another jean grae joint. one of the few female mcs i listen to (not that that list is very long!). one reason i love her is because she does so well what i can’t. she can appear so mean, tough, angry. just knowing she exists makes me feel more powerful. plus she’s smart.
i’ve mastered it/ fucked rhyme, killed its father, bastardized it/ masquaraded i rolled, drive by and patronized it.
In today’s world, most of us carry grief and do not even know it. We have been trained at a very young age how not to feel. In the West we are often taught that to be good girls and boys we have to “suck it up.” The consequences are that even with your most intimate and trustworthy friends you might feel like, “I am burdening them.” Crying in front of others is too often a forbidden fruit. We learn to compartmentalize our grief because expressing it in an unwelcoming place will only lead to more grief. We are taught that the people who are closest to us have no way of holding us when we fall apart.
Yet we are born fully knowing how to grieve. We cry naturally to feel better, to unburden ourselves and take a few pounds off our shoulders and souls.
"— sobonfu some. i take issue with her oversimplified thinking on race and war in the article, but i think this excerpt is on point. she also writes about communal grief and how important it is to have others around us to support us in that process. sitting in silence with someone can be such an amazing gift.
(Source: sobonfu.com)
Richard Aoki was an American civil rights activist. He was one of the first members of the Black Panther Party, and the only Asian American to hold a formal leadership position.
(via thisisnotjay)
sitting in the best and only cafe in west oakland- revolution cafe. paintings of garvey and malcolm while grungy white hipsters flow in. road signs and antiques. armchairs that plunge deep in the center.
i’ve listened to the sounds of BART trains pass, overlaid to the sounds of soul music. each time feeling like my heart dragging across rusty steel. wondering where the sparks fly and land. each time feeling my jaw clench. feeling the words that have buried themselves in my chest for years bubble rise and fall.
a friend told me it’s time for old patterns to change. time to heal. but right now it’s so grey the yellow springtime flowers can only shiver against the cement backdrop.
— sandra cisneros (bio). how do i say this without offending the wives of the world? i think this is beautiful, strong, laced with sadness. maybe this is me in a nutshell. either way, the idea of being somebody’s wife (property) never appealed to me.
— sandra cisneros. house on mango street. except, come back to change Mango, not to leave her again…
when he looks at me
i turn into the half eaten plum
left on a summer napkin
almost finished
but forgotten
for the flieshe turns his throat into jade
and spits
“something tells me
you’re gonna be trouble”i wish i still found this
to be gasoline
a challenge for the wounded
to walk to daddy
with broken legsbut there is no more push left
in this heart o’ mine
ventricles don’t swell
at the sound of engines sighing
or the familiar knock
of his glock on my nightstand
in the dark, i still was never
able to look into his eyes
scared of what could enter
if i opened him up
if he opened me up
and saw the lonely empire
i was building into myself
would he laugh at the height i am
when i’m on my knees?
or walk away, disturbed by
the raw ant farms?there is no more push left in me
to reel him in and shut him out
like a game of hide and seek
hunting for my eggs
and throwing them out
like candles for sunshinesometimes, i want to say
“do you realize what you have?
my attention”
oppa tells me
it’s not about who crosses our path
but whether or not we are ready
not about digging for gems
but preparing our tools
— audre lorde. zami: a new spelling of my name. started this today between various distractions. that first line. that first line punches me in the heart. hopefully i’ll like her prose as much as her poetry and essays.
— sandra cisneros. house on mango street.
— sandra cisneros. house on mango street. been re-reading this book and finding much more appreciation than reading it from the 9th grade.
words. ideas. because there is no time like the present.
http://flosfunk.wordpress.com/
