NIKKOLE SALTER

Saturday, January 15, 2010

Remarks given by me at the Black Women Playwrights Group Benefit at the Sheraton Hotel

"DC is a special town for me. The first time I came here my mother left me and said, “I don’t think you’re ever coming back. And that’s okay.” I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe her. Where else would I go if not with my mama? But I knew she was right - with that part of me that knows without knowing how it knows... that part confirmed her proclamation and I cried... liked a hyena. I cried like a coyote. I cried like the baby I was. I never went back to Los Angeles, not to stay, because, unbeknownst to me, I had begun my LIFE... that inevitable journey we all have to take back to get back to ourselves. While in DC at Howard University, I learned so much about our collective histories and struggles, about my own strengths and weaknesses -- and I guess a little of the Dept. of Theatre Arts curriculum. Then the learning seemed to plateau -- I became bored and highly disappointed in the world. This is it?!? Memorize this information, regurgitate it, get a job, go to work, eat, and do it all again? This can’t be it. I felt like there was nothing new to taste or smell or experience. Had I maxed out life at 20? Everything was all the same - but there was one beacon in the fog of mendacity that enveloped me... the theatre -- let me be specific -- good theatre.

I always found good theatre at Arena Stage. I was the HU Ambassador to Arena stage during their 1998-99 season -- I saw Thunder Knocking at Your Door, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and Oak and Ivy that year and was mesmorized. I decided that I would work there as an actress one day. And I auditioned a couple of times and was rejected each time. But I got into NYU's graduate acting program under Zelda Fichandler (their founder) -- and I thought it was a fair trade off.

Fast forward to years ago in Princeton, NJ. I was doing a short writing residency at the McCarter, and as an offering to our isolated creative processes during the day, we were invited to readings a couple of times in the week. I went ever chance I got -- out of sheer procrastination and fear that I couldn’t write another word if my arched eyebrows depended on it -- and one day there was one by Lydia Diamond. Who was she? Who knows, but my friend Susan was in it, and I figured I could rope her into helping me forgo my productivity even further (it’s nice to have someone to blame, isn’t it?) so I went. I stepped into that room, and the actors began to read STICK FLY, and the room fell away, and magic happened. You know what I’m talking about --- when vapor is created in the cavity of a room... something so strong that you can’t help but inhale it... it roots itself in your lungs and permeates your cells, and by the end you feel like you breathed those words. You lived those experiences. Not vicariously either. I became attached to Taylor Bradley Scott in that room. I knew I’d play her, but I didn’t know how, so I thought I’d start the journey by stalking the playwright - Ms. Lydia Diamond. I’m sure she thought I was crazy! In-fucking-sane. I contacted her and my sugar coated candy words gushed out in tidal waves of pretentious over pronounciations. I wanted to impress her. I’m sure she was thinking, “Who gave you my information?” when she totally denied my request for rights to her play to perform in New York City at my school for a weekend. I don’t blame her, after all it is New York, and I was just a kid right out of school, what did I know? (Hell, what do I know now? LOL) I proceeded to try to be a part of STICK FLY over the next 3 years ... to no avail...

Fast forward again to Sept 2008 - the Black Women’s Playwright’s Conference in Chicago. I think I learned about the event online -- facebook or something -- and I read that they were offering assistance to people who couldn’t afford to go, people like me. I applied and much to my surprise it wasn’t just a waived conference fee, but also travel assistance! My application was accepted and the very day I was supposed to travel I got a callback for a HBO pilot. I called Karen, the BWPG artistic director, and told her about my opportunity, fully expecting to be told off. I mean, the tickets were non-transferable, non-refundable. But she didn’t. She simply said, “Of course you should go.” No guilt. No residue. I went to that audition (didn’t get the part), but still wanted to get to Chicago, if for no other reason, but to meet this gracious woman. I was torn - my bank account said, “What the hell do you think you're doing?,” but something told me to go anyway. So I whipped out my credit card and bought a train ticket. After all, I was a writer -- do attorneys question whether or not they should go to Bar Association convenings? I looked at my vision board full of images and words that reminded me of who I wanted to be, and how I wanted to feel - connected to my artistic community, productive, appreciated - all of the things the Conference was designed to engender. But I didn’t feel at ease with my decision to go until I arrived at our accommodations, the Doubletree Hotel whose corporate symbol was, unbeknownst to me, was on my vision board as a symbol of connectedness, that I knew I had appropriately followed the orders from the place in me that knows without knowing. Then, at the first welcome lunch, there was Lydia Diamond. No kidding. Luckily for me, I was invited to the Conference as a panel speaker because I probably needed that status to prove to Lydia that I wasn’t following her. And something happened at that conference between us -- I must have stopped gushing -- and we became friends. After that, three productions of STICK FLY -that I know of - completely illuded me, and then I finally got my chance. Like the boomerang that my life is, I ended up right where I began this part of my life’s journey, right here in DC -- it was here that I would perform this role of a lifetime (Taylor Bradley Scott) in a play that is so important to my heart (STICK FLY), in a theatre I’ve admired for a decade (Arena Stage), with a director that has taken the world by storm (Kenny Leon), with a cast of first rate performers (Amber Iman, Rosie Benton, Jason Dirden, Billy Eugene Jones, Wendell Wright) -- and then, just to tickle my funny bone, the Black Women’s Playwright Group, with all of the wonderful artists I met that weekend, is coming to see the show. Talk about plot orchestration -- this is divine orchestration. Amen."

Saturday, January 9, 2010

The synchronicity of the world amazes me. Who knew nearly 3 years ago when I saw a reading of STICK FLY at the McCarter Theatre that I would be in a production today. I remember that reading so vividly - rarely does one really hook me into the story. I may say, "Oh that actor was great," or "that moment was funny," but rarely does the room completely disappear and the story get center stage in my mind. I mean, imagine sitting in a room with florescent lights and pages turning and actors feigning the comfort of relationships decades old and audience members in folding chairs with no cushion. That's not exactly the setting for magic to happen... and that's what theatre is -- true magic not that slight of hand stuff, but the real thing where we make you believe, where we get you invested in something that isn't even there so much so that you carry it around with you.. in your heart, in your memory as a point of reference. Ta-da.

My friend Susan did that reading. Even she fell away and became this woman...Taylor Bradley Scott. This woman who, for the first time that I have ever seen onstage, got to ask a father why he abandoned his little girl. At the time I had only recently made room for my father in my life -- I reunited with him after finding him on the internet -- and it just resonated so with me because she wanted the real answer. Taylor made room for him to say, in frank language, what was going through his mind. I guess a part of me felt that hearing his perspective would give me some healing -- I would still be hurt, but, as an adult, I would at least be able to understand.

I knew after I saw that reading that I had to be in the play. I knew Taylor was mine -- I just didn't know how or when. I wasn't considered appropriate by one production and didn't even know about another until I saw production shots -- but the universe was just lining me up. And now here I am, doing a play I LOVE with an AMAZING cast at a theatre I've always wanted to work at under the direction of Black Theatre's reigning director. If only I were making money... LOL. They do say that you should be careful about what you ask for... I should've said, "I want to be Taylor in STICK FLY and get paid a lot of money to do it." Next time. Next time.

So, this is going to be the Year of Specificity for me. I can't believe it's a new year, but I welcome it. It's strange that we all give Jan. 1st so much transformational power in our lives. One of the beauties of life is that any day, any moment, can be new.... Happy New Year.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Two words. Urban withdrawal. City life is my addiction and I didn't even know it until I came here, nestled in the forest, in what looks very much like the gingerbread house of my childhood fantasy books. Me. Nestled in the forest. You read right. Let me explain. I applied for a residency at a (what may be the only) women's writer's colony called Hedgebrook. It's on an island off the coast of Washington state on a plot of land partially preserved in its natural state. A rich white woman, who wanted to share her forest paradise with other women, turned it into a writer's productivity resort where you could isolate yourself from your natural habitat and get some work done. Sounds great. But how can one get work done with bunny rabbits bouncing all around?!? Huh? They left that little detail out of the brochure. How can one feel safe when it gets pitch black at night? That's not normal! How can one be possibly hear herself in all this silence? How can one be develop content without the content of the world wide web at their fingertips? How can a person feel connected to themselves and the world with no cell phone service!?!? Does that make any sense? I even brought my boyfriend's wireless internet card only to have it tease and torture me with intermitten spells of access. Let me tell you, there's nothing more frightening to a city girl than to pick up her cell phone, dial out to a loved one, hear them say, "hello," and say "hello," back only to hear them cut you off with another, "hello? Hel-lo?" THEY CAN'T HEAR ME! AAAAAHHHHHH! And, in that moment, underscoring the chirping birds of my forest adventure is the Twilight Zone soundtrack or the Friday the 13th music. Chchchchch Hawhawhawhawhaw. You know the one. Needless to say I closed all of the blinds and slept with the lights on last night. Lord, help me, I'm afraid of rustling leaves and soil but comfortable with sirens and asphalt. My entire body is seizing in toxic shock - my cells are fiend-ing for smog and noise pollution to metabolize. I walked through the garden and ate raspberries off the vine. The vitamin content was so pure and potent my body classified it as synthetic. My tongue almost spit it out. I had a bite of spicy arugula right out of the ground and it was SPICY. Like serious pepper. The arugula I buy at Whole Foods don't taste like that. I picked some lavender for my room. You mean to tell me it doesn't come already in the candle!?! It's like a plant that grows?!? (LOL) Finally, I managed to find one comfort in this foreign nation: A lock on the door. I don't care that ain't nobody out here with me but deer. I like the fact that there is a lock on the door. A taste of home. A piece of normalcy. Sanity! Nobody can steal from me now.... out here...in the middle of no where. A lock and key... my only comfort...now it's starting to feel like home.

I headed out to the common area for dinner with the other women (who didn't seem to be in the same stage of withdrawal as I was). We spent all evening engaged in conversation - intellectual and otherwise - and exchanging experiences and information. They're all feminists. I never thought of myself as one. I'm a people-ist. I'm a fair-ist. They're quoting great feminist thinkers and theories, and I'm listening thinking, "I've never been exposed to this. Do I need to be? Should I have been?" We got into a conversation about lesbians who start dating men and the scorn they receive from lesbian community. That segued into a conversation about black men dating outside their race and the scorn they receive from black women, black families (not my family!) or the black community. Is it the same when black women tip-toe outside? Here's a conversation I can dip into. I did, beginning my remarks with, "As an African American woman, in my personal experience," yada yada yada. A folk singing songwriter, featured at the colony because of the prestige of her career, replied to my response with, "As a northern European woman," yada yada yada. Northern european woman? Like Irish? I had never heard that before. Northern european woman. "You mean, white woman," I thought. I asked her to clarify. She said, "Just like you're an African American woman, I'm a Northern European woman, right?" I thought, "No, I'm an African American woman because I have no idea what my specific connection to the African continent is (until recently, of course but saying Senegalese American just ain't my truth yet, and may very well never be) because of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. You, on the other hand, know exactly where you are from, but choose to generalize for the sake of your argument." I didn't say that, though. Don't want to ruffle any feathers on my first day. Identity politics. It's a trip. After I finished telling her about herself in my head, I tuned back into the conversation. They were talking about how racism undermines the sisterhood of black and white women in this country. They were talking about how racism undermines reproductive rights in this country. Interesting. Even more interesting is that I have never considered white women to be a part of my sisterhood. What's that about?

I learned a new word. Mythomaniac. Not quite a compulsive liar who can't stop lying. Not a psychopath who lies to manipulate and destroy. Mythomanic is different. Its based in myths which aren't true stories, but they are stories of Truth. My self-prescribed definition of Mythomaniac: a person who tells stories, or stretches reality, to expose a deeper truth. A liar so interested in the Truth that (s)he'll lie to get it. A storyteller.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

When I'm not acting (and occassionally when I am acting) I have been working diligently to build the Continuum Project, more specifically, to make The Legacy Program - Cycle (1) One a success. We're coming to the last week of our time together and I am very proud of what we've accomplished. As a part of the program, the young people take an ancestry test to determine their probable place of maternal African ancestry, and since I had never had the experience, I figured I'd do it too. I got my results back this past Friday... drumroll please.... and on my maternal side, with 99.2% accuracy, I am a descendant of the Wolof of Senegal...

And it's just like that. One moment, myself and hundreds of generations before me were completely disconnected from any and all ability to identify to a specific place on the continent of Africa to call home, and the next MOMENT you know. Centuries of pain that comes from grasping in the darkness at the golden thread that leads across the ocean, centuries of speculation, centuries of questions.... the gap has been closed, and the circle of return can find its completion in me. Slaves, who wanted to return find their request granted in me. I feel like I'm getting over - I mean, there should be one last obstacle course... a wall to climb, a soldier's climb through the mud, some cotton picking...one last test I have to pass or something. It's too easy. One cotton swab and six weeks later and you know what part of Africa you're from. It seems like a trick. Crazy. Wonderful. Beautiful. We were the only people within the borders of this country who couldn't point to a place outside the borders to call home. We were the only ones who didn't know where they came from and what from 'home', other than slave labor, they brought to the melting pot, and now we know... Just like that. In one moment.

So, now I'm all about finding out everything. I want to do my father's paternal lineage, my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandmother. I'm finding out just how much it took God to make me. I've recently officially claimed my connection to the Narragansett Native American Tribe as well. Both the Wolof and the Narrangsett have their own language, their own traditions, their own customs, their own food, their own life view, their own indigenous religion. Now I want to know what kind of white surges through my veins... part of me hopes it's Latin - I've always felt a connection with Spanish... but something tells me it will be French, which is cool because between the Native American and Wolof blood, my body can't tolerate alcohol and dairy products, and Lord knows I don't want to give up cheese -- so if I'm part French, perhaps I won't have to! According to family rumor, my great grandfather's father was a Jewish German. They said, when he was growing up, they told everyone that his father was Puerto Rican to avoid the condemning, patriotic World War II looks... imagine... Indian (that's before the PC name) Black, Jewish, and German... really? I guess, during World War II even being Puerto Rican and Black and Native American combined was better than being a German.... or maybe it was the Jew label he was trying to avoid...

I can't wait to see the faces of the children and the parents when they find out where they are from. And further, I can't wait to see what they do about it. I can't wait to see what I do about it. I can't wait to see the shore of Senegal and claim it as my own. I really hope I like it there... not revere it, but genuinely like it and feel a connection to the people and the customs and the land. 'Cause, I's American now... can I feel home anywhere but here?

Since the Wolof are the largest ethnic group in Senegal, there is a lot of research done on them, so much so that I can wikipedia the Wolof language and get a tutorial. Apparently, much time has been invested in transcribing the language in the Western Latin alphabet. I was challenged by Glenn to have some words of greeting in my native tongue when I return to the program tomorrow... the only word that seems to stick is, "Jerejef!" It means 'thank you' or literally 'it was worth it.' It was so worth it. For the first time, when I think of my Africanness I don't have some generalized, non-specific pride on my chest and shoulders masking the pain of slavery. Slavery is not the beginning of me. The civil rights movement is not the beginning of me. Reconstruction and the Emancipation Proclamation is not the beginning of me. I knew that before, but there is something different, something definite, about knowing for sure. I know. Jerejef!

Election Day - November 23, 2008

Ok. When I travel I often think, "What the hell were the first settlers thinking?!" I mean, when you go to places like Chicago don't you think, "Whose bright idea was this?" Seriously, who went there and in the sub-zero temperatures said, "Yes, let's settle here." Who experienced the probably mosquito-laden summers and said, yes, let's stay here! I assume there were some people like me who weren't happy with the north eastern climates... the southern climates... the midwest climates... and they kept going west. But some people didn't make it all the way to the Promised Land (southern California, that is)... they ran out of gas and stopped in the desert of Arizona. What the hell were they thinking? There is nothing here!! No-thing!!! Tons of my friends and family are looking to move to former presidential candidate John McCain's state and out of L.A. proper. It's harder to own property in L.A. because the prices are fattened with the cost of good weather and ocean proximity. For the same cost as an apartment, you can own a three bedroom 3.5 bathroom mini-mansion in one of the cookie-cutter developments in a Phoenix suburb. I'm talking $185,000 homes which, if subplanted within 20 miles of Manhattan, would cost you $800,000. So, that leaves me with two questions: Why am I still living on top of people when I could live like this? And, why would I live like this when I could live on top of people? First question.. I mean, come on, I'm getting more settled into life and novel things like train rides and crowded sidewalks aren't as sexy as they once were. I'd like to maintain a 3 foot radius of personal space... I"d like to commute in reliable comfort with some customized amenities. I'd like to not have to schlep my groceries home, or decide between which items are more important because I cannot carry them all. I'd like to have some autonomy in my travel plans... I don't want to consult train schedules or wait 20+ minutes extra because I decided to stay out late. I want to be a grown up. I want to have a home (perhaps, having a home is overrated because of the maintenance involved, but go with me). Question two: What good is it to have the customized comforts of life if you live in the freakin desert with NOTHING around you but residential developments and strip malls. There's no architecture to look at, no cultural quirks, no meeting people, no night life. No probable run-ins with fate. I guess that's why the witness protection program started here. I guess every place has it's pluses and minuses, and my job is determining which ones mean the most to me. Decisions, decisions.

October 22, 2008

"Where's the bathroom?" a cargo woman spat at this pony-tailed sister hiding in the corner with her vegan desert and Essence magazine - the one with the Obamas on the cover. This lady, in her cargo pants and cargo jacket, looked thoroughly disgusted that she wasted the 10 steps it took to investigate the bathroom's whereabouts on the far east side of the store floor. The thought of having to go back to where she began, all the way back to the top of the staircase, the idea that she had chosen to look in the wrong direction, couldn'tve been her own fault. It was the architect's fault for placing the bathroom in a weird place. "What 'genius' designed this?" she mumbled and whipped her head around right and left, too fast to see if she had even seen the bathroom. And since the world is designed for her, since it's her world, barking with privileged volatility is an acceptable response to her bladder's call. "Where's the bathroom? Don't you work here?" she growled at the sister in the corner with the Obama Essence magazine and the vegan desert. How did she know the sister worked at the store? She didn't have on the telltale store apron and name tag. There was no company hat or electronic walkie-talkie that let us know, though she was on break, she was accessible to the other employees in case of an emergency. What stopped cargo lady from barking at me? I was there, hiding in the corner, with my vegan desert and Black Enterprise magazine with Barack on the cover. Would she have barked at the blond, pony-tailed woman hiding in the opposite corner with her vegan smoothie and Cosmo magazine? Would she have barked at the pony-tailed man in the center of the room with his vegan muffin and El Diario newspaper? What gave this pony-tailed sister away? Was it her shell-toed Adidas... her ghetto name plate and gold hoop earrings... her glossy lips? Is that the sign that you are the working class in the room? This kills me, this barking, this assuming, because the cargo lady's behavior doesn't work the other way around. I'm upset because it seems preposterous in my own mind that I would walk up to some white woman, some white man, in a retail store and just start asking them questions about the products or where the bathroom was. No, it didn't happen to me this time, I wasn't the one singled out as the target for this white woman's self frustration, but it has happened to me before. I remember taking my mother to a club in Kansas City for mother's day. It was a jazz club, real old school with the cigarette smoke and everything, and we were there to have a good time.... and we did have a good time. It was a blast... and on the way out, in between sets, we were stopped at the door to revel with some of the other patrons that had had a good time as well. And in walks this woman, she comes directly to me, which I thought was strange, and begins to ask me about the evening's line-up. I tell her about the female vocalists and the band, that they were great and that I recommend, if she liked jazz, that she stay and have a good time. Then she hands me a twenty dollar bill and says, "Great, can you give my change in singles. We'd like that table right over there," and she pointed. I looked at her like, what the #$@%?. She looked at me like, 'Why aren't you moving?" And as calmly as I could I said, "I don't work here." "Oh," she said, snatching her twenty back like I wouldn't have offered it to her, and she pushed past me to the real employee... the frenzied, white college student running the door and the cocktail area in the back. It was an honest mistake, no doubt. Nothing to get riled up over. Nothing to protest. Honest mistake. But it speaks to a privilege. Malcolm and I had a argument/discussion about this, about what I will dub the McCain effect for conversation's sake. During the second presidential debate the fact that McCain referred to Obama as "that one" really got people in the black community up in arms. Not because it was racially offensive, but because it's disrespectful. It is a derivative of the ideas McCain is permitted to hold and express about Obama... that he can completely discount who Obama is, his accomplishments, and reduce him to 'that one', that he can disrespect him openly and no one think anything of it, no one would find it incongruent. But if the tables were turned, and Obama referred to McCain as 'that one'... it would be such a stand-out slap in the face. Perhaps that's what campaigns are about, cutting your opponent down...yes, that is true. I can think of many elementary school examples where one kid demotes another kid by calling him out of his name. Where Malcolm and I disagreed was that Malcolm thought the disrespect was racial, a clear derivative of the racial dynamic in this country. That white people do that to people of color all the time and don't see anything wrong with it. I didn't think that it was necessarily racial at first... I thought it was classist at most, but usual campaign talk. I've seen people of all colors treat people that way, it just seems to sting more when there's the racial undertone that comes into play when there are two people and one is white and the other is... other. I try to separate the two dynamics in my mind, I try not to cry wolf on the race issue, but it's hard. I can't help but think that when I'm in the bathroom doing my make-up in front of one sink, and a sister is standing in front of the sink to my right doing her hair, that when the white woman comes out of the stall and insists that we move so she can wash her hands, despite the fact that there's an empty basin to our far left... I can't help but wonder if we were white would she have asserted herself that way? She didn't even acknowledge that she had done it, that it was absurd to ask us to move. It was her right. And if we had made a stink about it, we would have been the petty ones. So, as I sat there watching the cargo lady, I was offended and relieved and then ashamed. Offended because I identify with the black woman, and to suggest that, simply because I'm black I must be the help in 2008 is preposterous. Relieved because she wasn't barking at me, so that must have meant I didn't exude the inferior quality that she saw in the sista. Ashamed that I had even had that previous thought.

I think I'm going to try it myself... I want to see if this perspective on behavior is only held by black folk, or if everyone has it. The next store I walk into, I'm going to walk up to a single white person and ask them for directions to some product, or to the bathroom and see how they respond and report back.

October 20, 2008

I think church is one of the best ideas ever. I can't imagine what my life would be like without a place to go to re-center, to purge myself of all of the baggage I collect...to remember who I am. My pastor had the most amazing sermon that was just for me. I know it was, or at least that she was thinking of me when she began. She always talks right after the welcome section of the Sunday program where we all greet each other with hugs and cheek kisses. She never drifts too far into the congregation during this love-fest, because she has to stay close to the stage to keep the flow of the Sunday show going. But somehow she wandered into the congregation while we were all greeting each other with, "Happy Sunday!", and ended up in front of me for some church love. She took me by the shoulders, took one look into my eyes and read deep down into my soul... don't you hate it when someone can do that. All she said was, "difficulties?" and my guillotine eye lids slashed down over my eyes dropping tears down my cheeks. I couldn't stop crying. From the woman that did our spiritual interludes -- she had the nerve to sing Yolanda Adams 'Yet Still I Rise' - all the way through the closing song, I was a wreck. I couldn't even stand up to show my appreciation for this woman's vocal comfort I was so snot-slick in my catharsis. Then the sermon itself... man. She said it's easy to read the Truth from the Tao or the Bible when everything is going good. But when things aren't going your way, then what do you do? How do you apply this wisdom? She told this parable, of a woman/man in a boat in the middle of the ocean with dangerously depleted resources... drifting. Then suddenly the woman sees a strip of land... it's an island... and it's barren and rocky. The woman starts to flail in the boat and row with all of her might to the barren island, but the ocean does not cooperate. No matter how hard she rows, the current is against her. No matter how much she is willing to settle for the mediocrity of the barren island, the universe refuses to grant her prayer for it. Eventually, she gives up with exhaustion, goes with the current, and, after a while, another island appears, and it is lush, and she rows to it with the least effort for she is supported by the ocean. I was feeling that. I'm in the ocean, and I am flailing to be a part of things, to get to islands, that have nothing to do with my dharma, but I think they're better than nothing, so I'm willing to settle... they are not good for me... they are not my destiny. Do I have the patience to wait for the next island, can I drift with no land in sight when my resources are dangerously depleted? I guess these are the situations that faith is made of.

My pastor says that we all know in our hearts what we came here to do, what our life's purpose is, and we should stop pretending that we don't. LOL. I'm afraid to claim my purpose on this Blog, for everyone to see. I think I know . Cher in the movie 'Stuck on You' (silly little film), in all of her wisdom proclaims, "Your job is to find out what you have to do, and then do it." How frustratingly simple. It's like statements, "Be Happy," or "Just do it," that make me want to shout, "Don't simplify the complexification of my life!" (LOL) It seems that the purposes of the past were so clear: defeat the institution of Slavery. Defeat injustice. I even am a bit jealous of people with children who have automatic purposes... to take care of my children. Period. If only I were a gang member or something... I could say, clearly, my purpose is to help inner city kids get out of the streets. What is my purpose?... I know what I am good at... what talents, qualities, skills I've been given and/or have cultivated to... to... to do what? I am not sure. My pastor would say that I'm lying to myself. I'm confident that I'll discover it.

I can imagine 1965... being on one side of the Edmund Pettis Bridge trying to get to the other side to vote, knowing that there are people there to oppose my efforts. The fight is so clear... the destination so complete... make it to the other side of the bridge alive. Be afraid, if you must, but don't stop walking... to much depends on your success. But if the bridge I must cross connects my right and left brain... if the bigots shouting obscenities and likening me to a monkey (oh, no, wait, those were those horrid people at the McCain rally in 2008) are really my own thoughts and perceptions and judgments... if the whole fight is inside of me... how do I conquer myself... and can I proclaim victory if I end up with nothing except my sanity to show for it? My pastor says that we spend inordinate amounts of time trying to minimize the risks of being human...we like to think that we have control. "How ridiculous," she says, "You don't know what's going to happen when you walk out of the door! You can't control that! We don't even have control over our hair, what makes you think you can control your life?!" God is in control. You will experience hardship. You will experience loss. You will experience pain. Period. You cannot go through life, and live, without these experiences... so why do we spend so much time and effort attempting to avoid them? She asserts, then, that fear is simply our response to future pain. Can I let go of what I think the outcome should be, and my fears of what might be, and let God do his job, 'cause God's job is to work it out.. my job is to hold the vision and take action towards it... and God works it out. Another of our affiliate ministers says that it's good to express your honest feelings, but to never confuse your honest feelings for the Truth. Feelings change, but the Truth is changeless. So, I have come to recognize this time of my life for what it is... I have seen it in others and never quite understood what they were going through... I am having a BREAKDOWN. Not a nervous breakdown, but a breakdown nonetheless... a complete dismantling of who I think I am... a demolition session of all of my plans (not to be mistaken for my vision)... and I have to let it break down so that I can have a breakthrough...just let it go completely, and trust the current of my life even though there is no land in sight and my resources are dangerously depleted. I realized I stopped crying in church when I felt the tightness of the skin of my cheeks where the wetness had evaporated. They were salty streaks that stretched from my eyes to underneath my chin...I could taste the salt residue through my nose. I need to drink more water... or eat less salt.

October 16, 2008

One of the things my mother hates about New York City is the subway system. My aunt said that the tunnels connecting train platforms make her feel like a little rat during rushing around trying to escape all the other rats. There is a reason rats look like they go crazy when they are climbing all over each other... nothing was meant to be that way. On the platform, though, the chaos has a protocol. It really is amazing, the thoroughfare of movement. There are rules just like on the road: If you're going slow, or you don't want to move, stay to the right. There's a fast lane on the left. Don't do too much cutting people off, they get road rage. No Sunday walking either. Move, move, move, and, god damnit, know where the hell you're going!!! There is a sense of coordination you pick up too... it's like those word problems from school math tests. As you are walking at a certain pace and you see someone coming perpendicular to you at another pace, you all, without a single math calculation, are able to work out perfectly how you both can keep the pace without stopping or colliding. It's orchestrated. One of the most annoying thing is when you think you've coordinated this move with someone and they hesitate and mess up the flow. I hate that! I hate it all really... the human rat race. Who's bright idea was it to create a culture that couldn't even allow you to mosey home in comfort? I hate rush hour train rides. Like auntie like niece. It's in my blood. It is a bit crazy, that with all of the space in the state of NY - you drive 30 to 40 miles out of the city and there are farms - New York can make you feel like there isn't enough of anything. With all of the space in the world, we all decided to pile up on top of one another. New York will make you feel like there's not enough space, not enough time, not enough... limited resources... finite. And if you don't get yours then you won't have anything. There's no time to wind down. No time for sideline sitting. No time for private moments. But sometimes, the need for private time creeps up and demands a space when I'm in all of that mayhem. It insists. I cannot tell you how many times I've cried - hell, I've even vomited - on the train, because I had to. There was no running off into a private corner. I had to keep going, I was in the fast lane, and when pedestrians 'honk' at you, their choice words are painful. So I keep going. Funny thing is, with all of that activity, and with all of those people around, we've created a culture when you can pretend like you're alone do deal with the fact that it's abnormal and strange to crawl around with that many people underground when there's space all around. There's the extreme of all of these people on the outside, so you withdraw inward and pretend that you're the only one there. On the platform, no one will respond to you and no one will acknowledge you if you don't want them to. It's hilarious! You are inches away from 10 people and yet we all just don't acknowledge that it is so.... so much so, that I could cry, and no one would show any signs of noticing. I can vomit, and no one will say anything. What are they supposed to say? I don't know... "Hey, you okay?" There was a woman on the train with me, holding tight to her purse with one hand and the stability pole with the other, and in between the rocking and stopping of the train, she tried to wipe her tears before they landed as evidence on her blue nurses uniform. She wiped, and wiped... she cried quietly, no heaving or whining, just falling tears and red eyes. I couldn't help it - I remember what that is like - the oxymoron of being with millions of people but not a soul in sight. I reached out to her and touched her shoulder. She slightly moved forward, thinking I wanted to pass. (That's another ridiculous feature of NY train riding... someone will touch you... that's just collateral damage). I just left my hand there past the rule's acceptable time limit and she turned to look at me like, "What the hell - " and I asked, "You okay?" She wiped a tear and said, "Yeah," with her mouth and "Thank you," with her eyes. God shined down on her and at the next stop, someone sitting adjacent to her vacated their seat and she grabbed it before the vultures crowded in. And she sat there, now able to use both hands to wipe the tears, and cried. And no one batted an eye.

October 15, 2008

Sometimes I end up in the city with hours between appointments. It doesn't make sense to go home, so I have become acquainted with libraries and coffee shops where I can stop, write and make use of time. Occasionally, I don't get as much work done as I would like... more often than not I end up blogging (*smirk*), and watching people. People who look like they've got it all together rushing about with their latte orders. People who are deep in research. People with jobs just on a break. Today I saw this lady who I suspect is homeless. I got the impression that she was just as surprised by the fact as any of us would be. She was trying her best to occupy her time. She had stacks of post office envelops filled with scraps of paper and dirty business cards that she pulled out and straightened and replaced. She had two pregnant suitcases that waddled and leaned on each other for support. They had rubber-banned shopping bags secured to the handles and straps making them buckle at their swivel cast ankles. She picked up DVDs and read the synopses on the back covers real official-like. She was busy indiscriminately combing through the NY Times and the daily news, and Spanish papers. She looked sane. She looked sane. She looked like she had skills. Like if I put a turtle neck on her and put her in the front of a classroom she could be professor Reynolds. Dr. Morgan. She fidgeted and poked holes in the ends of her sleeves for her thumb to push through. She bundled herself up, and then stripped the layers, and then re-bundled. She was busy. She gave little winks of camaraderie to me... you know, then kind someone gives when you're walking down the street, and someone starts barking or something weird, and you look at each other and nod in agreement that you all are sane and the other person as lost it. She gave those winks, but there was nothing to warrant them, she just wanted me to agree with her that we were both sane. That we were both productive and important. She finally finished her busy work, and she set up her prized possession, her DVD player. She pulled out her head phones and set herself up with The Pelican Brief. I cried in my throat and behind my eyes. I don't know why I did. Something in me identified with her, and that frightened me so much. What is my fate? Perhaps I'm being fatalistic, but I feel homeless now. I've spent my life pursuing an acting career, and now that I'm looking for work, it seems that I'm pigeon holed... When I was younger it was enough to show that I was a diligent worker with a positive attitude. Now everyone wants previous experience. I'm only experienced at acting. That is what I do. I wondered if there was just one thing she could do, and I wonder what got her out of the market. Was she a travel agent and now, with priceline and travelocity, she was run out of business? Was she in the music business but everything switched to digital and computer -- side note. I went to register to vote, and there was a poor man there, old, old man, who was trying to apply for a job in the County Clerk's office. He was trying to call upon a person-to-person connection he had with Ms. Morrison, but she was too 'busy' and no one knew when or if she would ever be unbusy. He, in all of his 80-some-odd years, was told to go apply online. He said, "You mean, on those computers?" You should have seen the devestation and defeat on his face. --- anyhow.... This lady, she was sane. She is sane. She was okay at some point in her life... she was okay... and then she wasn't. What happened to her? What happened and who can protect me from it?

I spoke to my mother today and she told me, at the end of our conversation, "Be happy," and my first thought was, how am I supposed to do that? Will asked me, "When was the last time you did something because you get to do it?" When it comes to my work, not in a long time. The philosophy seems to be, 'elbow grease', 'hard work," "no pain no gain," ... and that's how it feels. But sometimes, I turn on music and dance. And I stand up in the Gospel choir and catch the holy ghost and dance... those things don't pay my bills but they lighten my heart... they remind me that life is fun... but I can't think of the last audition I went on that brought me joy... I did a reading today, and after I did my scenes, I was like, "That s#$t was fun. Damn." Where is my joy? I've lost it. Where is my bliss? Where's the still small voice in me. Where are the bubbles and the sprinklers? Where are the little weeds that grow with those white feather-like thingies. I'm glad I don't drink. Or do drugs. That would not be good. Or helpful. It's like fog all around me. is my love and trust of God conditional.. does it depend on whether or not life looks like I want it to. Apparently, my faith is smaller than the required mustard seed. Damn, smaller than the mustard seed. Must be...

October 14, 2008

Welcome to my new blog format. You'll still be able to reach my other blog if you'd like to read any of the archived entries, by clicking here old blog. On the old page you'll still be able to click the months on the left panel to peruse my thoughts on the world. But from now on, the blog'll be live, right here... well, not live, but definitely written... unabridged... and often un-spell checked. That's right, it'll be raw! They'll be no snazzy archive features either... you'll just have to scroll. (LOL)... These are my thoughts, the erratic movement of my consciousness... my knee-jerk ramblings. Enjoy.

Let me get this straight: I have embarked on creating a non-profit and building a career as an actress and writer at the same time? What was I thinking? That I could just be what I want to be? That I didn't need a job working for 'the man'?! What the..! The audacity! Yet, here I am, a success story in the eyes of American education, unemployed. I hate that term. I am more than employed, I am engaged in creating the life that I want to have. I'm not unemployed - I don't need anyone else to occupy my time! I don't need to rent out my skills and talents out to some other benefiting agent. I am not unemployed. I'm just not making any money. LOL! I really make myself laugh sometimes. My life doesn't match. I got on the train and went into Manhattan for my a meeting. I had some down time so I walk through Whole Foods and Williams Sonoma like I got a damn pay check coming in! What am I thinking? Some may call it crazy, I'll call it maintaining a mentality of abundance. LOL.

I met with the new agent at my agency today, Barbara Feinstein. She was very nice, but I think I may have overwhelmed her with my current state of... of... well, I'll just call it like it is... desperation. Desperation. Wow. I'm scrambling and flailing to get the money coming in and to get more opportunities to act and to get my play produced. Scrambling. Just imagine me, all five feet and eight and a half inches of me... all one hundred sixty pounds of me, scrambling. Eyes bugging. Fingers spread. Head bobbing, Hot potato dancing feet. That's not sexy. Flailing. Picture me splashing in a wading pool two and a half feet deep, gasping for air, inadvertently drinking gulps of water as I sink to the bottom of the pool that's barely high enough to cover my toes. I'm scrambling and flailing for a place of stability... for my 'rightful place.' I think I've been set up sometimes. Really. I've been told all of my life that I'll 'make it.' That I'll be successful. That I'll conquer the world. And I believed everyone. It was easy to get good grades and behave. That's not what it takes to make it in the world. I digress... I am working to get rid of the 'supposed to's of my life. And what's crazy is that my list of supposed to's are so vague. I hear some people suppose to-ing about marriage, or some professional milestones. "I was supposed to be married by 25," or "I was supposed to have my Oscar by now." I guess I was supposed to be the first black woman to get a Best Actress Academy Award, but Halle beat me to the punch.. Other than that, I actually haven't specified where I should be on the trajectory of my life of success... I just know I ain't supposed to be where I am, so I tell myself everyday. I'm supposed to be on-set somewhere. I'm supposed to be rich. I am supposed to be.... successful. But relentlessly wanting to be successful negates the fact that I am. It paralyzes me. Supposed to thinking is deadly... it makes me forget that I've been blessed at all... it makes me forget everything that I have to be thankful for, of everything that I have to work with right now... of everything that is working. Barbara, poor lady, probably dismayed that she already had to give me a pep talk on our first meeting!, reminded me that I'm in this for the long haul...that there are no answers and no clear paths. Then I had a mini epiphany: No one can tell me where to go or what to do to get the results I want out of life. No one can usher me in. I have passed the age when anyone can give me a sure-fire path. Yet, I keep asking people to, as if something they will say will be the omen I need to step onto the red carpet of my life. As Barbara was pepping me up, I realized that I've been searching for guidance and advice from people who can't give it. No one can give it to me anymore. They don't know! It has to come from me now. I remember when I had that revelation with my mother. I went to her for help on some math homework that I was having a hard time with, and she couldn't help me. She couldn't help me because she didn't know. That blew my mind. My mother didn't know. But I kept asking her. Then one day she told me, "I can't help you with that anymore, you've passed me." My pastor said the root of insanity in addiction is when you ask something to give you something that it can't give you, over and over and over. I ask food to give me love. Some people ask cigarettes to give them peace. It's as crazy as asking milk to give me vitamin C, or spinach to give me protein, but I keep asking people to tell me how to live my life. What I'm looking for, the ease of mind that I am looking for, is going to come from within me... yada, yada, I know, I know...

I had another mind-blowing discovery recently. Brace yourself. I HAVE TO WEAR MAKE-UP. I don't know when it happened, but it did. I now need make-up to look ok enough to go out of the house. Crazy. I have to at least have the mascara, eye brow pencil and blush, but should have the foundation too. I don't know when it happened, but it did, and now I've crossed the threshhold when I'll start saying things like, "Let me put on my face." What the hell is that? Let me put on my face!?! That's where I am. Crazy.

I was watching the food channel do some special on the cuisine of the Wild Wild West. The host of the show went to all of these western themed restaurants to taste the fare and give us recommendations. The height of the old west period was the 1880's through the turn of the 20th century, give or take a few years. That was only about a hundred years ago, and people are still capitalizing off of a pop culture phenomenon. I wonder if, in 2070 or there about we start seeing Hip Hop themed attractions for the public... where people go to restaurants to eat hip hop food served by waiters in baggy pants, exposed underwear and wife beaters. I wonder if they'll have simulation shows of drive-bys and cop raids on gang members or crack houses. I wonder if, instead of dramatized bar room brawls, there are dramatized famous club fights... I wonder if they'll show the biggest flow battles and beefs, and end the attraction with the murder of Tupac or Biggie. It would be such a spectacle that people will forget that it was real.