylor’s nape length hair with a small flat iron that pressed through thin wefts. The two girls went to the drug store the night before and purchased a manicure and pedicure system. They stayed up all night doing their nails and toes, laughing about prom shopping, practicing dance moves and attending to Taylor’s baby, Drema. Makeup was the finishing step and Taylor’s, cousin Brandi, did it for free. They would take her boyfriend Jasper’s car. Taylor looked at her phone, it was 6:30 PM. Prom started at 7:30 PM. She reviewed everything she still needed to do before the official kick off of the best night of her life. Finish makeup, put dress and shoes on, feed baby, put her to sleep. The knock on the door would come soon and Taylor could feel her scalp tingle in preparation for a full blown flop sweat. But before she could panic, her spinning mind was interrupted.

“Oh, Taylor, you look stunning,” Brandi crooned. “Wait!” she grabbed her shoulders to stop her from turning to the mirror. “Don’t look until you put on your dress.” Brandi’s sentiments were nuanced with the magic of make-believe.

“Okay!” Taylor’s exuberance interrupted the surreal, and she jumped out the chair and did a high knee half jog half jump step with excitement. She grabbed the dress hanging on the door and headed to the bathroom but the door was shut and she could see the light coming from underneath - occupied. Taylor stayed in the hallway. There was plenty of space and Taylor thought she may have even felt a breeze. She took off her sweats, top and bra. Brandi walked into the hallway and put a towel over her head to protect her pixie hairdo and safeguard the ball gown from her painted guise.

“Lift your arms straight up.” Brandi insisted. Brandi got the dress over her arms and began to pull from the bottom. Taylor squirmed back and forth, side to side until her face was free, then arms and while Brandi pulled, Taylor pushed down from the top until the gown was in place. Both ladies took a deep breath.

Taylor spun around, “Zip me!” If only it was that easy. The gulf was wide. Brandi said a prayer under her breadth.

When the zipper finally reached the top, Brandi called out, “Won’t He do it?”

“Yes, He Will”, Brandi responded. 

“Hey Glory!” The girls went into a mini-church shout.

Drema must have known her mother was all ready, because right before Brandi could guide Taylor’s foot into the left shoe, they heard a small cry.

“These shoes are the bomb, Girl.” Brandi spoke while still admiring the rhinestone studded heels. All her accoutrement was on point, but the shoes were designer, and probably cost more than everything else put together.

“Yes, aren’t they nice? They’re Abby’s from last year’s prom. I love them.” Taylor responded matter-of-factly.

“Okay, now look.” Brandi turned Taylor around to the full length mirror that leaned against the wall. “I’ll go get the baby.”

Taylor looked in the mirror and she almost couldn’t believe her own eyes. She looked like a princess. “I am a princess.” She affirmed.

Brandi had the baby in her arms and tears in her eyes. “Yes, you are a princess. But girl I gotta go.” She put the burping towel over Taylor’s shoulder and handed her Drema. Brandi loved her little cousin but she wasn’t real big on babies. They made her nervous. They gave each other air kisses and Brandi let herself out.

“Okay, clutch, lipstick, cash, door key…” Taylor said each word in an animated voice as if she were telling Drema a long ago fairytale as she dropped each item in the satin purse. She started for the stairs and then turned “Oh, shawl. That’s right my little snugum wugum, shawl.” She repeated in a sing-songy voice.

Brandi walked slowly down the staircase, careful not to drop shawl, bag or baby. If she tripped in the stilettos that she was not accustomed to wearing all would be lost, so she called on the name of Jesus grateful for each step. Taylor put Drema in her play seat and went to the kitchen to warm a bottle of breast milk. It took three days for Taylor to pump and properly store enough milk for this evening. Before she sat down to feed Drema she looked out the window. No passing cars. She grabbed her clutch to look at her phone and check the time. Urgh! She realized she left her phone upstairs. She took a deep breath and fed Drema. She anticipated a knock on the door any moment. Drema was fed, burped and rocked back to sleep and still Taylor did not hear any music outside, a car pull up or a knock at the door. It was 7:30 PM. Her phone rang and her heart sank. She did not want to chance the steps again in stilettos nor did she feel the urgency to kick off her heals and make a run for it. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to speak to on the phone. As soon as her cell stopped playing the ring tone for India Arie’s “Can I Walk with You” another phone atop the steps started playing K-Ci and JoJo’s “This is the Day”.

She tried not to listen, but couldn’t help but hear every word of the one-sided conversation. The voice feigned understanding. “Oh, no that happens. You can only do what you can do. No, she won’t be mad. Thank you for calling. Letting us know.”

Taylor stared at the steps, the same steps, she had called out to Jesus twelve times just minutes before, and a tear rolled down her face. This could not be happening. Her sister, Abby, was going to prom the 2^nd year in a row, Taylor wouldn’t even make one – her senior prom. Embarrassed by the tears that were no longer taking turns dropping one by one, but now puddling over her beautiful makeup, and clearing away her princess façade, Taylor stared out of the window and braced herself on the sill as she listened to the creak of all twelve steps.

“Hey, Babe.” The voice was warm with consolation. Taylor turned to see Jasper and her emotions mixed. He was so handsome in the black suit they had found at the Thrift Store, and his new vest and bowtie looked like a splash of sunshine straight from Taylor's dress. Jasper took Taylor in his arms. “The baby sitter canceled.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking. This was so stupid anyway. I’m sorry for taking you through all of this.”

“No, this is a very special day for you, for us. I’m sorry it didn’t work as planned, but you can still go. I’ll stay here with Drema.” Jasper tried to wipe the smudged mascara from her face. “You look beautiful, gorgeous, banging!” He spun her around. “You are a Princess and I am the luckiest frog in the world.”

Taylor thought about taking Jasper’s car and heading to prom. Teen mom shows up to Prom without a date. Everyone at school was already talking about her. Goody two-shoes is having a baby. No one believed that she and Jasper were really getting married. Even Abby acted funny sometimes around her friends – the cool clique. Showing up alone would just make her life worse. Then she thought about calling her mom. They didn’t live that far, but the only thing her mom ever said more than “That [insert item here] is not for someone with a baby,” was “You should name the baby Drema ‘I Don’t Get to Go’ Miller”. Nobody told you to lay up and have an “I don’t get to go.” Mhm, that’s what happens when you have an “I don’t get to go.” Taylor could not take her mother tonight.

“No, I want to stay here with the two of you.” Taylor’s faux enthusiasm diminished with each syllable. Taylor looked over at Drema and she was wearing yellow too. That is where the golden hue came from. Drema wore yellow 90% of the time and her nursery was decorated from top to bottom with yellow blankets, drapes, lamps and area rug. When Taylor’s mother found out she was pregnant, she insisted that they be prepared as early as possible even before they knew the sex, so everything was yellow. Taylor’s mom had spent a mint on that one room in their project apartment. 

Yellow; it was meant to be. Jasper and Taylor listened to music, exchanged corsage and boutonniere, took selfies, ate peanut butter crackers, drank tap water on ice and did all of the dances that Taylor had been practicing. Drema drank the breast milk her mother had worked so hard to express from a bottle, cooed in her hand embroidered bassinet, and swayed the night away with her mother and father. When daughters become mothers, mothers become grandmothers. The simple epiphany made Taylor smile. She looked into her fiancés big brown eyes and over at Drema “I Don’t Get to Go” Miller snuggled in his arms. Taylor was right; this was the best night of her life.

You Cannot Escape It

Jeremy’s shoes were made of fabric, so even though he tried hard to avoid the melted snow on the way to school, water still seeped through. School was an escape from home and home was an escape from school. Home was a mess. Jerry’s Mom didn’t have the energy to keep up, and she had even less energy to keep after the kids to keep up. So it was a free for all of dirty dishes, piles of clothes everywhere but in the closet, and papers, magazines and books strewn across surfaces unknown. They would have gotten used to it, settled in good if it weren’t for the occasional knock on the door that threatened to reveal their dirty secret, and the mice that reminded them they really needed to do better.

So school was a welcome respite. Jerry was the star of the football team, very popular with the ladies, and extremely intelligent. Jerry thought he was smarter than all of his peers and most of his teachers, so he was always up for a debate. As the teachers became more and more frustrated trying to get back on task, they would always give in, give up or just plain give out; Mr. Sanders went on leave never to return. It was rumored he had a stroke. Whenever a teacher was at their wits end the class would erupt, “Jeeerrrryy!” high fiving each other all around.

He did genuinely believe he was smarter than everyone else, but he also felt they were just plain stupid; dull. He was a big fish in a small pond and he welcomed the bell’s release at the end of each day. Today the school had a stench worse than usual. It always smelled bad to Jerry – stale people, stale air, and stale lessons. But today, the air almost made him angry. When he got to Mrs. Renner's class, he challenged her on her 1^st statement and wouldn’t let up until she left out the room in tears; in gym he clotheslined a kid for no reason; and at lunch he threw his whole tray of food away right after punching in his free lunch number. “This food’s disgusting. Ew, I can’t take the smell of this place!” he lashed out to anyone within earshot. No one disciplined Jerry because he was the star of the only thing the small town had going for it.

The last bell rang and Jerry was looking forward to fresh air, and walking the new girl, Lisa, home.  Jerry allowed his feet to get wet and watched the white gusts of air as he exhaled in and out. The smell was almost gone. They talked about where she was from and whether or not she liked Ohio. Jerry’s hoodie proved thin and the cold air became less welcomed. He shoved his hands down in his jean pockets and felt something furry. The texture reminded him of something. He turned to Lisa and apologized, “My bad, I just remembered something. I have to go.” Jerry took off. He ran the whole 2 ½ miles home with the stench, the dead mouse, and the shock of humility still in his pants. 

Birth Days

Massa came out, wrapped his hands around Olivia’s hair and pulled. She followed neck churned in an ungodly fashion. All the slaves on the plantation stopped for a moment of prayer. There was no movement besides Becka tearing through the field screaming, “No, Massa, no! Don’t take my baby way, please!”

But she was afar off and by time she had reached the spot where the little girl’s hair was wrenched, Massa was in the shack behind the main house. The other women gathered round Becka and told her everything was gonna be alright. They was lyin’ of course. But they didn’t have any vocabulary beyond a lie and a truth, and this was Becka’s first time experiencing something worse than her own rape.

Massa emerged and went back inside the main house for a cool glass of lemonade.

Becka and the women pushed open the door of the shack and saw Olivia rolled in a ball so many times after that day it seemed to be deja vu. They would rap her in a blanket and carry her back to the slave quarters. The women would clean the girl up best they could, finding unsoiled patchwork scraps to dress any exposed part, softly brushing the long coils into two pig tails that spoke loudly; I AM A CHILD.

But that was a lie too. Becka wiped away tears where there were none, and said, “Hush now, chile, Mommas here,” to whimpers non-existent. In the midst of Becka’s prayers, Olivia would just get up and walk out to finish her chores.

Becka didn’t get dandelion bouquets, the chance to kiss booboos on scraped knees, or a warm hug after singing a lullaby. Becka tried hard to bring back the girl who giggled in her sleep, hummed non-stop, and hung close to the other girls, eyes shut tight, beseeching God, when Massa came out. Now she could stare the Devil down.

Becka never understood how Martha could mutter under her breadth, “Killa, killa dead,” at the site of her newborn. Some said she evil. Others said she virtuous.

The elders say, “Naw, she just be a mother.”

Olivia was early delivering. Her eyes lit wide with hope, she grabbed her Momma’s hand and wouldn’t let go, “Pray, Momma, pray.” But Becka couldn’t stop crying long enough to say one single word to Jesus. Crying cause the feeling of being a mother after three years rushed in on her all at once; crying for all the tears Olivia couldn’t shed herself. The women smacked the baby on the behind and it wailed nicely.

“Hell, naw!” Olivia spat venom when the women tried to take the baby off to get cleaned and wrapped up. The women turned back with the baby so Olivia could see what she and her Daddy had created. Straightaway, the life seeped from Olivia’s small frame. The infant looked healthy, but only time would tell.

The women exhaled, and turned back to get the baby cleaned, but Becka stopped them this time. Two days later, Becka wrapped the stillborn in the pretty blue quilt Olivia had scrapped together. She laid her in the box with her Momma.

The elders say, “She just be a grandmother.”

Book Review: "I Spat: In Spirit, Power and Truth" by Stephanie R. Bridges

Relationship 101

By the title you would assume that I am about to provide advice, insights, tips and tricks; however, that is far from the case. Relationship 101 is a class that I would like to take without actually having to attend, study or test. By osmosis I would like to ingest the necessary professional knowledge to conduct positive, meaningful, long lasting connections. But by osmosis I don’t mean that I actually want to be around happy couples or unhappy couples for that matter. I guess I have found my issue – work. Relationships are so much work. My perfect partner would be a robot, gay or married.

Now before you place me on a list for America’s Most Ratchet, let me say I have only “dated” one person that was married living in the home with his wife – to my knowledge. He was a musician and I am a writer, so I was intrigued by his artistry. We communicated for six months and during that time I was adamant that I do not/will not/ever no not be intimate with a married man. After the first evening of rejection, he no longer even pursued me in the same manner. Now the key is “the same manner.” We became friends and would talk for hours about music, writing, growing up, embarrassments, insecurities, mental health, you name it. I listened to his music, and he read my book. I mean literally sat 100 ft. away from me and read the entire manuscript from cover to cover.

Eventually I did start seeing someone else who wasn’t seeing me back, and after that was over, well you know the drill. My guards were down and the next time “my friend” hinted at something more I was open. The physical did not disappoint. This lasted off and on for at least two years – my longest relationship. But I guess it doesn’t really count as a relationship. At least I don’t count it. It was literally like playing house. After a few hours, you have to go back home to eat, do your chores, your mom (wife) is calling. The only strings were emotional. And I am one woman who is not big on emotions. I feel but I would rather not, so I work very hard to maintain control over every mood emoted good or bad. I probably broke up with him once every two/three months. But it wasn’t over, until he stopped seeing me. I wanted to be friends, but our “friendship” was a casualty of intimacy.

Dating a married man or woman staves off a lot of the pressures, responsibilities and constraints of being in a committed, monogamous relationship. But eventually expectation and ultimatum rear their ugly heads. That brings me to gay men. I know I cannot be the only straight woman that has a thing for gay men. We need a group, self-help book and a recovery plan. It is crazy because I do not like straight, effeminate men; that’s just suspect. But actual out of the closet, feminine, lisp gay? I’m crushin’ all day, all day. Now let me preface this by saying I have never actually had a close connection to a gay man – everything is still in the fantasy stage. But from where I sit, it seems like a win win; close friend, flirtation, and companionship. If things do progress they have all the right accoutrement, but if not that is cool too. Everyone knows where they stand, and he would be someone I could pursue for once.  Please, Baby Baby Baby, Please. I would like to know what that feels like.

Believe me when I say, I will probably never act on the fantasy (I’m currently only stalking one gay man on social media). But if there are any gay men out there looking for a beard, I’m available. Alas, where is technological advancement when you need it most? In 20/30 years I bet half of all relationships will be with someone of the opposite make and model. A robotic romantic rendezvous is my truth. I was just born before my time. I hope you scientific engineering types are reading this. Dorothy is still trying to slide some oil to Tin Man. 

I have also closed my legs to married men. I was recently tempted by a man I had been with prior to his nuptials. I assured him that he was on my mind too (that’s actual and factual), but I am a changed woman. The only thing my companionship prospects have in common is that they are all unavailable. So, I guess it is back to straight, single, human men. The next time I will try to make myself present and available for Relationship 101 – the class, not the life experience. Baby steps people, baby steps.

Black on Black is Not a Crime

White on White Crime

I am so disturbed by the phrase “Black on Black Crime.” I hate when it is thrown out as an excuse for Police Brutality and Wannabe Police Brutality, but I am equally pained when those opposing the ridiculous argument use the same disparaging terminology. There is no such thing as Black on Black Crime, any more than there is white on white crime, brown on brown crime, or blue on blue crime. They do not exist, so why do African Americans embrace this expression to either agree or disagree with its contentious and conjured merit? Can we please take a collective deep breath and stop going along with America’s subliminal racist tactics to continue blatant racism hidden in plain sight?

Black on Black should be celebrated, applauded and admired. Black on Black is love, community, pride and power. I refuse to allow commentators, hate groups and apologists to define my heritage, ancestry and seed as criminal. My children and their children; my parents and grandparents; my ancestors who bore stripes, nooses, hoses, bars, chains, electric chairs and bullets were far from criminal. The sacrifice, toil, and unadulterated hate that was heaped upon them without ceasing did not give them rise to give in. They built a nation on their backs without recompense, without apology, without acknowledgement. We are a resilient people who believe in survival, not for self but for generations to come. There is nothing criminal in that.

Militarized Police

Please do not get middle class comfortable and forget from where we come and how far we have yet to travel. Police officers are given carte blanche to detain, arrest, and murder black bodies. Wearing a hoodie, listening to loud music, playing/holding toy guns in an open carry state, being big, suffering mental illness, being homeless, driving, running, bicycling, walking, complying, just being are all sufficient reasons for the police to beat, tase, and shoot African Americans to death justifiably in a court of law. This does not take into account the countless hours of harassment endured, tickets levied, fines paid, and years of imprisonment imposed on the innocent. White on Black Crime would be far more accurate historically and present day.

When Black on Black Crime is brought up to excuse organized criminal activity by those charged with protecting and serving the African American community; retort with the phraseology and statistics of “White on White Crime”; ask for a definition of the term forcing them to unpack the racist, convenient and meaningless catchphrase; or explain what Black on Black means to you – innocence, resilience, love, strength, pride and power. Black on Black is harmonious, humorous, ingenious, inspirational and amorous. I’m so glad you brought up Black on Black because that is me guilt free, seeking liberty in the midst of a Red, White and Blue on Black Crime Spree.

Beautiful Black on Black Family