I declare.

Speaking in my Black girl voice.

The idea of being pregnant for twenty years is a nightmare. Holding it and holding it can’t be good. You don’t want to fetishize your own pain. You don’t want to fall in love with your own story of tragedy. I think I definitely did that for a while. My identity was about that story. And it was very comfortable, in a way. But it was also really tedious and draining, and not helpful for me in terms of the life that I wanted to live and manifest.

—Rebecca Walker on being “pregnant” with the story of your own pain - Conversations with Writers Braver Than Me #16 - Sari Botton for The Rumpus (via cilantro-green)

(via therumpus)

Style has a profound meaning to Black Americans. If we can’t drive, we will invent walks and the world will envy the dexterity of our feet. If we can’t have ham, we will boil chitterlings; if we are given rotten peaches, we will make cobblers; if given scraps, we will make quilts; take away our drums, and we will clap our hands. We prove the human spirit will prevail. We will take what we have to make what we need. We need confidence in our knowledge of who we are.

—Nikki Giovanni (via blackcontemporaryart)

(via lebeam)

Stories come to me, from the departed, needing to be told. Lived experiences seep thru my skin demanding equal time, while a dreamy blue horizon quietly beckons.

The time for stillness has passed.

I will answer the calling. See you there.



Are we still evolving? If so, have our culture and our technology changed our evolutionary trajectory?

more. and more.


Are we still evolving? If so, have our culture and our technology changed our evolutionary trajectory?

more. and more.

the most unsettling thing about having surgery (besides having surgery) is entering the operating theatre. the performance space where improv, and scene study take on inconceivable authority. on this stage comedy and tragedy morph into physical beings, while your soul kicks a soft shoe for redemption.

walking toward the operating room, i bypass two people standing sentry at the door. despite my best efforts to engage they refuse to make eye contact, acknowledge a presence or in any way affirm my humanity. should it go wrong, their job is to collect my earthly remains.

my doctor’s team (all women) work to create an atmosphere of professionalism, humor and kindness. if not for the setting and attire many would assume an ancient mystic ritual were taking place, to most we probably resemble a coven.

the team helps me onto the operating table, their choreography complex. who knew they heated the table? i am happy to feel warmth. strangely comfy, i long for sleep.

a door opens and in walks my surgeon, thankfully she is a rock star. her “tough love” tactics are why we are here. if i am to survive this day it is because of her skill and caring; because of the women she has bought together to minister to me. i breathe deeply as they begin, for a time these women are custodians of my heart. the hours pass and we are one. on this table i matter. the alchemy of our connection matters. all that i am affirmed.