Posts from — December 2009

The brain freeze, that is. As proof, I offer to you this incomplete, as yet untitled poem:

—————————-
no i’m not an innocent
but does that give you
reason to dismiss
my words of affection
how precious
are these pieces of my soul
i presented to you
only to hear
rejection
of my confession
because
i’m not pure
i can see you
through the glass
looking at your pile of stones
deciding which to throw
your hesitation
speaks volumes
about the
precariousness
of your foundation

so be it

we dance this dance
of insincerity and
make believe
pretending lies aren’t
razor sharp
and we don’t bleed

—————————-

Nice, huh? More to come, insha’Allah!

Erm..

It’s been about a week since I posted anything. I’ll be honest: it’s been about a week since I’ve written anything. Once I finished “Reckoning” I went blank. Completely blank.

That hasn’t happened for a while. I think.

The poem stream has dried up and the story lake is bone dry.

Oh, the shame! *covers face*

BUT! I have been making some changes to my writing “routine” and I’m beginning to feel a trickle of thought.

Stay tuned!

Ahhh… It all makes sense now…

————————————-

Out on the water, there was chaos.

The Shadow that covered the sun was expanding, dipping into the water, making waves and causing the piers to shake. It was massive, the Shadow was, and seemed to be solid, blocking out light and wind. People stared in fascinated horror as it took shape, swallowing up smaller boats and obliterating anything in its path.

Surprised mutterings turned to screams once the people at the harbor realized exactly what The Shadow was, and what it meant for them.

“Oh. My. God.”

“It’s huge.”

“This can’t be!”

“Sally! George! Get out of the wa-”

“NO! No! NOOO!”

“We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die, we’re gonna -”

“Shit. It’s back.”

Marcus James tugged on the lock, testing it.

“This should hold them, right?”

Nzinga nodded, suddenly impatient. “As long as they don’t leave the building, it will be fine. Let them scurry about the halls like rats. It’s better than they deserve.”

Marcus looked at the girl who was once his intended bride. “You’re still angry, after all these years?”

“Aren’t you?”

He sighed. “I just want it to be over. It has been far too long. They are the last of the line. It won’t happen again.”

“But can we be sure?”

“We can never be sure, but we must do what we can.”

“Right.” Now she sighed, and leaned against his broad shoulder, forcing her face into his neck. Absentmindly, he curled his arm around her. They stood there in silence, thinking of all that had been lost.

She spoke first. “We should go. The others are waiting.”

In response, Marcus released his love, and yanked both chains hard. From somewhere in the distance, the chains were pulled in both directions, eradicating any slack. The door to the classroom was now impossible to open unless the lock was broken from the outside, which would not happen.

“Let’s go.”

The couple walked slowly down the hallway, toward the stairs. As they moved silently through the corridor, they witnessed a teacher bounding down the stairs, laptop case tucked tightly under her arm, her mouth set in a grim line. Nzinga looked questioningly at her lover.

“Supporter of the cause.”

Nzinga nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. Someone outside of their group knew the plan? That could be bad.

“I know what you’re thinking, but Ms. Allen is cool. Her family fought on our side back then. They never followed the ownership trend, and spoke loudly against anyone who did. They were outcast for it. She’s cool.”

“If you say so.”

They reached the stairs at last. With Marcus in the lead, the couple descended to the main floor.

The hall was deserted. Every single door was crossed with chains and locks. Strangely, no one behind the closed doors had noticed yet. Nzinga knew that when the end of class bell rang, there would be anger, panic and probably much yelling. And fear. Fear was good.

“Death is coming,” she giggled.

They spotted the school’s custodian, Mr. Burns. An elderly Black man, he moved with an astonishingly light step. As they approached, he looked up from the chain he was wrapping through the handles on the main exit.

“Just in time, you two, or you would have been locked in here with me. Everyone else is outside already. Quickly now, out you go.” He unwound part of the bulky chain, and pushed the door open.

Marcus stepped toward the doorway and paused. “Are you sure that you’re okay with this, Mr. Burns?”

The older man snorted. “I’ve lived my life. At least this way, I get to be a part of justice.”

Marcus clapped on the man on the back. “You’re a good man. Good man.” He turned to face his almost bride. “Come on, Zing.”

She nodded and stepped walked toward her lover. “Thank you,” she whispered as she passed the custodian.

He nodded, and pushed them out of the school. The door clanged shut behind them.

They joined the rest of their group on the lawn. From the direction of the harbor, they could hear screams and crashes. Everything appeared to be on schedule.

From inside the school, the bell rang. 50 pairs of ears perked up, and 50 pairs of eyes lifted toward the windows. They could hear people express first shock and dismay, then anger, as they figured out that they had been locked in.

Sounds of pounding wafted through the open windows.

“Hey!,” someone shouted. “There are people outside!”

“How’d those niggers get out?” another voice called.

“Like, oh my God, it IS all the Black kids out there.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Jacob Worthy stuck his head out of a window and zeroed in on Nzinga Black. “Is this your doing?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “It is your doing. Your people started this. We’re just finishing it.”

“That’s crazy,” he accused.  “What do we have to do with anything?”

“You people are all the last of you line. It is fitting that you are wiped off planet.”

“I don’t understand what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“Your forefather was a slave runner.”

“So? I wasn’t. And it’s not like you were a slave.”

“Oh,” breathed Nzinga, “but I was.” At her words, the pink and purple dye job vanished, the striped tights disintegrated, the dress fell to rags and the purple bag became shackles that bound her wrists together. “We all were, in fact.”

Jacob fell back in horror as the group released the glamour that covered them. All of the fine clothing became little more than rags and pieces of scrap fabric that offered no warmth and barely covered their most private areas. Shoes, jewelry and accessories reverted to the shackles and chains that they once were.

More voices called from the windows as more heads poked out.

“But what does that have to do with us? We didn’t make you slaves! We have nothing to do with this!” one girl called.

“You have everything to do with this. You lived in luxury with the fruits of our labor. You lived in houses we built, ate food that we grew, wore clothes that we made. Doesn’t matter if you actually held the whip or purchased the body. It may not have been us, it may not have been you. But if not for the greed of your ancestors, we would not be here right now!” Nzinga shouted.

Jacob spoke up. “My forefather, as you say, Daniel Worthy… He never returned from his final voyage.”

Marcus smiled and called up to the boy, “We know.”

A grinding sound filled the air. Students jerked away from the windows as the metal gates rolled down to cover the glass.

“You can’t do this us! We have families!”

“So did we,” Nzinga growled.

50 pairs of legs and feet fell into a single file line. Marcus and Nzinga nodded to each other. The couple opened their mouths wide, and a melodious chant filled the air. It stopped the wind and silenced the birds. It was dark and beautiful. It was the sound of something ancient that should not have been awakened.

On the water, The Shadow trembled in response.

As the group neared the water, the volume of their chanting increased. It was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the explosion from the direction of the school. Almost.

Buoyed by the words swimming in the air around her, Nzinga began to cry. Tears streamed from her eyes as sweat poured down her face and body. It was over. Finally. Finally, the pain would stop. The years of lies, the regret, and the anger would stop. It was over.

50 people marched into the harbor, where their ship, the Belle Morte, awaited them.

Death had come.

As writers, we often tell ourselves that we write for love of craft, or simply to release some screaming demon from our head. However, there comes a time when someone (other than the author, of course) reads a body of work and says “I like this.” And you know what?

That feels good.

Lo and behold, I have my moment in the spotlight! Jara over at Random Rhyme Reason has featured me on her blog. (Yes, “me” is a clickable link.) Honestly, I am honored. To me, this is one of those moments in time right up there with “Will you marry me?” and “I’d like to thank The Academy…”

I feel loved. Not saying that the 1,000+ visits had not already achieved that, because it did. I just feel more.. MORE, you know?

In the meantime, stay tuned for the next installment of the current story “Reckoning”, as well as more poems and random postings. And don’t forget to visit Jara over at Random Rhyme Reason!

Peace and blessings.

~Sumayyah~

I would like to thank you, dear reader, for making this possible. I recently hit the 1000 mark on my site counter! Give yourself a round of applause. You could have been visitor #10, #236 or #993… You made this happen, and I am deeply grateful.

Special thanks to 2 people this time around:

My mother, who is my most faithful reader (and commenter!). Mom, you have always supported my writing, form the earliest attempts (remember Sally Haper?) to now (and I will finish “Reckoning” soon, I hope). Thank you. I love you and Daddy dearly.

My husband, the hip hop artist Tasherre D’Enajetic (who is having his own site relaunch today). Honey, you encouraged me to start a blog to present my words to the people. You purchased a domain name, paid for my hosting, revamped and relaunched my website and continuously support my dream of being a good (and widely read) writer. Thank you, I love you, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

To all my readers: whether you love me or hate, let me know. You don’t have to agree with me; if I can make you exercise your brain muscle and think, then I have done my job.

Peace and blessings!

Once again, Cornel West leads us to a gateway to insight and reflection in his latest offering “Hope on a Tightrope.” Not convinced? Try these on for size:

Quotes from “Hope on a Tightrope” by Cornel West

It takes courage to ask – how did I become so well-adjusted to injustice?

The courage to love truth is one of the preconditions to thinking critically.

If you accept uncritically and blindly, then it’s clear you don’t really have a love for the truth. You have a love for what people tell you.

Sometimes we just fall in love with lies.

Any time you surrender a prejudice or give up a presupposition, that’s a certain death. To learn to die in this way is to learn how to live.

Where there is no death, there is no life.

The marketplace culture of consumption undermines community, undermines links to history and tradition, and undermines relationships.

If you think you can possess your soul by means of possessing things, you’ve got moral constipation stalking you!

You don’t have to agree with Kafka. But if you can make it through The Metamorphosis and then just go off and have a taco at Taco Bell, something is wrong.

Truth is all about allowing suffering to speak.

I am in no way optimistic, but I remain a prisoner of hope.

If you view America from the Jamestown Colony, America is a corporation before it’s a country. If it’s a corporation before it is a country, then white supremacy is married to capitalism.

No, the original sin [of America] was the dispossession, subjugation, and near extermination of the indigenous people prior to the founding of the United States.

White supremacy – now that’s the real original sin that grounds American Indian and African oppression. That’s the precondition for a nation that could then be founded on the exploitation, subjugation, and hatred of African people.

And the white supremacy inside of black people leads us to demean ourselves and devalue ourselves. We view ourselves as less beautiful, less intelligent, less moral.

Though the reality of racism and exclusion in undeniable, racism is not the sole problem.

We have got to come up with mature forms of black self-love, black self-respect in which whiteness is not a point of reference, either negative or positive.

Can’t we be pro-humanity and embrace our colors and cultures? {emphasis mine}

All of us are our momma’s child and our daddy’s kid, whether we like it or not.

We live in a society that suffers from historical amnesia.

Masha’Allah, I recently had the pleasure of reading “The Size of a Mustard Seed” by Umm Juwayriyah.

Book Jacket:

It’s a new era of fiction; Urban Islamic Fiction that is! Stepping up out into the spotlight is Jameelah Salih. Jameelah is a 27-year-old Muslim woman born to what appears to be one of the inner-city’s stronger blended American Muslim families. She works as a hair stylist with her two best friends in the city’s only Muslim women’s owned and operated hair salon, Covered Pearls. On appearance and material possessions alone Jameelah seems to be doing big things; she has a loving family, owns a fly car, she has her own apartment and she’s not too far off from getting her second degree. What most don’t know is that she is one traffic jam away from losing control of her life. Being a single Muslim woman isn’t easy plus post 9/11 stresses still seem to haunt her. Jameelah prays for a change, but what will she do if change actually comes?

When a prominent Imam proposes marriage to Jameelah she feels as if it’s the blessing that she has been waiting for from Allah. She knows marrying him will change her life, but when an unexpected family crisis erupts and secrets are exposed, Jameelah is forced to make hard choices and put her complete faith in the only One unable to break it.

The author has made the characters stunningly realistic, and has given them the ability to draw you into their plights and dilemmas. Not only do we have Jameelah, the main voice of the story, we also have her sister, Khadijah, their younger brother Adam, and a lovely young Muslim convert named Shevon.

Follow Jameelah as she struggles with her personal demons of attitude, family obligations and the single life. Learn about the struggles of a young Muslim convert named Shevon whose family does not accept her chosen faith. Understand what it means to be a Muslim in a post 9/11 world.

This book is a MUST READ, not only for Muslims, but for anyone seeking to catch a glimpse of being Muslim in the 21st century. Buy your copy today, insha’Allah.

Yes, yes. Tasherre D’Enajetic is BACK! And you can get his entire catalog for FREE! It’s a limited time offer, so hurry up. For details, go HERE.

Moving right along…

——————————————–

“Are you in some sort of hurry, Miss Black? Got a hot date after my class?” Mr. Pitts interrupted Nzinga’s clock watching.

“Maybe with her demonic minions,” came the reply from the back of the room. The class erupted in laughter. Jacob sat back in his seat, crossing his arms haughtily. Nzinga stole a glance at him, and found him staring back. Quickly, she dropped her eyes to her desk, wishing the day would speed itself up.

“Miss Black? Are you with us now?” Charlie Pitts questioned his student. The middle-aged teacher tucked a lock of graying red hair behind his ear as he waited for an answer.

“I’m here. Sir. My apologies,” she whispered.

“Let’s continue, then. Now, the first Africans arrived in this country…” Nzinga tuned out, once again, and focused on the bane of her existence: Jacob Worthy.

He was a snot; a very rich snot, but a snot all the same. His not-so-great, great, however many great-grandfather, Captain Daniel Worthy arrived in the New World in the early 18th century. He commanded a small ship named, ironically, Belle Morte (Beautiful Death, in English). Ironic because at the time of its final voyage, there was plenty of death, and none of it was beautiful.

The Belle Morte‘s final load was a shipment of African slaves.

The voyage was doomed from the start. Several crewmen fell ill the moment the sail was hoisted. The weather was terrible; there was a storm cloud within raining distance at all times. All the while, the human cargo kept up a steady chant in low voices. No amount of threats or cracks of the whip would silence them. Captain Worthy gave up, figuring they were praying their heathen god. He had more important matters to attend to, such as returning home to his wife and 3 young sons.

Years later, a leather-bound book washed up in the harbor of what was now called Worthington. According to the title page, it was the personal journal of one of the crewmen on the Belle Morte, a young man known only as Scar. He wrote of the final voyage:

The 16th of April, 17 hundred and 10 -

That infernal singing is louder as the water grows more wicked. Could  they possibly be controlling the weather? I would say that it is preposterous, but whom but God knows what these heathen blacks  are capable of?

Later-

The Devil has come! He has risen from the depths of the sea to claim the souls of us whom have not repented! God save us! Captain is missing, the blacks died laughing and every white man on board is dead. I am the last. I can see The Shadow passing over the sun. God sav -

Captain Worthy and his crew never made it home. Pieces of the ship were found floating less than 5 miles from the docking point at the harbor of Worthington. Not one body was recovered from the wreckage.

The descendants of the good Captain suffered greatly. Of the 3 sons he left behind, 2 died in mysterious accidents as teens. The only one to survive to adulthood died the moment his son own was born. People of the town still say that the family is cursed, has been cursed ever since that night in 1710. The truth most likely would never be known. But time was running out for the Worthy family; Jacob was the last of his line.

“Miss Black!” Mr. Pitts shouted.

Nzinga jumped. “Yes?” she asked softly.

“There is no sleeping in my classroom.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she refuted.

“Well, you certainly weren’t paying attention.”

“She was communing with her dark lord,” Jacob injected. The students snickered. Nzinga stood and stared openly at the teen.

“You will pay,” she declared softly. “You will answer for your sins.”

“Miss Black!” Mr. Pitts slammed his hands on his desk. “OUT!”

“Now wait a minute,” Marcus interrupted. “My sister here was simply defending herself, but you throw her out? Of course you do. All of you crackers stick together.”

“Would you like to join her in detention, Marcus?”

An eyebrow rose. “She’s Miss Black, but I’m Marcus? That’s fine, Charlie. I can dig it.”

Mr. Pitts face and neck was almost as red as his hair. “That’s it! Both of you. OUT! Go directly to office.” He scribbled something on a sheet of paper, and then thrust it toward the two offenders. “And take this with you.”

Nzinga, who had never unpacked her things, clutched her bag tightly to her chest and stepped away from her desk. She felt Marcus come up behind her and grasp her elbow. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and saw a determined set to his jaw. She relaxed. Things were going according to the plan.

Slowly, silently, they marched to the door. Marcus extended a hand to rip the paper from the hand of the instructor. Without sparing a backward glance, they exited the classroom through the open door.  Nzinga waited while Marcus kicked it shut. From his pocket, he extracted a heavy aluminum padlock. This he slipped through the ends of two lengths of chain lying in front of the room.

The others were playing their parts well. Everything was going the way it had been planned.

Death is coming.

Nzinga heard the whisper, and smiled.

Picture this: a group of young people, maybe ages 7 to 17, standing in a crowd. You know them, because you’ve laughed at them, called them names, pranked them, ridiculed them, all in the name of  “fun.” Or maybe you try to “help” them, by changing their accents, their hair, their clothes. Or you try to “save” them by leading them to “The Light.”

Whatever.

Now try listening to what they have to say.

—————————————————

normal

i want to be normal
to be free from the rage
and the emotional battles that leave me
drowning in tears
and wishing for The Reaper to
harvest my soul
i want release
unwind the chain that binds me
to the flashing lights and colors
that signal an attack
on my psych

i want to be normal
to have a name like
Sally
or Sue
live in a real house
with a little picket fence
a dog named Spot
and maybe a brother or 2
where my parents
don’t fight
and throw bottles and chairs
or lock me in closets
because
i’m in the way
where i wasn’t born
crack addicted
and didn’t learn to cook
meth by age 5
or sterilize needles at 7
or be forced to
“earn my keep” as they say
with the uncles that come and go
and call me “pretty lady”
at 12

i can hear the taunting
make it stop

i want to live a life
not covered in silence at night
when i store my ears in a box
next to the bed
where my leg is safe from thieves
and my eye is not made of glass
where my crutches are not hidden
and my chair brakes are not locked
because some idiot thinks it’s funny

i am not amused

so my eyes may be slanted
and all my h’s sound like j’s
and my first name is longer than
all 3 of yours put together

so my hair is green and purple
or nappy or frizzy
or shaved on the sides
i still think i’m pretty

maybe i like girls
or am a boy who likes boys
or i was born the wrong sex
and it doesn’t match my inside

say i worship the sun and the moon
or a dead man on a cross
or there’s a star in a circle on my arm

so what
who cares
just leave me alone

normal
is a dream
i seek while awake

but

i can live with myself
i’m not forcing you to convert
so why
are you forcing me
i don’t eat meat
never have
never will
excuse me for being larger
than size 3

i want to be normal
but maybe i am
and it’s you
who needs
to change