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

Ms. Fortune

I have just realized that there is much truth to the cliche aphorism: Everything happens for a reason. It's not just a cliche statement that a pseudo-spiritual friend makes when things seem to be going awry. It is actual truth!

As I sat here at work, finished with my tasks for the day and procrastinating when I should be reading the thousand pages that my professor assigned me, I thought about how many times someone betrayed my trust or made me feel less than the wonderful person that I am. I thought about how I felt as if losing certain friendships or relationships would break me. I thought about how I thought I would never get over these losses.

But, then I thought about where these people are in their lives today and the people in their lives that they've gone on to hurt. Suddenly, my lips gave way to a slow whisper: "Thank God." Don't get me wrong, this is not one of those, "Take a look at me now, loser!" statements or a "Karma is a bitch" declarations (while those may apply in certain circumstances, I don't have the ill will in my heart to be resentful and I wish everyone the best). It's more of a, "I rather lose you and live happily than have you and be miserable" statement.

I am happy that certain people were taken out of my path despite the initial heartache, because it saved me from the pain that they're inflicting on themselves and on others.

So it really wasn't misfortune after all.

False Positives

A false positive is defined as an erroneous identification of a threat or dangerous condition that turns out to be harmless. In my experience, false positives have been synonymous with negatives. This conclusion may not be in line with the academic interpretation of the term, but it is consistent with my interpretation of negativity. In my life, I've learned that negative occurrences, thoughts, and people are merely manifestations of insignificance, illogic, and triviality that I mistook for being important, reasonable, and consequential threats to my emotional, physical, and intellectual well-being.

After careful consideration and reflection on the events, beliefs, and individuals that have proved to be negative forces in my life, I have realized that the effect they've had on me is a direct result of the undeserved power that I had given them. These forces only appeared to be able to impact me in some way, shape, or form, but they fed on the strength I had given them.

The lesson learned here is this: Something can only be truly negative if I give it the power and energy it needs to have an effect on me; therefore, eliminating negativity only requires me to stop giving these inconsequential forces any of my power.

Under the Influence

Recently during my routine procrastination sessions, I logged onto MySpace thinking I was going to just update my profile song to something representative of how I was feeling, make inappropriate comments on some pages, and delete comments from 40-year-old men who seem to think that the site is an equal-opportunity dating service.

As the homepage loaded, everything seemed to be normal -- some new comments, messages, and a friend request. Eager to see which one of my friends gave in to yet another evil tool of procrastination via a networking site, I clicked on the friend request button. What I saw sent a chill down my spine. I sat staring at the screen for what seemed like an eternity in disbelief at the image that stared back at me. There she sat, mouth puckered into what could be interpreted into a kiss one moment or a "b*tch please" expression the next.

Although I was very familiar with her, in that moment, I felt as if I had never met her before. Although I've known her for about the past 14 years, the person in the picture was someone else, someone new. "This could not be my baby sister," I thought. "O hell no!"

For such a long time, I went along as if our worlds were different. I always felt so much older than her despite the fact that she towers over me in ideal model height and is often confused for my older sister.

I somehow forgot that she was growing up while I was away at school. On my frequent trips back home, I never looked at her as more than my baby sister. She had always been the 3-year-old girl with whom I played schoolhouse with; repeating after me as I sounded out words and wrote letters down on the chalkboard my dad "borrowed" from a highschool he was doing construction work on. She had had always been the 6-year-old who gave me a hard time whenever I was on the phone with my friends. She had always been the little girl that I felt guilty for leaving every time I left home after the holidays to come back to school.

Now, she's her own person with her own MySpace page. I suddenly realized how important it was that I pass down the important lessons that I've learned. I felt that I had to hurry up and tell her all these things before she grew up even more.

I needed her to know that although she may have tons of friends, not everyone had her best interest in mind. I needed her to know that it's ok not to be in step with everyone else, because those that start out too quickly on the track usually fall behind during the longest and most important part of the race. I needed her to know that she has to know that she's beautiful way before some boy makes her think that him telling her that she's gorgeous means something. I needed her to know that change may hurt, but nothing that's worth anything comes easy. I needed her to know that no one knows everything and anyone who pretends that they do is lying. I needed her to know that being kind is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength; the strength to give of oneself despite the gains or losses. I needed her to know that she is allowed to feel whatever emotion comes to her and that no one has the right to tell her otherwise. I needed her to know that she was loved.

I never thought MySpace could be so deep.

La Huerfana :: The Orphan

About a month ago, I was at lunch at Guapos eating a chicken quesadilla, humming to a Marco Antonio Solis ballad playing in the background. I was in my element; good food, good conversation and good music. All of that enjoyment was brought to a screeching halt, however, with a simple question from my lunch date. It was like those scenes in the movies when some life-altering news is broken to the protagonist, she drops her glass of wine and the music stops as the camera does a close-up of her startled facial expression.

His question made me instantly uncomfortable. Like when you're watching a movie with your parents and an unexpected sex scene seems to be going on for years, when it's only about 30 seconds long.

"Do you feel like Latin America is yours? Do you claim it?" he asked.
For some time now, anytime anyone has asked me where I am from, I've stuck my chest out, put my chin up and proudly proclaimed "The Bronx" as if it were the most important statement of identity I would ever make. In a similar manner when, I've gotten the weirdly typical "What are you?" I've answered "Black."

I wouldn't have it any other way.

A conversation I had last night with a friend who has recently returned from studying abroad in the Dominican Republic reminded me why. She had a wonderful time and has the pictures to prove it. She said she met great people, went out and learned so much. But, she also spoke of the racism she experienced and how the African history in Latin America was not only ignored, it was denied.

I was reminded of going to a club in Puerto Rico during Spring break and waiting a significant amount of time for the bartender to take and fill my order meanwhile he rushed to serve appletinis to some fair-skinned Latinas.

I was reminded of a want ad in a Panamanian newspaper for a receptionist some time ago. The ad said preference would be given to women with light-colored hair and blue eyes.

I was reminded of sitting in the salon chair when my Dominican hairdresser tried to convince me that I should not call myself "Black" because I was different all the while punctuating her sentences by pinning rollers to my head.

Like many burned-out students, I've spent some time during this break watching TV. At my house, after 6:30, the television in the den is locked to Univision. My family and I watch the news and stay tuned for the addictive "novelas" (soap operas).

While I love them for their drama, I've always taken note that all of the characters have been played by white Latinas. The news that comes on beforehand, has no black reporters.

When watching Sabado Gigante, my mom and I play a game where we count how many black guests Don Francisco has on each week.

When I was asked the question, I took some time to think about my answer, not because I was trying to find the perfect words, but because I had not thought about my relationship with Latin America in a very long time. I had gotten comfortable being Panamanian only when I felt I wasn't going to be questioned about it.

So, no I do not feel that Latin America is mine. I think Latin America has orphaned Black Latinos. Left them out in the cold for them to be adopted by another,supposedly more "fitting" identity. Not in the way that Mariah Carey feels alienated by both blacks and whites, as she told Essence in her "tragic mulatto" article last year. But, in a way that somehow seems almost more visceral. It seems as if we have been erased. As if our birth certificates have been altered and we've been left to find other parents.

Dying on the Dance floor...

Shortly before Christmas, I learned that my great-uncle Von died suddenly on a nighttime boat ride in NYC. No, this is not some plea for sympathy or condolences. For some reason, although I love my uncle dearly and I sincerely am sorry for my great aunt, I was oddly enlightened. While I am sad that he died, I am happy about the way that he died. Who wouldn't want to literally have their last dance?

When my heart stops, I don't want it to be because some Johns Hopkins Medical School-educated doctor got permission from my next of kin to pull the plug. I don't want it to be the result of some senseless act of violence. I don't want it to be because I had finally lost the proverbial battle to some terminal illness. I want it to be because my life was full, I surpassed my potential, served my purpose, loved hard and loved often, and whatever I was supposed to do here on this God-forsaken earth was successfully completed. I want to be among loved ones, having the time of my life at the end of my life -- literally dancing the night away.

Until last year death was something distant. I had family members that had passed away before then, but I was young and they were suffering from various health problems. It finally hit me at 20, when someone my age with whom I had many things in common was murdered. I was angry at death because it came too close. Needless to say, not because it shouldn't be said, but because it is much too cliche, my life changed after that.

I set higher goals for myself and actually started making strides to reach them. I became closer to those around me. I smiled more. I did all the things that people do when they realize their own mortality. At the risk of sounding even more cliche, I tried to live each day as if it were my last.

I became so focused on the fact that I could just up and die at any moment (morbid, but true), that I tried so hard to make sure that every breath that I took meant something.

With this recent loss, I have one thing to say about my former mentality: "FUCK THAT." (I make no apologies for the profanity, because there are things far more profane than words society has deemed unacceptable. I'll save that discussion for another time.)

I am going to live each day as if I'm going to live forever. It just seems to me that life would be just a bit less morbid. Why not be daring? Why should I give a shit about what anyone has to say about anything? From now on, I'm going to do what I want to do.

So much time is wasted on superficial shit. From baaaalllin' to stuntin' -- it's all bullshit. Sure, it's fun to sing along and shoot the invisible J in the club, but outside of those confines, it's not hot. Having the flyest ride or the cleanest 'fit means nothing in the long run. I'd rather ride the bus with a real dude, than occupy the passenger-side of a luxury vehicle with a fake.

Since I plan on living forever, living for today is null and void. Living for tomorrow and the tomorrows after that makes more sense to me. Sure, I'm young now and have license to be proud of seeing the bottom of a bottle of Bacardi or to be not so proud when I'm procrastinating on "crackbook" instead of doing something more productive; but, one day, that license will expire and I'll be heating up baby bottles and trying desperately to not procrastinate on fulfilling whatever task I have to complete to pay the bills. While the latter image may not be attractive to some, it's a beautiful reality to me.

Tomorrow may not come, but I'd rather spend today thinking I have all the tomorrows in the world. And when I dance, I'll move as if the music was going to last forever because I have all the time in the world.