Multicultural Metro Musings

Every day, at approximately 8:40 a.m., I run down the escalator and into the opening doors of the Glentmont-bound red line train at the Van-Ness/UDC stop, wishing I had left my house just five minutes earlier so I could stop for a real breakfast on my way to the office.

Usually, my eyes are glued to the pages of my latest Borders purchase and my ears are occupied by the sounds of my deafeningly loud iPod. But, yesterday was different. As I stood reading and secretly dancing in my head with my back pressed against the plexi-glass panel by the deadly metro doors, I suddenly felt a strange heat. Not the usual summertime-on-the-train heat, but the heat an ant must feel right before it shrivels up and dies as a result of an obnoxious 9-year-0ld boy's discovery that a magnifying glass and the sun combine to make a deadly weapon.

I let my eyes follow the blazing path to figure out where it was coming from. When I discovered the origin of the searing heat, I was overcome by a mix of feelings - horror, shock, and amusement.

Staring, he stood across from me, leaning against the opposite plexi-glass panel, dressed in his blue-and-white-striped button-down and fresh-from-Zips cleaners khakis. Roughly about 5'10" and surprisingly attractive, he seemed unmoved when my deep, brown eyes met his crystal, blue ones. Yes -- I said it, his blue eyes.

Horrified, my mind was filled with thoughts of white men reducing black women to hyperserxualized objects built for their enjoyment in slavery days. I saw images of white men sneaking into slave quarters and planting their seeds in dark wombs to produce biracial babies, perpetuating the color caste system that continues to plague the Black community.

Shocked, I was surprised that he was blatantly and obviously staring at me. I wondered what he was thinking. Being a dark-skinned (yes, chocolate, blah blah) girl, I've become accustomed to not being the object of attention of Black men who have succumbed to the disease of colorism. So, I was surprised to see this melanin-challenged man completely absorb me with his gaze.

Amused, as I inwardly laughed at the thought of bringing him home to my family and friends, and imagining him trying to dance with me and not catching one beat.

I guess he felt a mix of embarrassment and familiarity after staring me down for eight minutes, because as I turned to exit the train as it pulled into my stop, he softly, but confidently said goodbye.

As I walked up the escalator steps and feverishly searched for my metro card in my new, but still messy, purse, I asked myself if I could ever love a blue-eyed man. While, I never say never, it is difficult for me to even imagine how such a relationship would even begin, when with every fiber of my being I have always been suspicious of what's behind the eyes that Toni Morrison's Pecola wanted so desperately. Would those eyes ever see me -- not past my color, not in spite of my race, not disregarding my heritage -- but all of those things, all of me?

I snapped back into reality, with the sobering thought that if those of my own kind cannot appreciate all of me, then I would not have to worry about it.

Truly Make-Believe

So, I know that part of the joy of watching movies is the suspension of reality, but this is too much. Angelina Jolie, the beautiful actress and wife of Brad Pitt is playing Mariane Pearl, the beautiful, resilent, and BLACK wife of slain journalist Daniel Pearl.

Read more:
http://blackstarnews.com/?c=132&a=3393

Stream of Unconsciousness

I wrote you a poem that you will never read,
letters that you will never open.

You don't know what I know.
You won't know what I know.

Like a shy middle schooler,
I used to erase every message just before I'm about to send it,
Hang up the phone right before I call.

Lately I've been uninspired.
I miss the days when you were the source of my sappy journal entries.

I want to write again.

I want to pretend to be composed when you're around,
and then catch my breath after I close the door when you leave.

I want to laugh at myself at how silly it seems to crush on you.
I want to stay up at night and play back our last conversation in my head.

I want to hurriedly pick out an outfit when you say you're on your way,
then pretend to you that I've been wearing it all day.

I want to act like I don't know you're there, even though I feel you watching me.

I want to play all those games that make me sick.

I wrote you two poems that you will never read.

'Til Death...

A part of me died with you, my dear friend.
A part of my life has abruptly come to an end.
Before I met you, I was a cynic;
Suspicious of this dog-eat-dog world and everyone in it.
Armed with a quick tongue and even faster hands,
I fought more unnecessary battles than anyone can understand.

You greeted me that first day with a big smile and outstretched arms.
At first, I hated your accent and was annoyed by your southern charm.

Back then I had no idea what you would come to mean to me during our brief time together.
I never would have thought that you would help me make changes that would last forever.
It didn't take long for us to rub off on each other.
You became street wiser and I got nicer.

He loved you to death.
He stopped your heart and took away your breath.
...wanted you so bad, he couldn't stand the thought of you being with someone else.
The threat of you sharing your talents with the world made him want to keep you all to himself.

We laughed at his jealous ways.
How he would call you for hours on end and you would ignore him for days.

Girl, he loved you to death.
He stopped your heart and took away your breath.

"Freedom isn't free at all." (Spartan Queen, "300")

For almost a year, I've been trying out this whole dating thing. Actually giving out my phone number to interested applicants, returning those calls, and even holding some auditions. Though the thought of arranging to meet someone, putting effort into getting ready, and leaving the comfort of apartment to embark on an unpredictable journey with someone I don't really know all seemed to be just a waste of good nerves, I took a deep breath went anyway.

What I've learned is this: Trust your intuition. Deep down, I know what I like and what I don't like, but because I was trying to have an open mind, I sampled options that I knew I would not enjoy.

It is easy to list the reasons why it's great to be single: plenty of parties, fun flirting, and spontaneous surprises. I love these elements of the experience. However, what I don't love is the necessary evil that is dating. While I enjoy meeting new people and partaking in the traditional dinner and a movie, I do not enjoy thinking about the slim odds that my date will not make the proverbial cut.

This weekend, along with everyone else in the free world, I went to see 300. Oddly enough, the movie inspired me to take a new approach to the battle. King Leonidas's strategy of leading the Persians through a narrow pass, thus minimizing their effect made me realize that all I have to do is narrow my standards. That way, I will attract a few select applicants. There is no reason why being nice should translate into giving everyone a chance.


Only the few that make it through the narrow pass will earn the privilege to face me.

For now, I will use the remains of those who have perished in the process as mortar in my wall of standards.

I once dreamt I was a princess

Like most little girls, my birth name was pleasantly discarded by my parents, aunts, and uncles in exchange for the ever-popular moniker, "Princess." I took the name and the position seriously. On any given day after school, you could catch me trying on the previous year's Easter dress, putting on my plastic crown, and humbly ruling over my cotton-stuffed, fur-covered subjects.

As I grew older, I internalized my royalty and accepted by responsibilities. I learned how to be polite and voice my opinions; maintain my poise and be genuine; be nice and tell the truth. Believe it or not, my examples of great princesses came from Disney movies.

I watched Cinderella repeatedly, sang along with Aladdin's Princess Jasmine, and hoped that I, like Belle, could one day tame a beast. Although I knew the movie lines practically verbatim, I knew that I was far from being anything like those princesses. Their jeweled crowns rested on top of long, straight, flowing hair. While my plastic one sat on top of jet-black cotton. Their skin ranged in shades from peach to light tan, while mine was a deep shade of chocolate.

This summer, after reporting on yet another story, I vented to my classmates on a metro ride. I told them how angry I was that in all of Disney history, while there were principal female characters of European, Japanese, and Hawaiian descent, that there were no black princesses. Neither I nor my little sister could fully pretend to be any of those characters. I became upset at the thought that my future daughter might not be able to either.

This week, one of my classmates who suffered this session of my periodic venting sessions, sent me an e-mail. She said that she thought of me as she read an article about Disney's announcement that they will have a black princess.

While this may mean nothing to some people, it means that after the movie premieres, a little black girl will be able to put on her plastic crown and sing along to someone that looks like her. She can know that she too is an image of royalty.

Making Love

We make love
Creating it out of the desperate nothingness that's left
Creating it out of the desperate nothingness, a barren battlefield that's scarred by years of war

We make love
Molding it out of the blood-stained earth that lays barren
Molding it out of the blood-stained earth, dirt that's been over-plowed by years of greed

We make love

We make love,
But what does love make of us?
After the love is made,
the fields are still barren, the dirt still bears no fruit