Moxie Monday: Do It Now

Kick start your week with a lil' moxie!

Fiction Friday: [Hearts Ablaze in Charm City]

Stockpiles of pain
Sit heavily on tear-stained chests.
Hearts smoldering for a lifetime
Under the banner of:
Less Than.

Fires are burning, but
far beyond, far deeper than
the images splashed
across television screens.

The stockpiles fanned
again and again,
finally sparked, ignited
In the hearts of
The oppressed.

‘Legitimate’ news sources
taken to task
by Twitter.
Citizen journalism broadcasting
truths that don't boost ratings.
Ensuring that the world:
Sees.
Hears.
Understands.

And with each heart sparked
to action, to empathy,
another Less Than banner
Burns.

I felt that it was important for me to share the birth of this poem. The other day I watched an interview between Wolf Blitzer and activist Deray McKesson. And although I pride myself on taking most broadcast news with a grain of salt, this particular interview really got to me for the following reasons: I have lived in Baltimore. I have friends and family in Baltimore. I'm a black woman. And I'm a human being. To blatantly attempt to goad someone into creating the sound bite that you want is not journalism. Trying to coerce someone to condemn the legitimate feelings of the oppressed is not journalism. Those family and friends I told you about? They were posting images and sending tweets about what the majority were doing. Coming together in crowds of hundreds, sometimes thousands to figure out how to bring the peace. How to talk to the children and make this a teachable moment. But, not only was I not seeing this on the news, here was Wolf only wanting to perpetuate the 'If it bleeds it leads' work ethic of the news industry. Angrier than I'd been in a long time, I created and posted the following graphic on Instagram along with the caption that follows it:

Above is what happened after I watched #WolfBlitzer's interview with #DerayMcKesson.

I lived in #Baltimore for 9 months while working on The Wire and what I learned about the people there was that they love their city. They're proud of their city. I shouldn't have to go to social media to get the whole story and to recognize the strong people I remember so well. Especially when people are getting pretty hefty paychecks under the guise of being fair and impartial. 

I am in no way condoning the violence or saying that it shouldn't be reported. What I am saying is that if you only tell 1/4 of a story it becomes a tale of fiction based on a partial truth. This systematic grooming of people's minds to believe that people of color, especially poor people of color, are all violent thugs is a problem on the national level. And it's a problem that will never get resolved until we are shown the whole picture. The good and the bad.

To Baltimore...you are more than the picture they are painting. #StayStrong #Rebuild #TeachAndGrow

Moxie Monday: Fail Better

Kick start your week with a lil' moxie!

Fiction Friday: [The Splintering of a Wooden Heart]

Some would say it was a dark and stormy night. Unoriginal jerk-offs like Todd Winters, that is. He was the type who slid other’s words off his tongue with a cockiness that made the well-read shake their heads and the unenlightened gape all moon-eyed at his wisdom.

Rain pelted the car relentlessly. The windshield wipers screeched in protest as they struggled to keep up. The occasional flash of lightning was a welcomed sight, helping to light an additional few inches in front of the headlights.

My tender knuckles threatened to burst through my skin as my fingers strangled the steering wheel. My purpled jaw pulsed over the grinding of teeth, the taste of salt and copper on my tongue. Vision blurred from the fog of seething anger and an undercurrent of pain and loss.

The deeper I drove into the darkness, the more in sync the weather grew with my mood. Neither of which I would describe as “dark and stormy”. The more I grumbled, the harder the rain seemed to fall. Lightning scratched across the sky every time I relived the moment when had I opened the door. Tessa scrambling to cover herself—with the sheets that I paid for—sent thunder booming right through my chest.

Tonight added way more than insult to the injury. More than salt to the wound. Tonight skinned me alive. So many layers torn away and impossible to piece back together. Things would never be the same. They couldn’t be.

The phone buzzed on the seat next to me again. No need to look. I knew it was my wife. And I knew that no combination of words could make this better. None existed that could heal my broken heart.

****

Two hours later I realized how foolish I’d been, running away from my own home. Pulling into the driveway, I took a moment to collect myself. The living room curtain pulled back and my wife peeked out. After twenty years of marriage, I could see, even through sheets of rain, that she was relieved I was back. She greeted me at the door, her eyes slick and red.

“Sorry I left,” I said, wrapping her up in my arms.

After a moment, she led me up the stairs and past the flaking plaster where I had punched the wall. We paused outside the bedroom door where a wooden heart, painted with the innocence of pink and purple flowers, hung like a lie. Staring at it only reignited my urge to run.

“I…I can’t do this, Julie.”

My wife studied me carefully. A million emotions passed behind her eyes.

“She’s our daughter, Paul. And at seventeen, she’d not our baby anymore. I’m sure she’s just as traumatized as we are.”

Julie took a deep breath and knocked on the door, swinging it open before getting a response. Tessa sat on the bed, her face pink with tears. In her arms, with one of his ears hanging limply from over a decade of bringing her comfort, was Mr. Bear Bear. And for a moment, all I could see was my sweet little girl.

Moxie Monday: Get Lucky

Kick start  your week with a lil' moxie!

Fiction Friday: [Galloway House Pt. 6]

[Welcome to Part 6 of Galloway House. If you have missed any of the previous installments you can find them here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5. And as always...thanks for reading!]

While Joseph Strunk planted kisses on the foreheads of his family, Kate Winstead lit the last of the candles she had painstakingly placed around the massive sitting room. Rose-hued wood and delicate, yet lush fabrics filled the room. The sight of a hundred flickering open flames amongst it all was both terrifying and beautiful.

The ancient grandfather clock ticked in the corner and seemed to boom louder with each passing second. Decades older than Kate, it not only served as the oldest heirloom in the home, it was also the keeper of the family’s history. She delicately ran her fingers over its intricate carvings, trailing over the detailed faces of Townsley’s past residents. Some expressions carved stoic and focused, others fashioned with eyes and mouths gaped in horror. Suns and moons, water and fire. To an untrained eye the images would appear random, haphazardly placed. But for Kate, each image came together as a reminder of why she was here and what she had to do.

She picked up a worn, centuries-old leather diary off of an ottoman draped and fitted in silk bouclé. Kate had referenced the book when setting the candles and she once again pored over the pages of Edith Galloway Masterson’s diary to check her work. The consequence of even one candle out of place was a price too high to imagine. One that the entire world would have to pay.

Despite the lump in her throat and the irregular pounding in her chest, Kate was satisfied that she had done all she could to prepare for the evening. Now the time had come for her to wait on the final piece to arrive. A piece never to be touched by Galloway hands.

Wandering over to the window, Kate pulled back the lacy curtain. She peered out into the darkness and although it was a bit early, worry set in and crawled uneasily up her spine. The harder she tried to push the questions out of her mind, the stronger they fought for the spotlight. What if the Strunk offspring refused to believe in the old traditions? Or worse, what if the Strunk lineage died out altogether and there was no one left to help complete the task? What if Kate had traveled all of this way only to fail her family? To fail the world?

Then she saw it. The tiniest hint of orange glowing in the distance. She watched as it bobbed its way toward where the driveway met Main Street and sighed with relief as it grew larger and brighter, ascending the hill toward Galloway House.

[Read Part 7 of Galloway House here.]

Moxie Monday: Find Your Genius

Kick start your week with a lil' moxie!

Fiction Friday: [The Patience of Spring]

Charles wrapped his crooked, knobby fingers around the top of his cane and lamented over the effort of each joint. Counting the spots on the back of his hand, he wondered where all the time had gone. With an ornery sigh and great effort, he managed to make it from the bed over to the window, dropping into his favorite, overstuffed chair.

“Well, look at you. Already up and at’em, I see.” This particular nurse was much too chipper for his taste. “You’re looking a bit grumpy today. Maybe we’ll go for a walk down in the garden later, huh?”

He grunted in response, hoping to knock a little shine off her cheery disposition. Sometimes a man just wanted to be in a funk. And the way Charles saw it, he’d put in enough years on this earth to do so when he pleased.

“It’s time for your morning pills,” she said with no sign of being even slightly bothered by his attitude.

It only added to the cloud of irritation that bloomed in his chest. It was all made worse when he took note of her uniform: t-shirt and jeans. Her unprofessionalism was infuriating and he just wanted her to leave him be.

He expelled an exaggerated huff then reached for the pills. When he noticed how shaky his hand was, he quickly drew it back. Turning away from nurse what’s-her-name and staring out the window, Charles allowed his embarrassment to morph into anger.

“Just leave them on the table,” he said dismissively. “And get out. I’m a grown man. I know how to take my own damn pills.”

 Stillness settled around the room. Charles could hear the lazy ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. The longer the nurse stood frozen behind him, the more he realized how unfair he had been. But instead of apologizing, he pressed his lips firmly together and continued to stare out at the late-arriving colors sprouting in the garden. It had been a long, tough winter.

The nurse finally woke from her catatonic state and moved closer to Charles, setting a glass of water and pills on the table next to him. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, he didn’t yell. He was surprised by how comforted he was by the gesture. When she gently planted a kiss on the top of his head, he didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes and drank in the familiarity

“I’ll come back by later to see if you want to go for that walk,” she said, her joyful tone a bit chipped.  

Even with his back to her, he could still feel that she was there, hovering near the door.

“I love you, dad.” He heard her say.

But by the time he turned around, she was already gone.