The Revolution

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

                                              --Dr. Maya Angelou

Like the phoenix we rise

Out of Blackened ashes 

A new nation, a new people

With sun-kissed skin strong like coffee

And hair defying the white man's gravity

Our backs no longer bearing white burdens

But carrying our fallen young brothers and sisters with us

As we fly into a world of our own

We speak their names

Say his name: Trayvon

Say her name: Aiyana

Say his name: Michael

Say her name: Renisha

Say his name: Tamir

We speak all of their names

So they will not be forgotten 

But the white man is trying to keep us down
Tearing our wings right out of our backs
Ms. Simone said southern trees were bearing strange fruit
I didn't know what she meant until I saw them too
The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice
Suddenly meant something totally new
Using our Black skin for target practice
First it was our men and then our babies
Now we have to watch our backs as we kneel before God on Sundays

Negroes--Sweet and docile,

Meek, humble, and kind:

Beware the day--

They change their minds.

And we will rise

We will rise.

Get Down with the Get Down!

Last week, I saw this picture in my Facebook timeline and laughed so hard, shared it, and said, "Yes." In my mind, I was thinking, this is the kind of brother I need, the kind of friends I need to be associated with. From beginning my natural hair journey (officially relaxer-free now after a year of transitioning!) to doing my own research on my people, I have taken on a new meaning of what it means to be a young, Black woman. There's a revolution coming y'all; whether you're ready or not, it's coming. And I will be at the forefront with my other brothers and sisters, fro'ed out, my melanin just glistening, and my Black power fist in the air. I'm so ready!

I said that I was taking some kind of hiatus from my writing because I really wanted to refocus my energy; however, due to some recent personal circumstances, my writing has once again become a source I pour my heart out to, and I've been writing my usual sad, gut-wrenching, tear-jerkers (I don't know if any of you experience all of these emotions, but I sure do, hmm!) I wanted to refocus my energy because I haven't written anything about what's been going on in the Black community. So many different things have happened in the last month, and each time I wanted to say something. But honestly, I haven't found the words.

But Jada you're a writer!

Ironic, isn't it? 

I have watched a lot of spoken word videos and so many people have expressed their feelings in such beautiful and profound ways. Language is powerful y'all, it really is. When I was ten years old, my teacher made me read The Secret Garden, and I give credit to this book and Frances Hodgson Burnett for me wanting to be a writer. I wondered how she was able to write the way she did. I'm my ten-year-old self again: how can I write about these events the way they did? I share my opinions so much on Facebook and Twitter on these topics, and now I just want to mold them into my poetry.

To each his own. I'm still trying to find my own voice when I write. 

Fret not; I am working on something. I have to address my new-found appreciation for my Blackness.

Are you down, my brotha? My sista? You betta get with it, chile!

Therapy Session

grown woman sits propped between 
Momma's big brown legs 
head resting against her thighs 
weighed down by memory
Momma has a brown comb in her hand
parting her hair and scratching her scalp
grown woman is suddenly little girl again
gritting her teeth and wincing at 
the pulling of her thick, coily mane
Momma is singing her a blues
she tried hard to forget
trying to scratch that memory out 
of her baby's head
she sighs and rolls her big brown eyes
until Momma sings an end she never heard of
and comes to understand a Mother's love
grown woman/little girl
folds herself into Momma's arms
and thanks her with tears

Romance

What ever happened to Romance?
The sweet dance in dim light to jazz musicians
His rhythmic, steady sway sending shivers down my spine
A sip of Roscato wine as he stares into my eyes
Undressing my mind and not my red dress this time
Do you mind? he would say
Extends his hand to mine and whisks me away into the night
We would explore the city's nightlife 
With palms clasped like praying hands
Praying that this isn't another fall from grace
Preying on only laughter and smiles 
He barely brushes his lips against my right cheek
His fingers lightly resting on the small of my back
Aimlessly guiding me through the beginning spaces of his heart
Showing me his artistic lines and poetic melodies 
His honesty is almost overwhelming
I would almost be foolish to not give this a chance
This is, after all, a first taste of Romance
He would then take my hand and twirl me in the street
And if it rains--
Even better
May I have this last dance? he would say
I throw my head back
And laugh into the rain