a blackgirl's permutating manifesto on windowsill marigolds & freestyle guerilla acts

Saturday, March 22, 2003  

I came home to two children tearing my house up. One girl who is five and a boy who is almost three have usurped rule from mine and their Dad/Uncle's hands. They hold court by fighting and hugging in alternate sequences. Constant thumping, yelling, laughing, and crying because one pushed, hit, sat on, stole candy from the other livens the house and puts the adults in a good mood. I say to myself this is kind of fun. My son is occupied and I can write without him clamoring for my attention by climbing up the side of the computer. Maybe I should have another one. They compete by trying to out giggle each other, by finding the best places in these tiny living rooms to hide. They run, scamper, bang into doors, slide across floors without one thought to their mortality. I laid down the law when I walked in the door: only mild bruises allowed; it was a beautiful day, I'm not spending the night in the emergency room. They call out their names when one is more than three feet away from the other. Neither wants to be abandoned from the glorious activity of play. They are in back of me scaling the roof of Amir's Flintstone like automobile appealing to me for help. "Help me! We're falling apart!" Panting, they nosedive into the many piles of laundy that pad my floor. I hear the ominous sound of legos crashing into other toys and it is sweet. Their energy is as frenetic as OutKast's "Bombs Over Bagdad", crazy, buzzing with electricity, charged with orange and white bolts of focused heat. They lap each other up. They squeeze each other in joyful suffocating embraces. Each time the cousins meet it is a cause to blow trumpets and sing. That is how wide their love stretches for each other.

In Bagdad loved ones try to reconnect whole children out of burned limbs scattered throughout the city "It has been a strategic war. It has gone according to plan." What kind of fear awaits the knowledge of a bomb coming to level your birthright. Did the soldiers carry OutKast's cd as they trooped through the desert towards the cities whose gates they're instructed to storm with machine guns? The bodies of children lie bloodied in a Basra hospital Relatives wait for officials to bring news of the missing heads. Doesn't Bush own children of color, the ones his father referred to in 1988 as "the little brown ones?" Doesn't his stomach cramp when he slaughters children like sheep?

The last two days have seen hanging buttered suns and warm air thaw tight frowns frozen from the winter that just left. People were naked in the streets, living in the moment hoping there will be no third bombing, no completion to the trilogy. People inconspicuously watch the sky for missiles. New Yorkers try to keep their edge from breaking their cool. No one wants their jitters leaping from their chests. The Anti-War Affect. People marched through Manhattan protesting the oil killings. Rumsfeld on Friday seemed at a loss to explain the egregious nature of Iraquis to the U.S. Would they really torch the oil fields burning up the best resource the country has? "It would be a shame to lose those fields. We certainly don't want them to burn." He nearly wept at the prospect. "Tear down the Regime!" meaning Bush not Saddam, read signs of the marchers. He sends the babies to kill mothers. His military trains them to traumatize the busdrivers, teachers, tailors, cooks, doctors, merchants, lazy asses, lovers, brother, grandmothers, children, the growth of flowers, the thinkers, the writers, the gatekeepers of their indigenous thought. He trains his army to colonize eating and shitting habits. What kind of bloodthirsty soil was I born on? Beneath the earth dead bones drum to welcome the bounty of dropped bombs.

posted by coloredhoney | 5:48 PM

Friday, March 21, 2003  

Dear Condoleeza,

I'm sure you are too busy to read this, being that you spend most of your waking hours sequestered in killing meetings. Your big bad beady-eyed boss men (they all have suspicious insane eyes) got you on lock. How can I call you sister as you prepare to eat my young? Black woman, where did you acquire your soul? I demand you disclose the location so I can obliterate it and destroy the malignancy metastacizing in your consciousness. Who are your people, your family? Do they dig your position, your mammified power move? I write to you in hostility because you gave up the fight to resist internalizing the violence wrought upon us. My dear, you do know this situation is only temporary? Your days of eating pig feet and collard greens in the oval office are numbered. You dismiss me and say I don't understand how complex, how complicated the grid of american politics. All I need to know is that your job is to strategize daily how to drain the blood and memory of our ancestors from our children. And when it gets real rough, you will be asked to leave your precious white house through the back door. You will not be asked to return. It will be your children prepared next to roast on the spit and I and my sisters will have to save them. So I'm telling you to stop getting off on racist ritual death 'cause I guarantee you'll need the roots you run from.

Cramming to understand,
a black sister in struggle

posted by coloredhoney | 10:45 AM

Dear Brown Women I Watched Fleeing the Bombs,

I was surprised to see your brown faces in a quick second blip across my t.v. screen. My surprise changed to sadness as I thought about this sweeping fire and death you run from, the sand and wind making your escape difficult because you carry the weight of your children. You seek refuge in flimsy tents with frayed seams hoping to prolong the pulse of your babies. A gold sun, in the midst of bullets and missiles, forces you to squint towards muslin clouds in the sky when you plea to any god to grant mercy. Nothing is more cruel than outliving the laughter and vibrating touch of your own child. Outliving your children signals your own destruction as it would signal mine.

Sistren shrouded in terror, I too, can smell the smoke filling your lungs. I light white candles, set out glasses of clear water, fill charm bags with herbs and stones. I wear protective amulets to bond with your spirit and send protection from the orange blasts mingling with dusk, on your side of the ocean. Brown women should not be so well versed in mothering on top of land mines or facing black barrels of tanks rolling over their destinies. I feel useless, powerless in this new psychotic forced fight. State of the art technology ignores the news of your deaths. But I know who's killing you. My eye muscles are the only part of me that have strength from holding back tears. That last reads false since I weep often in foggy shadows where no one can see me. I want to appear unaffected, erect, steadfast. I link with you in my desire to mother in peace, in my desire to see our children grow together as brothers and sisters who remember how we rescued the planet from permanent poison, resowed its seeds and kept it green, breathing, and alive.

My heart beats in time with yours.

Peace and love,
your black sister in struggle

posted by coloredhoney | 8:45 AM

Monday, March 17, 2003  

Yes, I clink flutes of sparkling haterade when I speak of Oprah. But I am a woman perpetually embroiled in battle with my contradictions. So, at times, I do watch her show, the full hour, curious, mesmerized, hooked and indignantly crooked. And this is how you know she's a pimp. She lures you into her high bling stable as a viewer even when you are vehemently ranting your opposition towards her. Don't fear, people, I'm not turned out. She has not bitch slapped my consciousness into submission. I am still thoroughly resisting her pull, however, I'm out of town, on vacation. When you are taking a reprieve from real life, you escape into Marie Claire, Elle, a Dean Koontz novel (even though you don't make it past the first 15 pages), soap operas, The View, Oprah and Dr. Phil.

Oprah's show on Monday featured newly minted celebrities post appearances on popular reality t.v. shows, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, and Joe Millionaire. I had never seen any of these shows. Nausea threatens at the thought of watching them. Watching Oprah gave me a condensed version of each show and lo and behold, I got into it. I learned about Ryan and Charlie, the last two men on The Bachelorette. Ryan is a cute, sweet poetry writing firefighter from the mountains of Colorado. Charlie is a financial analyst from some city with a gregarious personality. Ryan is shy and reticent. He is marrying The Bachelorette, whose name is off my brainmap but whose IQ I remember as remarkably low. I actually think Ryan is too good for her and that she doesn't really love him. Now for Charlie, he was being incredibly supportive and encouraging of Ryan and Bimbo's impending nuptials. But I could tell beneath the flashy smile, the gelled hair that swished just right over his forehead, the go get 'em attitude, he was seething. For six weeks that woman gassed his head up and then he got played. He was probably listening to Norah Jones singing songs of love and the forest from where she receives inspiration for those Grammy worthy folk songs and now he's listening to 50 cent. And while Ryan was reciting yet another poem on national television with his shy self Charlie was humming the break to Wanksta through his tight-lipped smile. How did reality t.v. become such a phenomenon? Cruelty and deception seem to be major factors in a successful reality t.v. show besides all the disclosure that really should remain behind closed doors. Seems that through all the puritanical right wing touting of morals, many Americans (and I'm sure most are committed republicans) are just tricked out freaky voyeurs. Thank you, Oprah, for expanding my world view.

posted by coloredhoney | 3:33 PM