The Art of Growing in Purposeful Silence

T he face you make after you BLOCK nonsense from your energy. And I’m tired of having to explain the same things over and over again: 1) Stop creating contrasts between me and  @iamcardib, don’t disrespect her or any woman on my page. 2) Dominicans are Black. And if you still decide to say, “Dominicans are not Black” you, my sweet baby, are a puppet because that is exactly what Trujillo wanted you to believe back when he was only letting Europeans into the country and bleaching his skin. Don’t talk to me about Spain unless you know the history of the Moors, and if you know that history, then you won’t talk to me about Spain, because you already know the Africans ruled Spain for 700 years. Go to the library and read about how Europeans erased our history from the books to the statues. Why you think the Sphinx has no nose? And really, there’s no such thing as “mixed people” unless a person is the product of an animal and human or a machine and a human. But humans making other humans, is

My friend Kerby blessed my students and I with a trip NYFW to see his Pyer Moss show a few weeks ago... they were front row, met celebrities like Fabolous and a bunch of others whom they admire. They love fashion and it was important to Kerby that these Baltimore boys had the experience of witnessing a Black man doing it on such a large scale, for the culture. Exposure is everything. This is good teaching. We even had time to go to Brooklyn Museum to see the Adidas exhibit that I was featured in. And they turned to me and told me they were proud of me. It just felt good to show them how limitless our potential is, period. The next day, I looked at the pics and I listened to what I said in that video. All that stuff about love superseding all, hit me kinda hard. I talk so much about love but I don’t even talk to my mother. So after 3 years, I facebook messaged my mom to tell her I love her. Truth be told, I did a lot of crying this month. They were not, “Im hurting” tears, they were “I’

B een a month since I moved in. Ain’t been able to create, yet. Not even a lesson plan. Not even a poem. I don’t like this but I can’t do anything about it. All I can do is trust the process. All I know is: I am going in a different direction. Everything is new. That is why I cannot create like I used to, what I used to, how I used to. You cannot do anything you used to do if you expect to elevate into a new. I have already elevated. I am here. But I am not comfortable yet. Maybe that’s why I am still actively trying to fly instead of letting myself levitate while I am here. There’s a different between being present and allowing and being on autopilot. I’m neither, though. I’m doing so much work trying to stay high up here, that I am not even able to produce from the clouds. No rain. And without rain, nothing I planted is going to grow. Was I better off remaining in the dark? Under the dirt? Am I tree? Or a bird that was birthed on the nest my mother made at the top of the trees? Is th

“Get me out of here!!!” She couldn’t think of any other words. Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed right. She was afraid. She couldn’t see the light.  “Get me out of hereeee!!!!!” Still screaming and gasping for air. She could see every one else but they couldn’t see her. They couldn’t hear her. They didn’t know her. They know the woman she was today, not the little girl she truly is. The little girl who was killed as a child, and to talk about what happened, was to relive it. To admit what was done, was to ask for it again. To think it was wrong, was wrong. She was still alive deep down. The little girl.  Screaming at the top of her lungs. She wanted to free herself from herself. But the woman whom she had grown into would never allow her to speak. Silenced her. Because to hear her, was to hear the echoes of the pain she locked away... buried. And threw into the deep. No matter how low it sank, it was still there. And the little girl could still feel it’s vibration with every blink.  F