Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Spare Change

At the edge of the bed
Watching you sleep
Counting, again, all of your shiny pieces
Charting the haphazard precision
of our journeys to this space
Marveling at the perfection of God

dashaFEST 2013

It's here again, dashaFEST.  What started as a single event exactly 20 years ago has evolved (exploded?) into a month-long celebration of ME.

Wait, I know how that sounds.  Let me explain.

I've always enjoyed throwing parties. The theme. The games. The food and drink. Stirring around my divergent circles of friends and associates inside the same space.  I feel a small tug of pride when unlikely acquaintances can trace their connections back to my living room.

Over the years, that one, overstuffed birthday party has unfolded into a calendar of events. A women's only event. An artistic event. A group activity.  A party. Something for my daughters. Something for my immediate family. A performance showcase of some kind.

The enterprise is wholly ridiculous, and I am fully aware of this.  But giving myself permission to be absurd for a change is, actually, part of the appeal.  For what it's worth, I'm not obnoxious about it.  I don't keep tabs of who shows up and who doesn't.  To be frank, I'm not concerned about guest lists at all. The events are for me. Because I want to see them happen. Because I want to try out that restaurant. The rest of the world is simply welcome to join me. Or not.

During dashaFEST, I also challenge myself to try something new. This has landed me in opera seats, calling "pull" on a skeet shooting range, nervously waiting my turn for a colonic cleansing, and proudly brandishing my bruises after a paintball match.  This year: yoga.

The most spectacular element of dashaFEST, however, are the celebrations that happen outside of public view.  I use the month to examine, fine tune and polish ME.  I get real about my shortcomings, by focusing on one or two, intensely each year.  (Hey, I can't fix EVERYTHING at once). I take inventory of my relationships, how I'm investing in them and where I can do better.  I am even more diligent about showing my gratitude to my family, my loved ones, my supporters, my God and myself.  I am thoughtful about being THANKFUL.

I'm especially thankful to the folks who indulge me, encourage even, this self-bacchanal. Friends have begin sending dashaFEST greetings as the dates approach. One of my students said that he doesn't even think of the month as "October" any more.  Truth be told, I'd like to see more people adopt a yournamehereFEST.  Have as many parties as you want, just make sure the most important celebration is for you BY you.  Pamper yourself. Promise yourself. Forgive yourself. Ask yourself. Check yourself. Grant yourself permission to love yourself, one designated day at a time.

It's dashaFEST everyone. Thirty-one days of being alive on purpose.  You're all invited to join me!

Thursday, September 05, 2013

Dear Deborah Brown Community School ~

It is quite a feat for a small charter to make national news.  It is perversely disappointing, however, to read that a charter school led by two black women is systematically persecuting students of color for celebrating the natural textures of their hair.

As an educator, I understand and value the impact of comportment.  Indeed, many ills of the contemporary school environment can be aggravated by lax guidelines on conduct and appearance. Nonetheless, your policies against natural hairstyles levels a much more serious attack against your students. 

Rather than teaching them how to be “presentable,” your policy forces the concept of “acceptable” at a disastrously early age. Yes, the school should vigorously mandate “neat,” “modest” and “respectable.” These are essential expectations.  Denying the option of neatly, modestly and respectfully showcasing the heritage of their hair, however, reinforces a wickedly pervasive narrative that black success must be moderated, tame, predictable and nonthreatening.

Why in the world would an all-black administration perpetuate such an insidious agenda??

Our role as educators –educators of black children- is to encourage our young scholars to pursue excellence and challenge them to continually evolve as human beings.  Your school dismisses dreadlocks and afros as “fads,” but allows “soft” curls, fades, sprays of barrettes and even synthetic weave to serve as the norm. This messaging is troubling and misguided.  Instead of instilling a philosophy of personal pride, you’re imposing the habituation of self-loathing. I trust we can agree that the enormity of our work with young people cannot allow for such a dangerous distraction. 

As a peer, and member of the community of youth workers, I urge you to re-evaluate your school’s position on natural hair.  Hopefully, straight A students will never have to leave your facility in tears again.



Dasha Kelly
Founder / Director

Still Waters Collective
300 W. Walnut St.
Milwaukee, WI 53212
414.265. 1500 | fax.265.1515

Tuesday, September 03, 2013



Dasha-Kellyby Dasha Kelly

I’m not sure when it happened, when my words fell away from ordinary, peeling away sneakers to don ruby slippers, starting requesting lemon zest and garnish. I don’t know, exactly, when my words were made to hang back in the green room waiting for a green light to shine.My words don’t think twice about being seen without makeup, in sweatshirts and jeans. They miss racing one another down to sheets of paper, squealing and breathless until they tumble and fall into unexpected formations. My words spend too much time standing around these days, clustered into genres, waiting for invitations to arrive.  They are social creatures but miss their quiet time, too. My words need to sprawl across clean pages, even to find themselves crumpled and tossed away sometimes. They are not all destined for posterity, but each mark a heartbeat in this world.  
This is the grandeur of their humility. My words don’t mind posing in display cases or smiling into a lens, but they are weary of being thrown into dance routines and cinched at the waist with corsets. They don’t need office hours or handlers, Egyptian cotton or candy dishes picked free of green M&Ms. My words don’t need whole bean coffee or fair trade chocolate or chicken wings with six exotic sauces.
My words remember the landscape before our ideas got gentrified. They are homesick for meandering, deadline-free afternoons. My words know that they are loved. They are unfamiliar with fear, but recognize its acrid fumes. They are commissioned, each and every one, to soldier gruesome conflicts. My words are complex in their simplicity. Graceful in their strength. Unassuming in their power.
They are unafraid of expectation, and not guaranteed to assemble themselves into solutions. My words know how to be silly. Foolish. Haughty. Wicked. Even raunchy. My words do not always behave.
They don’t require reason or rhyme, just space. Not a stage or a two page spread, just space. Whether they file into dense and determined rows or pirouette into limber arcs, they only need space so they can breathe. My words only want to breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
They’re just words. Letters bonding into cliques. Sentences falling into flash mob formations. Paragraphs pledging solidarity on the page. And they have always been the boss of me.
I’ve been held together by words, pulling them into me like breath, since I was 10. Although I don’t suspect many of my elementary school classmates were also spending their summers with a typewriter, it wasn’t until college that I recognized writing as a gift and not an innate skill. Back then, my attachment to writing was merely affection. Writing professionally had never, not once ever, crossed my mind. I was double-majoring in Corner Office and Fat Rolodex and had absolutely no frame of reference for the absurd notion of pursuing a committed relationship with my words.
I still scribbled stories. They were a mental release from project papers, my way to relax. Through graduation and into the adult world, writing persisted as a hobby I liked to keep handy, right next to the deck of playing cards, watercolor brushes and beat-up Scrabble board.
In my day-to-day conversations, however, my passion for words — those sexy and sublime words — blazed at the world fiery and blatant. I’d spent so many years feeling misunderstood as a kid (perhaps the summers with the typewriter didn’t help), framing myself and my thoughts in metaphors and analogies became second nature. Digging into my vocabulary became an exercise in precision, not pretention. Once, on a date, I was in the middle of what I thought was a hilarious and riveting story when he interrupted to ask the definition of “conniption.”
“It means having a fit,” I said.
After a frustrated pause he asked, “So why didn’t you just say ‘having a fit’?”
I tried to explain how the hard consonant was suited for the compound sentence, about the rhythm of its clipped second syllable, how the word prompted you to prepare for a turn in the story.  Of course, I didn’t have any of this language. I could only insist that “conniption” worked better. Subsequently, he could only presume that I was an ass.
Somewhere along the way, my private affair with writing went public. Words escaped the tower of my imagination, shimmying down to find their way into books, onto computer screens and in front of live audiences. From sharing one story with one friend nearly 20 years ago, I now find myself compelled to share all of my best work with the planet.
Ignorance, however, is truly a delicious kind of bliss.
Once I committed to my words and started answering to the title “writer,” I haven’t approached my words with the same ease.  When I simply had a crush on words, I could sit the computer and devote an entire afternoon to a story that was only destined for a file folder. I could pick up my journal and find epiphanies through poems that would never meet printer’s ink or a microphone.
In boldly parading our union to the world, I find myself pressing my words through unforgiving filters. Partly, it’s the reality of paying bills, raising children, and consuming more leafy greens that makes me so discerning about the time I allow for writing. Partly, it’s the humility in knowing that lightning bolts in the shape of publishing contracts might never strike. Mostly, I’m guilty of objectifying my words, of only spending quality time when there’s someplace special for us to go.  Long ago, when I didn’t know any better and no one knew about my words, things were different. Organic. Easy.
A dear friend once confided in me about challenges he’d been facing in his new marriage. He and his wife had shared an incredible connection when they were dating so I was surprised to learn they were struggling as newlyweds.  Their breakthrough happened, he said, when his wife turned off the movie they were watching and told him to leave the house. She demanded that he meet his boys at the bar, like he used to. Stay out until the wee hours that night, like he used to. Come home to consume her with gluttony and abandon, like he used to.
“I thought being a husband meant I wasn’t supposed to go out with the fellas anymore or get pissy drunk or pull her hair during sex,” he said.  “There are new rules for all that, but I realized I was trying to live a title instead of living my life.”
I think of them these days, ticking off more than a dozen wedding anniversaries by now. I, too, have allowed a title to commandeer the relationship with my writing. Now that we’re official, and accumulating concerns about submissions, commissions, agents, queries and such, it’s like I don’t know how to love on my words the way I used to. It’s like I’m afraid to mess up something I’ve been doing my entire life.
I need to balance the work of being a writer with the whimsy I remember. My intelligent self understands that everything I write won’t produce a paycheck, opportunities, or applause. My spirit yearns to sink guiltlessly into that scrumptious in-between space, where stories and poems are simply a byproduct of the sheer love for writing.
My words have always shown up for me and I am committed to return myself to a space where I can show up with the same selflessness. Yes, in the grand scheme of poverty, intolerance, food deserts, and roving the surface of Mars, these are just words. But I owe them so much more than that.
Dasha Kelly has performed as a spoken word artist throughout the U.S., in Canada and appeared on the final season of HBO presents Russell Simmons’ Def Poetry Jam. She has shared stages with UK’s Linton Kwesi Johnson, former US poet laureate Elizabeth Alexander, Wisconsin poet laureate Max Garland, Grammy-nominated artist Angie Stone and appeared in the indie film Role Play. Dasha has released four audio compilations and a poetry chapbook called Hither. She has written for Upscale,Black Enterprise and Milwaukee magazines and her narrative essays appear regularly online. Her first novel, All Fall Down (Syntax), earned her a place in Written Word Magazine as one of the Top Ten Up-and-Coming Writers of the Midwest. Hershey Eats Peanuts (Penmanship Books) is her collection of poems, essays and short stories. Her second collection, Save As, will be released in October of 2013. Dasha’s second novel, Almost Crimson, is currently under review with a prospective publisher and she has recently completed her first screenplay.
Dasha is an adjunct English professor and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. She is an alumni of the iconic Squaw Valley Writers Community and she is founder of Still Waters Collective, an arts education and community-building initiative. A former “Army brat,” Dasha is currently based out of Milwaukee, where she lives with her cat and two teen daughters.

Monday, July 01, 2013


Pigs will not fly. Not even with counseling. Or coaching. Or fancy new clothes. Or affirmations. Or cuddling. Or the last bite of your sandwich. It is not for lack of focus. Or prejudice or profiling. Or being tied up on the phone. Or having a broken heart. Or having things easy. Or some withering away of faith. It is because they are pigs. At best, they may hang weightless for a moment, defy gravity for a moment, suspend our understanding of hard earth and crushing impact ... for a moment. At the end of it all, we will remember how this truth had always been wedged inside the marrow of our bones. Pigs. They will not. Fly.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Keep Me

Keep me.
Nestle my core
into the plush of your hand
Wrist locked steady
Careful now
Careful now
Don't cradle me
bird's nest suspended
Keep me.
Canopy me with fleshy fingers
Keep me.

Thread yourself through all the letters
of all my names
especially those you whisper
over me when I sleep
(you do watch me when i sleep, don't you?!)
Loop my alphabet around your neck
Careful now
Careful now
Don't flaunt me
bauble shiny
Keep me.
Drape my charms closer to your chest than
the world

Keep me.

Tuck my affections
in the pocket of your jeans
Slip me deep in cotton corners
weightless and constant
Careful now
Careful now
Don't stroke absently
at smooth surfaces
Carry about my devotion
As needed, reach in to trace firm contours
Keep me.

Keep me
Keep me
with you.

Saturday, April 06, 2013

The Ivory Bangle Lady

Dig my hole deep
Intern legacy with my bones
Coat my rich skin
with thick oils
olive, rosehip, pomegranate, shea
Even in death
Even in death

Dig my hole deep
Rest the most brilliant baubles
against the contours of my waist
blue glass, beads, cologne, ivory
Send me with greetings for God
Send me with greetings for God

Dig my hole deep
Entomb my artifacts of glowing and global truth
my inimitable and glorious people
power, wealth, intellect, melanin
History will not bury me
History will not bury me

The Ivory Bangle Lady

"This skull is particularly interesting, because the stone sarcophagus she was buried in, and the richness of the grave goods, means she was a very wealthy woman, absolutely from the top end of York society. Her case contradicts assumptions that immigrants are low status and male, and that African individuals are likely to have been slaves." ~Dr. Hella Eckhard, Archeology Dept., University of Reading (UK)


The Ivory Bangle Lady

Friday, February 01, 2013

Sky Lessons (from Anita Bee)

You recall looking up to summer skies
A sheer filter of crystaline blue
between you and heaven
It looked even bigger to you then

Relaxed on a pallette of green grass
Soft blades hugging your small body one at a time
You remember the patch of Earth
cool against your back
tickling your neck
an easy comfort for you to rest your head, so full
of new thinking

You did not know how to to lasso the clouds
with those fresh, new thoughts still awkward
and unwieldy between your ears
You were afraid to name those clouds with
your soft, wet words
Fastening monikers that might be too new
might not be just right
Your small lips pucker into a whisper:
     Elephant, you say
     Kitten, you say
     Cereal bowl
     Mama's good church shoe, you say

You learned to transcribe cumulus tales of summer
Clouds scrolling like silent movies across your blue sky
trust your untethered translations
Even pointed your chin up to the darkness
Tear-filled eyes behind sealed windows
searching the shadowed firmament for
constellations, for guideposts, for wishes, for

Only shades of blue between you and heaven

You do not track the stars as you once did
Do not measure fate by darkening rains
You rarely affix new names and claims to atmospheric smudges anymore
Rarely feel the thunderclap beneath your tongue
But the stories you scrawled across summer days will call you back, one day
The sacred songs of midnight sorrows will lulluby your soul, one day
You will see the florid script of your legacy clustered in frosted breath
in smoke
in promises
in poems
in clumsy kisses
in prayers you sealed private for God

You will search this sky for the forgotten names and prayers
you floated upward like a child's balloon
like a wish upon a star
like gospel on a cloudless day
Even if you never think of me, look up
Look up to this sky and recall the ambition of eager, young words
Suspend the fear snaking up the length of your convictions
Remember the bravery you gnawed with abandon beneath the cover of summer skies

Look up. Pin new names to a slow-rolling grace
When I laid beneath the choreography of clouds, I called them:
     Roller skate
The grass, cool and soft against my back, I always knew
that behind this blue sky was God

It still seems so big to us now
for this shimmering blue to stretch between you
and me, between homecoming and homegoing
Heaven and heavenbound
I always knew I was heavenbound
and summer sky words have ushered me home.