...and then...

I was born in 1969. Around the time I was finally sleeping through the night, Jimi Hendrix was resigning to a darkness of his own. He died the following fall at the age of 27, when I was one month shy of turning one. Had I been an older girl, wide-eyed with the turbulence and fireworks of the times, I might have easily joined the pilgrimage of women yearning to stretch themselves and their lives naked beneath his musician’s trance. By the universe’s exquisite design, I was not yet capable of rolling onto my back. I’ve held barely a thumbprint of Jimi Hendrix’s story until recently (another reason why we should vote for Netflix in 2016). I was enthralled by his lifelong romance with music, to learn he was never ever without his guitar, by the enormous chunks of obsessed practice hours and simmering stock of chitlin circuit years that brewed the ingredients of his genius, by the divine precision of daring to reach up and seize his star just as one was whizzing above his head...

I spend a lot of time in my bathroom mirror these days It’s enormous I painted and mounted it myself Hired a handyman to install the vanity lights I am willing to engage experts Somehow, this does not feel the same as asking for help Black Woman is my mother wielding grace, guerilla tactics and fairy godmother good will all in the same afternoon Black Woman is my grandmother exacting her own resurrections and revenge in the form of success and Black Woman is stubborn love extending, again and again, their well-bitten hands I hear the cadence of their steps when I’m out in the world Patent leather, peep-toe wedges, galoshes, sneakers and fuzzy slippers I don’t move within the soundtrack of “legacy” but the arc and lilt of their melody play on a loop Like them, my skin is imbued with pride, satisfaction, fulfillment and exhaustion Is that what Black Woman means? Being exhausted? I might be willing to be half as Black if I could be half as ...

At 19, I was gone I ran Left my country and a mother who was mostly silent Escaped a father who was a brute I got the best of his worst, being the oldest son Expected to enter law or real estate Placed in boarding school at the age of nine I despised it It was the most expensive school in my country Though the public school had creative, imaginative teachers Those kids received a better education We had pretentiousness, networking and "proper" old school marms all the way from England My aunt -who shouldn't have- paid for it all My father -who shouldn't have- wanted my profound gratitude I haven't attended any reunions I did make friends for life Our bonds are more akin to having survived prison together When I took my son to visit the school you could still smell oppression in the wood I showed him where they made us kneel Sam Neill, the actor, graduated two years ahead of me Once a celebrated alumnus, they asked him to return He refuse...

I'm finally reading my magazines. Maybe I should book a flight every month, just for the captured sit-still time that flying affords. I only subscribe to three magazines, four if you count  Newsweek , which used to be my favorite until they defected to a digital-only format.  Mental Floss  is my new favorite.  It's witty, whimsical, well-written and wickedly nerd-tastic. While soaring the skies, my eyes scan the lines of text left to right, left to right, left, left, left ... I keep my face pointed toward the magazine pages, but my eyes pull to the left and over the rim of my eyeglasses to steal a look at the woman seated beside me. She's reading my new book. When our flight was still grounded, I had to unseat her and her husband in order to wedge myself into my window assignment. She offered to hold my coffee after watching me try and stuff my computer bag beneath the seat in front of me. I fastened my seat belt and thanked her for keeping me from scalding mysel...

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

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...

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...