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Lonely Girls Double Take (After Mitch)

Facebook is a persona builder. It’s personality minecraft for adults. It’s the place where I sometimes go to flex new confidence or flirt or build joy by liking baby pictures. It’s also where I process a lot of parenting fears, usually through humor. What follows is a Facebook post followed by its “double take,” a poetry form created by Mitchell Douglas in Cooling Board, a book  of poetry about Donny Hathaway. To double take is to hit the same blues from a different angle. Here’s mine.

When I’m minding my own business and feeling proud of myself for raising a brilliant, creative, resourceful child who is inventing her own fun in the other room while I mind my own damn business and then I hear the room go quiet and then there are little feet in the hall and then someone is at my door interrupting my business affecting a sad voice and saying there is no one to play with even though I JUST heard her having a ball by herself…I think I know how God felt when Adam was all whiny after he’d given him the world.

I bet he was thinking, “Boy, if you don’t go somewhere and play with all those animals you begged me for and I let you name! I’m sitting here minding my business being a BOSS all by myself and you’re talkin bout being lonely. Alone ain’t lonely! I’ve been alone for infinity. Why can’t you be more like me? Now watch; when I eff around and give you somebody you got to share everything with and look out for you’re going to come to me complaining talkin bout everything was better when it was just me.”
This also must be how the universe handles “send me a partner” requests.

 

Double Take:

When I’m minding my own business and feeling proud of myself for raising a brilliant, creative, resourceful child who is inventing her own fun in the other room while I mind my own damn business and then I hear the room go quiet and then there are little feet in the hall and then someone is at my door interrupting my business affecting a sad voice and saying there is no one to play with even though I JUST heard her having a ball by herself..  I think about the woman I loved such a short time ago and the little brother we’d imagined for you– the one who would be two now and playing uncle to your dolls the way my little brother played uncle to my dolls and the way he is uncle to you and I wanted that for you, an uncle who looked at your children the way my brothers look at you and laugh when something about you reminds them of the girl they once knew.

So I loved that this woman had already imagined your children’s uncle and I loved that she let me adopt him in my imagination and make room for him in my heart and push away my anxiety over facing again the surgery you’d just faced months before I met her, your little broken heart cut open and sewn shut while there were two hours of my life in which I wondered if we’d even get to this day. We’re here, love. You made it and we made it, and since I was single when I begged every deity I’d ever heard of for more time with you, I guess our small family is exactly the image I projected onto an uncertain future. I’m grateful. Truly.

But one day you may learn the way new love pushes you past gratitude and into desire that builds until you and your loved one are projecting your separate futures onto the same screen where they touch lovely then melt into each other, tangling limbs such that you don’t know where one future ends and the other begins.

Loving that girl shocked me into reckless imagining, and our futures did some serious coupling on that screen until they made a respectable family: a two-parent home, a daughter who is more than statistic, a baby boy on the way. She let you borrow his tennis shoes once. She loved us, she said. She loved us, she did. But love isn’t enough to hold together futures destined to be apart.

But what of your imaginary little brother? I ache for him on days like this when you show up in my doorway and I remember that he is supposed to be knocking down the castle you just built and you are supposed to be banging on our locked door while your imaginary other mother and I untangle our limbs and giggle and say “What now?” through a cracked door with blushing faces.

And that’s exactly what I asked your imaginary other mother, that day when, months after we’d broken up, my father died and I called her and cried and said, “What now? What about our son?” And she said, “I was going to have my baby with or without you.”

And I realized then what I think I always suspected—your imaginary other mother hadn’t loved me as much as she had loved the idea of her son having another mother and a big sister because she’d been a big sister and it was fun. Or maybe because she’d been the oldest child and it wasn’t fun. So maybe she imagined onto you the salvation I imagined onto her. A tall tree. And in hindsight, it’s probably not cool to be more in love with a tree than with the woman presently standing in front of you who will not touch you even when you beg. Perhaps I imagined a tree-hugging future to avoid the rip and tear of disentanglement.

It’s anxiety more than anything. I know you understand. It’s the way you clinch all of your muscles and squeeze your eyes tight right before the nurse sticks the needle in your arm. And long after she has beamed at you that it’s all over and covered your boo boo in colorful distraction, you’re still crying. Still screaming at the shock of it all. Still tense. You don’t know enough about the past or the future to be relieved that you’re better off now than you were before the shot. Protected from becoming a casualty to fear of strong medicine.

Maybe what I’m saying is that sometimes aloneness is strong medicine. And I guess that makes it silly to mourn my rights to an imaginary baby and imaginary other mother but I will tell you the truth: it feels so much better than mourning a real father so I go with it.

Kinda like I went with it when I imagined you into my life. Daddy had just gotten a blood transfusion when the second pink line came in faint and his disease was progressing and grief was stalking me and the timing was off so I could have, would have taken the strong medicine to regain my aloneness (you were but a daydream, after all) but the only sure thing was that my Daddy was dying. And since I didn’t know when that would be I projected myself into this moment, lying in bed daydreaming about Daddy long gone while the grandchild he loved reminds me to get up and go play.

So I guess what I’m really saying is that when I’m minding my own business and you come barreling into my room talking about you don’t have anybody to play with I am so grateful that I get to save you by saying what I once predicted you would save me by saying: what about me?

 

Superhero Earrings: Retirement and Call for Collaboration

Making earrings for money is not my calling. At all. So the following is my story, my project, and a request for participation.

The Beginning

In the beginning, there was Charisma Eclectic. She is a fantastic jewelry maker from Louisville who transferred images onto wood discs to make earrings (her website is down but I will tag it when it goes back up). I bought a pair of Foxxy Brown earrings from her and felt like a boss when I rocked them.

A picture of me pointing to earrings that are Foxxy Brown on a wood disc.

Earrings made by Charisma Eclectic in 2011.

I was living in Atlanta then and the boss of the local feminist bookstore asked me if I could make those earrings to consign at the store. I told her that I hadn’t made my own but that I knew I could. My superpower is an ability to learn all things crafty on YouTube. I can do anything with my hands and with practice, I can do anything well. That sounded seedier than I meant it to but I am talking about crafts.

I learned to make the earrings but never sold them to the bookstore.

I began to make gifts for my loved ones. Specifically, I used the medium to write love letters to SOLHOT, a group of Black Girls from Champaign, IL that changed my life in one performance and sent ripples through my life that show up in my writing, my art, my research, and my mothering. One of my first pair of earrings was for Sakia Gunn, a 15 year old lesbian murdered in New Jersey in 2003. I was too shy to take pictures of my own work then, but I laid her image over the words “know and remember,” which is one mantra of SOLHOT. I made and continue to make earrings with the ethos of SOLHOT.

Enter Money

This is what I’m supposed to think about money: Money loves me. Money wants to fuck me. Money wants to marry me. I attract money. I am moneysexual. Money gravitates toward me. There is enough money in the world for everyone to have some.

But the last line is the only thing I know for true, I’m woke to the people who are trying to make it untrue, and the rest of the money-attraction script reminds me of the Dave Chapelle joke about The Secret :

My truth is that I don’t like money. I don’t know enough about it and my relationship to it is one of need. I need money. I am not financially stable. I don’t have a place to live. My car needs work. Asali’s shoes hurt. I could continue, but I really want to believe in “The Secret” so I’m afraid that truth-telling is the same thing as cementing my reality as the only possibility.

But this background and my partial list is the reason that I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. Excuse me… I’m not yelling at you. I’m yelling at the universe.

On Selling While Struggling

“Everybody out this way is struggling,” my little brother said on the phone to his friend last night. It was the first time that a description of my current situation didn’t feel like an indictment. Or a curse. In his mouth, the struggle was just an observation. And while it is sad that the struggle precluded us (in another post, I will tell you how good it feels to be included in “everybody out this way” unless my brother reads this and tells me in his own unique and hilarious way that I actually wasn’t) from participating in whatever offer was made, we were still okay. Having fun, even. Yesterday was a fun and brotherful day.

The day before was hell. I practically begged my daughter’s father for $10 for her food, I found out there’d been no movement on an expected contract, I got insufficient fund notices from my bank and, oh yeah, I posted pictures of a batch of earrings I’d made.

The night before hell day, my daughter had cried herself to sleep while I was unaware. To be fair, she’d had a pretty long day. But she was also afraid of the drill I use to convert the discs to earrings. I taught that day so I had to make the earrings at night when I was with her. By the time I finished the earrings, I found her huddled in a ball on the downstairs couch, dried tear tracks on her sleeping face. I held and rocked her feeling like Isaiah Washington’s mama in the made-for-tv story. This will all be worth it tomorrow, I told myself as if I’d just worked a 12 hour shift instead of making some earrings. Still, the stress of feeding a kid by yourself because someone else trusts you not to let her starve to death imbues even the most joyous money-making task with a level of fatigue and resentment.

The next day I posted the earrings and crickets. This is the part where selling earrings becomes fucked up for relationships and friendships. I radiate stress. I don’t want to look at any ancestor whose face I put on a pair of earrings and think about $15 or where it’s coming from and how soon.

Prince did not ask to participate in my narrative of scarcity.

Prince did not ask to participate in my narrative of scarcity.

Resolve

A good friend asked me to decide if my earrings were an art project or entrepreneurship. If I were financially stable, I would say the former without question. I would continue to make gifts on my own time and send them out to friends and loved ones whenever they crossed my mind. My earrings would be what they once were– a prayer for well-being, a dirge for those we lost too soon, a gift to the ancestors whose words still ring in my ears… I would only do custom projects for my friends and family who are honoring their own kin or inspiration with earrings. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m shutting down the factory because there’s no real way to pay myself more than $6 per hour (I’ve done the math every way I know how) to create these earrings unless I exploit child labor (Asali really did have fun cutting circles in my lap, but she did four circles then ran off to play) or rush through production in ways that make it less than art. Which is not to say that my art is perfect– it’s not. But I’m explaining process.

Sidenote: I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever get my Black or Africentric jewelry or clothing from the hair store again. Now that I know exactly what it takes and the ways ppl are making fashion statements for folks like me who can afford to make fashion decisions by working for less than half of minimum wage. They can miss me with that. Which is another pair of dream earrings on the horizon.

Project (More Info Coming Soon)

I have been playing with a letter project for 2 years now and I’d really appreciate your help. I still want to make your earrings. I just want to find a way for us to gift each other in the process.  This project has gone through so many iterations but here is the latest:

This is a freedom project. How are you getting free? Who taught you your method? Please tell me the story of that by way of a letter to your freedom star. Here is an example:

Audre Lorde earrings. Paper on wood.

Audre Lorde earrings. Paper on wood.

Dearest Audre,

Look at you looking cute in your Kente stole. Hand extended, jaws taut, you teach me that generosity need not be sweet. You teach me that teaching may be uncomfortable. You teach me to choose my arena, sit with my rage, then find and create spaces to recharge with my own people.

Black feminist, lesbian, poet, mother, warrior, I am everything you are. You taught me to name the things I am and the things I want to be. You taught me how to fight. You taught me how not to implode. You taught me the real cause of cancer and you are teaching me that death as rest is a cure. 

I wish you could have rested more while you were here on this side. I wish there was not so much work to do. I wish you well and 82. I wish I was making your favorite drink and sitting at your feet. I wish I could twist your hair and pretend to be a fly on the wall listening to you kee kee with your girlfriends. 

One more thing– Remember the day you heard the story about the cop killing the boy on your radio and you had to pull over to the side of the road to write the notes that made “Power”? Because of the internet, this happens to me almost every day now. It’s no longer just the babies in my city I rage for (blessings to Mike Newby and Gynnya McMillen), but state-murdered babies around the country reach me in a newsfeed generated by my friends. How long would you have lived if you had Facebook?

In “Power,” you wrote:

“The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being ready to kill

yourself 

instead of your children…”

Sister Outsider, I’ve become a poet and I have you to thank and my country’s government to blame. With the gifts you’ve left behind, you are teaching me to use the anger, do the work, and make the art. I wish you so much rest.

In love and honor,

Asha

What I Need

  1. Letters to Earring Subjects: Will you please participate in my freedom letter anthology  in exchange for earrings of your choice? The subject of your earrings can be artists, musicians, activists, and especially the local and personal relatives and friends that have authored your liberation. You send me the letter and the photo and I will send you the earrings.
  2.  Patience- I am hopefully starting a full-time job soon so the turnaround won’t be swift. The letter project will keep us accountable to each other.
  3. Money for startup- The way my checking and savings is set up… I don’t have the money to order the supplies I need for this project. If I can get ten participants to buy in at $10 each, I can start the project sooner than later. I’d like to have at least 30 letters/ sets of earrings, but to make the project cost-effective, I’ll need to raise the funds before I start the art portion. If anyone with more Internet savvy than me wants to help me add a Paypal link to this post, that would be awesome. For now, the email address associated with my PayPal account is ashafrench@yahoo.com
  4. Well Wishes and Love and Light- These earrings have always meant something to me. My brief experiment with mass production has taught me that I don’t have the constitution to do things without love. Any love you can send to this project, even if you can’t participate, would help to move this project forward and add a little more light.

 

Thank you for reading this far!!!