i am opposite right now. and angry. i am different. and angry. rebellious. and angry. so angry that i don't know what to do with myself. so angry that i threatened two people this weekend...maybe with good cause. maybe not.
i don't know whether or not to feel bad about my anger...it's picking at me, like lint. it doesn't hurt. the thoughts, the reflections, the memories and sting of my anger just sit there. fly in my mind. in my ointment.
i ask myself: what am i trying to heal? where am i trying to be? what do i want to do?
where do i want to go?
away from here, from this angry city of my birth. can't help but, right? because we're all squeezed too tight and trying to smile from the pain, but the corner of my mouth are showing faint cracks and i'm only 29.
i've been so resigned and the anger's the only thing that feels right.
is my depression turning inside out?
i think so. is this a stage, a process, a rock on the road to healing?
i wish i knew and that there was someone who i could ask who isn't ashamed of the fire in my eyes. maybe they aren't ashamed.
maybe i am.
i enjoy being gentle and sweet and kind. i enjoy being understanding, empathetic, an active listener. i enjoy being connected, having intimate conversations that unfurl like the purple tongues of children, eating summer popsicles.
i enjoy the visceral twinge of love when i look into the eyes of a kindred spirit.
but the sweetness is so fleeting...and then honks, fingers, dirty looks, judgmental stares, snickered insults, an entire society with brainwashed pathology, taught to rake everyone over the coals. a stairstep world where stepping on is stepping up and stepping up will eventually lead down and stepping down is rarely seen and when it is, considered weak. the only thing that's truly accepting is stepping in time, stepping in place.
1, 2, 3, 4.
5, 6, 7, 8.
who do we appreciate?
how do you protect yourself without becoming defensive?
without getting so angry?
i'm still looking for my mountain to sit on.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Friday, June 1, 2007
the most beautiful boogieman
I performed burlesque for the first time last night.
Stripped. Damn near naked. In front of a room full of people.
At almost 300 pounds.
With a Blackhawk (the Black mohawk...the original mohawk, actually).
As I was peeling sexy clothes from my round, brown body, I also did spoken word and sang a reinterpretation of Mos Def's "The Most Beautiful Boogieman."
I am the quintessential multi-tasker.
So how does it feel to be in this body, at that moment?
Incredibly powerful, inordinately sad, infinitely memorable.
Powerful, because my piece was all about using my own self-hatred as a mirror for the hatred that I'm faced with everyday. It forced me to look at my own disgust with my body and ask myself why. I have partial answers...the most prominent being my lack of reflection in the world around me.
Besides stereotypes of desperate women who chase men who insult them or asexual mammies who take care of all the white chillun, who do I have to look up to? Who's my role model?
Where are my American Heroes?
One of the aims of this performance was to bring a little balance to a world that stubbornly refuses to acknowledge all of its people. I'm starting to realize more and more, every day, that I am as necessary to this construct as anyone else.
Now that I've realized that, I'm pissed at how little I'm given to work with and how much I'm expected to do with nothing.
I gave it back last night...all the pain, the disgust, the outrage at the existence of my body. I ripped off my clothes and left some people shocked, some proud, some scared, but all with a new image of woman. Of human.
Of me.
This wasn't an easy process. As usual, I hurt all the way through this. I hurt all the way through all the new shit.
One of the things that was most painful was the treatment I got from some of the other women in the show.
Scene: Dressing Room, The Hothouse
Women of various shapes, colors and sizes are getting ready for a burlesque show, inspired by and devoted mostly to women of color. There are fishnets, glitter, pasties, spirit gum, beads and bangles resting on tables, sparkling on bodies.
There is good-natured pre-show dialogue:
"You need some help with that?"
"That is so cute!"
"You are so adorable!"
"I wish I had an ass like that." (sigh)
"I just saw a titty!" (lots of laughter and cat-calling)
I am in various corners, trying to squeeze myself out of the way. I know everyone. Only a couple people acknowledge me. Only the white women really talk to me, except for a couple of my homegirls who I've been cool with from the moment I've met them.
The really, really cute girls who keep telling each other how cute they are avoid my eyes. No one tells me, as I'm getting dressed, that they want my ass. No one yells anything when my titties are out, as I'm putting on my pasties.
No one asks me anything about how I feel, being the biggest women in the dressing room, in the club, maybe even the whole block...and how that might affect me when I take off my clothes.
This is not malicious on their part, but it is sad. I am everyone's body nightmare in that room and they all escape from admitting it by refusing to acknowledge their own discomfort.
I sit on the couch by the fan, fat dripping from every part of my body. My eyes are closed and I'm listening to the airplane flying low of the roof of the club...the door's open to dry the sweat of the sweltering dressing room.
I wish, briefly, that the plane would crash right through the door. I wish, as I text my crew of loving friends, that I was with them downstairs, instead of isolated with a bunch of women who all act as I'm not there. Who all work very carefully to conceal their discomfort.
Who have no idea how transparent they are.
I use that, right before I go onstage. I think of the distance between me and the rest of the performers. I think of the gulf between me and most other women. I think of how I feel, how I felt. How I longed to finally be accepted into a sister circle...not even a permanent circle, just for this show. How I longed to walk into that dressing room and have them tell me treat like I was one of them. How I longed to not be so different, so distant.
How I longed for someone to be excited about my titty popping out...to share in the intimacy of all of us taking gigantic risks under hot lights. How I longed to be surrounded by them and asked if I needed help with my makeup, where I got my necklace...how hard this must be for me and how they all had my back.
No such luck. Don't get me wrong...not everyone was like that. I got some encouragement from the few who seemed comfortable enough to encourage me without looking decidedly away from me.
That longing propelled me firmly into the spotlight, spitting fire and pulling strings until I finally stood, resplendent in pasties and fishnets. lace boyshorts riding tight in my ass like my favorite dildo.
My people later told me that I was the only to get a big standing ovation. I ran up the stairs after I was done, eager to get back into my clothes and to watch the rest of the show. To grab a drink. To kiss my love. To hug my friends. To make some new connections.
I could go on and on about the politics of the evening, but I won't.
I'll just say that ignorance is often closer than it appears. It's up to us to stay aware of why we do what we do and how that might affect people.
I took off my clothes to show a different view and to begin rebalancing my world.
If I can't find my American Hero, I'll just have to be my own.
Stripped. Damn near naked. In front of a room full of people.
At almost 300 pounds.
With a Blackhawk (the Black mohawk...the original mohawk, actually).
As I was peeling sexy clothes from my round, brown body, I also did spoken word and sang a reinterpretation of Mos Def's "The Most Beautiful Boogieman."
I am the quintessential multi-tasker.
So how does it feel to be in this body, at that moment?
Incredibly powerful, inordinately sad, infinitely memorable.
Powerful, because my piece was all about using my own self-hatred as a mirror for the hatred that I'm faced with everyday. It forced me to look at my own disgust with my body and ask myself why. I have partial answers...the most prominent being my lack of reflection in the world around me.
Besides stereotypes of desperate women who chase men who insult them or asexual mammies who take care of all the white chillun, who do I have to look up to? Who's my role model?
Where are my American Heroes?
One of the aims of this performance was to bring a little balance to a world that stubbornly refuses to acknowledge all of its people. I'm starting to realize more and more, every day, that I am as necessary to this construct as anyone else.
Now that I've realized that, I'm pissed at how little I'm given to work with and how much I'm expected to do with nothing.
I gave it back last night...all the pain, the disgust, the outrage at the existence of my body. I ripped off my clothes and left some people shocked, some proud, some scared, but all with a new image of woman. Of human.
Of me.
This wasn't an easy process. As usual, I hurt all the way through this. I hurt all the way through all the new shit.
One of the things that was most painful was the treatment I got from some of the other women in the show.
Scene: Dressing Room, The Hothouse
Women of various shapes, colors and sizes are getting ready for a burlesque show, inspired by and devoted mostly to women of color. There are fishnets, glitter, pasties, spirit gum, beads and bangles resting on tables, sparkling on bodies.
There is good-natured pre-show dialogue:
"You need some help with that?"
"That is so cute!"
"You are so adorable!"
"I wish I had an ass like that." (sigh)
"I just saw a titty!" (lots of laughter and cat-calling)
I am in various corners, trying to squeeze myself out of the way. I know everyone. Only a couple people acknowledge me. Only the white women really talk to me, except for a couple of my homegirls who I've been cool with from the moment I've met them.
The really, really cute girls who keep telling each other how cute they are avoid my eyes. No one tells me, as I'm getting dressed, that they want my ass. No one yells anything when my titties are out, as I'm putting on my pasties.
No one asks me anything about how I feel, being the biggest women in the dressing room, in the club, maybe even the whole block...and how that might affect me when I take off my clothes.
This is not malicious on their part, but it is sad. I am everyone's body nightmare in that room and they all escape from admitting it by refusing to acknowledge their own discomfort.
I sit on the couch by the fan, fat dripping from every part of my body. My eyes are closed and I'm listening to the airplane flying low of the roof of the club...the door's open to dry the sweat of the sweltering dressing room.
I wish, briefly, that the plane would crash right through the door. I wish, as I text my crew of loving friends, that I was with them downstairs, instead of isolated with a bunch of women who all act as I'm not there. Who all work very carefully to conceal their discomfort.
Who have no idea how transparent they are.
I use that, right before I go onstage. I think of the distance between me and the rest of the performers. I think of the gulf between me and most other women. I think of how I feel, how I felt. How I longed to finally be accepted into a sister circle...not even a permanent circle, just for this show. How I longed to walk into that dressing room and have them tell me treat like I was one of them. How I longed to not be so different, so distant.
How I longed for someone to be excited about my titty popping out...to share in the intimacy of all of us taking gigantic risks under hot lights. How I longed to be surrounded by them and asked if I needed help with my makeup, where I got my necklace...how hard this must be for me and how they all had my back.
No such luck. Don't get me wrong...not everyone was like that. I got some encouragement from the few who seemed comfortable enough to encourage me without looking decidedly away from me.
That longing propelled me firmly into the spotlight, spitting fire and pulling strings until I finally stood, resplendent in pasties and fishnets. lace boyshorts riding tight in my ass like my favorite dildo.
My people later told me that I was the only to get a big standing ovation. I ran up the stairs after I was done, eager to get back into my clothes and to watch the rest of the show. To grab a drink. To kiss my love. To hug my friends. To make some new connections.
I could go on and on about the politics of the evening, but I won't.
I'll just say that ignorance is often closer than it appears. It's up to us to stay aware of why we do what we do and how that might affect people.
I took off my clothes to show a different view and to begin rebalancing my world.
If I can't find my American Hero, I'll just have to be my own.
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