Mood:  sad

 

Entering the civilian workforce is not fun.  I love being an artist, having my time as my own to do as I choose at each and every moment.  I love being able to stop what I am doing, if I choose, to answer the phone and talk to my sister who only called to say, “Hi,” and that she loved me.  I love being able to have spiritual existential segues followed by mundane dish washing, followed by the integration of theatre and politics.  I love meeting new people and witnessing how life unfolds my goals and dreams.  

 

All of those perks are dependent upon my ability to make money to keep them.  Make no money?  Got to get a job.  Damn.  So, I’m sitting in the waiting room of an educational organization, looking for a J-O-B.  There is something so oppressive about the whole experience, something that I cannot articulate.  Maybe it’s the people sitting across from me draped in corporate attire as if their rough edges aren’t poking out from underneath.  Maybe it’s the conk the man sitting next to me is wearing that makes me not believe that he’s a professional anything -- I’m not fooled by the lavender tie and purple button-down shirt.  I can still see the creases the hanger made in his pants holding their shape.  I can see that woman’s nameplate, ghetto chain peeking from the the open collar of her blouse.  I see that gold tooth when she smiles.  Maybe it’s the Latina woman sitting across the room rapidly speaking Puertoric-english, intermingling her exclamations of “Ay, mammy!” with her uptown exclamations of, “Ya heard!”  Are we all going for the same job?  Wow.  Where am I?  Maybe it’s the 19 year-old sitting behind the reception desk with a job that scratches at my spine.  Maybe it’s the long dirty nails of the man who just walked in, late, talkin’ ‘bout, “I’m fittin’ta go to the bathroom.”  Perhaps it’s the underbelly of desperation and the dirty matted carpet or the woman who actually just smelled her arm pits to make sure her hygiene was on point.  Maybe it’s the white people coming in with their lunches and snacks and going back to sit in the cubicles and offices like what they do and who they are is so much better than who we are, sitting out here, looking for work.  I’m most certain that I can do what they do better than they’re doing it.  I do not belong here in this waiting room.  I don’t belong in those cubicles.  I am an artist.  Am I being uppity?  Cocky?  Over confident?  Maybe.  I’m trying to hand myself over to this circumstance, to let myself be humbled and carved anew.  I’m trying to maintain my dignity and my confidence without haughtiness, but the fact remains that I am better than this.  I am better than $11 an hour.  I ... I ... I wonder what they see when they see me.  Do I really look all that different?  Are my nails dirty?  Is my ghetto nameplate chain showing from the opening of my blouse?  I... I... I am clearly delusional, because here I am, with these people, in this place, looking for the same thing they are looking for, and, if I was so much better, or distinguished, I wouldn’t be here.  

 

There was a woman in a class I took at church that said she decided to come to the States from England to pursue some dream she had.  Even with the currency rate of 2 to one with the pound, when things didn’t go as planned, she found herself strapped for cash.  She took a job with a janitorial service, and one day, she paused , looked up from the toilet she was scrubbing diligently and said, “I have a Master’s degree!”  She did have a Master’s degree, as do I.  Yet there she was, and here I am.  It’s not that I feel that I can’t get a job.  I can.  I don’t want one.  I can climb the ladder... I can.  I want to succeed as an actress.  Am I willing to wait?  Persevere?  Persist?  Malcolm told me that Steve Harvey said that my efforts will not bear fruit until I prove that I will not give up.  My mother reminded me that Coco Chanel said my strength will come from my failures.  Easy for them to say, they’re Steve Harvey and Coco Chanel.  I am paralyzing myself.  I pray that the job will free me from worry that keeps me from my creativity.  Lord help me.

 

Blog #2

 

How many people can write without writing one word.  Perhaps I am the only one trying this out as an experiment.  I stare at the page of the works I say that I am writing, and not one word is added, yet I continue to proclaim that I am writing.  No idea can be shaped into words completely, I don’t think.  Language distances... intellectualizes.  It can only reach the people who read it, and sometimes not even them.  I try to construct the words on the page so that people feel what they represent, but I’m not sure I’m doing it.  That’s why I like acting.  I can use the written words get into the place that lives in me... a place raw and true and universally human and recognizable.  Words are like those sticks in the snow of a mountain that professional skiers avoid on their way down.  They’re bright orange and screaming in an environment where everything seems undistinguishable to, “come this way!”  Sometimes I follow the call and barely make it around the orange sign post.  I lean on it, and it bends, never breaks.  The sign posts mark the spot, but they are not to be mistaken for the experience of whipping down the mountain at 80mph.  They cannot give you that experience, but they can take you there, and if your heart is open, you’ll feel the change.  If your heart is closed you’ll feel like you understand, perhaps.  There’s no formula for the construction of words that will guarantee that everyone will get to that place.  Even the best wordsmiths cannot transport everyone.  That’s why more than one person writes.  That’s why more than one person writes about the same thing.  But when I act... I will say the same words in a way that seeps into the cracks of your heart, and you will be ushered into that warmth of release... that purge... that change.  Ushered into... tornado-ed into... dumped into... whatever.  Or maybe, when I act I will be ushered into that warmth of release... that’s it.  Maybe you feel nothing.  Maybe you don’t even understand.  Maybe it’s just me.  Naaahhh.  It’s you too.  If I can get you into my sacred space, with the right words, I can take you there.  It’s what I am good at.  It’s what feeds me.  

 

Why am I saying this?  I am saying this because I live for that moment.  Some people live for their children, or for the rush of getting at another person’s vulnerability.  Some people live for the check mate.  I live for the moment when the words, when the performance, when life itself finds its way into my heart and turns on the light.  I live for the moment when something I create, or something I do, anything really, does that for someone else.  Now, how do you make money from that?  How do I get to do that all the time?  I was reading Frederick Douglas’ autobiography where he cursed the day he had ever decided to follow the urging in his heart for literacy, for it was only because he was able to read that he came to know the extent of his oppression, and that of his entire race.   Why didn’t he just stay in illiterate bliss?  He cursed the day.  I feel him.  Not that my circumstances are that of a slave... there is no comparison.  I feel him because I ask myself, “why did I decide to follow the feeling I got that one moment I watched that play at Crossroads performing arts center?.. that feeling of home and belonging and catharsis all at once.”  Why did I follow that, and why have I been following that my entire life.  Why couldn’t I walk down a road that was already paved?  There are many.  Lawyer.  Doctor.  Teacher.  What was I thinking?  Why can’t I suppress that urge the way others suppress theirs... how do they do it?  Can they teach me?  I can’t live for that feeling anymore because I haven’t acted in almost half a year... I am shriveling... and if I insist on waiting for that moment, I might die somewhere inside...  Is it enough to act in a class?  On a street corner?  At church?  Can I do it for myself in my room?  No..... no.  I can’t.  Damn.

Walking in the Desert, Talking to Strangers

Living away from the city has been an interesting transition.  Everyone always whispers, "You live 'out there?" apologetically as if to declare it louder would expose some personal defect I have.  I like living away from the city... and no, I'm not just saying that.  I like having personal space.  Quiet time.  Parking.  And access to the city whenever I want.  If I were to complain, which I would never do, but if I did, it would be about the commute...the sometimes late-at-night-everlasting commute.  

I still make it to the city whenever I need to.  I was there yesterday exploring the services of the Actor's Work Program... simply, it's the actor's unemployment agency.  A kinder one that understands that I'm an artist and not just some lazy person who doesn't want to 'get a real job'.  I heard about arts education opportunities they had, and went to check them out.  While I was sitting in the orientation room, filling out the myriad number of forms they thrust upon you so that they can create statistics to prove that their existence is viable to funders, I saw this familiar woman walk in.  She sat down with that 'don't talk to me energy' so I didn't speak.  But after a few more peeks (I didn't want to look like a stalker), I realized who she was.  I had met her when she returned to Howard to share her story with us theatre students and to talk about the business of acting.  She returned to inform and inspire.  She was beautiful with small features, and she was starring in a new musical at Arena Stage, the preeminent theatre house in town.  I had called her after I came to New York at the urging of one of my old professors.  I didn't have a specific favor to ask... I just wanted to have someone to connect with on my journey in NYC.  She never called me back, if I recall correctly.  If she did, our conversation wasn't memorable.  I saw her image on a print ad campaign for a bank all over the city and figured she was big time.  Doing her 'thang'.  Making moves.  I didn't call her again.  Yet there we both were, in the same unemployment office, looking for work.  Her face wasn't as flawless as I remembered, and the skin on the front of her neck had begun to to that old lady thing.. the elasticity gave up a little, and started to droop around her adam's apple.  She was still cutsie, but you could tell she was older.  Rougher.  Worn.  Tried.  I could sense her embarrassment at being there.  I could see her holding in her disappointment and beating herself up for ending up in a room full of losers (not myself of course, but those 'other' people).  'How unfair,' I thought.  If there is anything I would complain about the acting industry, though I would never complain about anything in the acting industry (*wink*), I might gripe about the state of seniority.  This woman had graced the stage of every major and minor regional theatre across the country.  She had done television, film, and I think even Broadway.  She was, and probably still is, a triple threat.  Yet, here she was, the entertainment equivalent of downsized.   Why did she end up sitting in the unemployment office with me?  Why wasn't there a place for her?

segue...

I ran into a friend of my ex-boyfriend on the train during my long commute home that I am not complaining about.  I could tell how long it had been since we'd spoken from the state of his thick, back-long locks.  He had always had that aggressive corporate bite and I could tell with his casual suit, blackberry and Nike gym bag, that he had 'made it'.  I wasn't surprised.  I wasn't proud.  It was to be expected.  We saw each other from across the platform tracks and it looked like his mind was going a mile a minute.  I figured he was one of the types who couldn't stop working... he was constantly strategizing and figuring and calculating.  He was busy and important.  When the train pulled into the station, we put aside the distance and time and let the reunion begin.  We did some small talk and filled in some major details about what we had been doing since last we saw each other.  He asked, 'how's the acting?' to my shock.   I'm not sure I liked that he remembered my dreams.  I couldn't say, "it's bad.  I spent the day at the unemployment office."  "It's going good," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask, "so, what have you been in?"  I generally hate those conversations, where I end up trying to, as impressively as I can, run down the highlights of my resume to justify my choice to pursue my heart's desire.  But he didn't ask any more.  This conversation standing on the train was suspect - he didn't ask for proof for my success.  He was antsy and tight.  He seemed preoccupied.  He ran down his accomplishments, but he wasn't trying to impress me.  He tried to make jokes, but the corners of his eyes never lifted when he laughed.  'Was he nervous?' I thought.  No.  There was no reason to be nervous.  But he stood there, shifting his weight, sweating along his full, kinky hairline, gripping the edge of the partition that separates the seating areas and the door corridors.  Was he high?  I looked again..No, he wasn't high.  I remembered what he looked like high -- don't ask, it's a long story.  And then he got to the place where he trusted me enough to say it.  He, a young man in the generally stable and lucrative field of finance had just been laid off.  He, with his $800 suit, his gym membership and his newly renovated townhouse that still hasn't been paid for, had been laid off.  Laid off.  He was still paralyzed.  Dismayed.  Factory workers get laid off.  Brokers don't get laid off.  Construction workers and miners get laid off.  Sales people get laid off.  Cafeteria staff gets laid off, but the upper echelon, the lawyers, the doctors, the brokers, the money handlers and decision makers, they don't get laid off.  What the hell is going on?' was his underlying question behind all of his small talk.  I tried to reassure him with mine -- to subtly remind him of how much he did have.  That this too shall pass.  That there could be a blessing even here, even now.  But he couldn't hear me.  

And here I was, throughout the day, fighting the thought that deciding to be a part of the 'whip-creme' of employment society may have been a grave mistake.  I thought about how I could end up like that woman, completely deserving of some stability, but without any.  Maybe I should have found a job with the Department of Water and Power... we'll always need water, I thought.  Or maybe I should have been a mortician... people will always die.  I don't even think storytellers, though we've been around throughout eternity, would even qualify as the whip creme... we're the cherry.  But those choices wouldn't have protected me for here was a man standing before me who was the ice cream of workers, being set out to melt. He had given up thoughts of following his passion for the money and security, and now that those were gone, he felt he had nothing.   I love what I do, but have no money (yet) and no stability (does this world ever provide stability?).  Are we at the extreme ends of the same pole?

I had met a Greek man on another during the commute home that I am not going to complain about, and he proceeded to talk my ear to death.  He spat at me through his chewy accent, "you are nice girl, I can tell.  You are sweetheart."  He said, "I flirt you and you don't get angry.  That's good.  Your man a lucky man.  Is he Black?"  He said, "Black men don't like the Black woman.  But Black women value themselves more now.  I am European.  We like beautiful black women."  I said nothing.  He continued, "It's good to talk to strangers, no?  It is good.  Like old country.  Not so many people walking around crazy.  We talk to each other.  People don't go crazy."

 I wonder if the woman, and my ex's friend found a stranger to talk to to keep from going crazy last night.  I wonder if I'll talk to more strangers.  I'm 29 now and I don't recognize myself.  How old was Jesus when he went into the desert?

Fragments

Hmmm... I haven't written much, because I've been thinking in fragments... there's nothing cohesive about my thoughts, other than the fact that they originate in my mind.  Here's some nikkole....

 

I think, sometimes, that Asian people are black.... especially Pacific Islander Asian folk.  I saw this mother and son duo on the train - He had on his herring bone chain and his Air Force Ones (that's a gold chain and jazzy sneakers, mom).  He had a close fade and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, positioned just so that it could appear functional without interrupting clear communication.  His mom had her hair close cropped, and her suit on, navy blue with coordinating accessories, and big flashy gold rings.  There was one seat left on the car and he secured it for his mama.  She beckoned him closer to straighten his collar.  They talked about the upcoming events of their day, and upon being asked if she wanted to walk to their destination, she looked up at him, and I swear I saw my mother, aunt, grandmother, cousin and sister take over her eyes and brows with an emphatic, "What I look like, walkin?"  "You done lost yo' mind if you think..."  Then she said, "I don't want to get my hair wet," and she pat the back of her head, coaxing the closely cut, perfectly placed strands done onto the back of her head and neck... and I fell out inside.

 

Critical Thinking

So, Obama has clinched the nomination.  Just one year ago, people thought he was out of his mind to even allow his imagination to fantasize about being president, let alone to make a bid for it, but he trusted the instinct within him that told him to proceed despite the worldly appearances.  He had faith the size of a mustard seed, and that faith has seemingly moved a mountain not just for him, but for everybody.  For the first time in the history of Western civilization (it seems), we have a viable candidate for the presidency of the most powerful (whatever that means) nation in the world.  And he just might take it, and was able to come this far not only because of his individual brillance, his unyielding faith and obedience to his inner instinct, but also because of the world's underestimation of him.   Wow.

Yet despite this historic moment, I am not as proud as I thought I would be.  My mother talked of times in our political history that actually brought her to tears: MLKs death... JFK's death... I suppose those are bad analogies, 'cause Barack is not dead.  Nor do I wish him to be dead just so that I can have a moment of emotional pathos equivalent to that of my 1960's mother.  The thought that he would be the target of that kind of hate stings the backs of my eyelids.

I think I am not as mushy as I am capable of being because I don't actually believe in making him my messiah, as I feel like many have.  I think it's a mistake.  He is a man on his hero's journey as much as we are on ours.  He is not responsible for our experience.  He is not responsible for my experience of life.  So I am wary of putting a trophy of him on my mental mantle.  I am also wary because, in the many ways I have been active in participating in his success and in this political race for the nomination, in the ways I've become more astute and knowledgeable of the process and purposes of politics, I realize that I need to be more critical in general -- not just when the media instructs me so, not just when it's exciting.  In Randal Robinson's THE DEBT he creates a ficticious scenario in which African Americans devise for the community-at-large a "card" on which 20 'yes' or 'no' questions are devised to be asked to any public servant vying for our vote and support.  I began to think about what my questions would be:

1.  Do you believe in the death penalty? - No

2.  Will you lead the nation into war? - No

3.  Do you support universal and free healthcare for everyone living in America regardless of citizenship? - Yes

4.  Will you support/create policies that eliminate discrimination in America's immigration policies? - Yes

5.  Will you institute policies that discourage businesses from shipping jobs overseas and hiring illegal immigrants? - Yes

6.  Do you believe that it is every human being's right to have food, shelter and healthcare, and will you institute policies that make that a tangible reality? - Yes

There is no reason why one of the richest nations in the world cannot do this. 

7.  Do you believe in global citizenship and will you encourage that of Americans by participating in the UN to say the least? - Yes

8.  Will you fix social security or devise a way to address financial stability for people in old age? - Yes

9.  Do you support free higher education?- Yes

10.  Do you believe in keeping affirmative action? - Yes

11.  Will you fight for affordable organic food? - Yes

12.  Will you increase taxes? - No

13.  Will you enforce a green automotive industry and create advantages for people/businesses using and garnering alternative and safe forms of energy? - Yes

14.  Do you believe in global warming? - Yes

15.  Will you create and/or maintain policies that work to lessen the economic divide between mainstream America and Black America? -Yes

16.  Will you use the country's resources to support Africa in its efforts to obtain debt forgiveness granted? - Yes

17.  Will you fight for the healing of people of African descent in the form of international acknowledgement of slavery and colonization and institute policies for reparation? Yes

18.  Will you create and/or maintain policies that encourage the fruitful endeavors of Black Businesses? - Yes

19.  Do you believe in the armament of Isreal? - No

20.  Will you work to eliminate nuclear weapons from every nation? - Yes

21.  Will you take lobby or corporate money? No

22.  Will you change policies that make the prospect for candidacy money-based? Yes

23.  Will you make it illegal for a private prison to force labor onto convicts without pay or liability for their safety in engaging such work? Yes

24.  Do you believe in the deconstruction of corporate monopolies in the media and will you fight to dissemble the corporate structures that place ownership of media in the hands of the few? Yes

25.  Will you give money to the arts? Every day

Side note:  I think that the reason arts are so ego-driven is because of the capitalist system that the arts have to compete in.  In order for an artist to maintain his/her standard of living, or get to his/her desired standard of living, they have to make money.  In order to make money, they have to have obtained credit for what they do.  People have to know that they were responsible, and to what degree they were responsible, in order for the artist to be able to demand compensation.  Therefore, people forget about the work, step away from collaboration (because it means you have to split the pie more), and consider how to serve the community less.  

 

 Okay, I know that was more than 20 questions, but go with me.  Does Obama pass this test?  Not exactly.  Obama believes in war, so he says, which is completely incongruent with his message of change.  I actually don't believe that he believes in war.  I think he doesn't want our macho-culture to think he's a punk, so he says that he's not scared to fight.  He believes in war, he just believes in exhausting the limits of diplomacy first.  I don't know how Obama feels about reparation or affirmative action.  Or immigration. Or the arts.  Or Africa's debt and the World Bank.  Or social security, not that it would help me.  You have to work mainstream in order to benefit from it.  Or the death penalty.  Can Obama pass my test?  Not completely, but I'm sure, I'm sure McCain fails.  So in that sense, we're in the same position we're always in, choosing the lesser of two evils.  Is that really change?  Again, I don't want to put too much onto Obama... he can't address all of my concerns the way I want him to.  But shouldn't he at least have to get an 80% to get my vote.  I mean, come on!  When I was in school anything less than an 80% might as well have been a 30%.  If your not above average, then why be?  We already have mediocrity.  

Something to think about.

I'm voting for Obama.  And I look ahead to being a part of making that happen.  That said, I think some people are distracted.  I was listening to KIIS radio this morning and these two DJs were just harping on Hillary Clinton's suspension speech... they said, "It took her 7 minutes into the speech to give her endorsement!"  They said, "In all 30 minutes of her speech, she only mentioned Obama 14 times!"  They were appalled.  They were angry.  They said, there were rumors from reliable sources that they believe that say Clinton intentionally used tactics that exploited racial tensions in hopes to obliterate Obama.  They said Bill Clinton offended Black people and never said 'sorry', or at least didn't say 'sorry' as extensively as they felt necessary.  They said Hillary didn't mention the historic nature of Obama's campaign or the fact that he was the first Black presidential nominee.   They went on and on, and the poor guest they had on kept trying to get them to see that they were being distracted by their own bitterness, and that none of that mattered except that it would be the very thing to keep them from focusing on what is ahead, on what is good about right now.  And the disc jockeys said, "So and so wants us to get over it.  But I'll never forget.  I'll never let it go.  I guess I'm just hung up."  And they seemed justified.  They seemed content in the thought that they had a right to be mad and bitter and negative and destructive and distracted.  The mentality of oppression will keep your mind on the oppressor even when he, or in this case, she's not there.  Help my people.

Wow...

Papa Buddha
Mood:  special

My Grandfather turned 80 years old yesterday.  I asked him how it felt, and he said, "fine."  

Fine?  That's it?

I sat on the other end of the line waiting for some Buddha-like wisdom that would help me deal with the universe in my mind - the hard-knocks life I feel like I have and the chattering lady in my frontal lobe that doesn't think I'll make it, the one that can only see my cup of success as half-empty... the one that sits on a ship and looks ashore and is positive that we are the ones being left behind.  But my Papa was so disinterested in giving me a pep talk or of talking about how old he was.  When I insisted that he elaborate (certainly he had something prophetic to say!) he said that he actually felt the same way he felt when he was thirty, except that his joints sometimes get stiff.  He said that the stiffness goes away, so, all in all, it's not that bad.  He told me that when I get to be his age, I'd probably feel like I was 20 with modern technology, medicine and the fact that I eat so well and all.  He said he forgets things - that he's "run out of room in his brain", which, according to him is also not so bad.  I can totally see that, I mean,  who needs to remember where the remote is, or what day it is, or the name of the grocer.  Even more convenient is forgetting past hurts, frustrations, defeats, guilt and shame.  He was making 80 sound like the place that I want to be, a stiff utopia where I get to say exactly what I'm thinking without consequence and eat what I want to eat without any concern for body-image.  A place where no one expected anything more from me, and I expected no more of myself.  How can I be 80 right now?

I've been told by friends who've made their transition (from 29 to 30, that is) that the most remarkable thing happens: you stop caring about what other people think or say or do.  You prioritize better.  And at the ripe age of 28, I'm trying to skip ahead a couple of years to that part of life... when I don't care what people think of me... when I measure my achievements by how they make me feel... when I can stop comparing myself to others and worrying if I can keep up with their successes... when I can stop keepin a tit for tat score card of accolades and trophies and certificates and degrees and newspaper clippings, and industry nods, and productivity, 'cause right now, I'm in like the 30th percentile, and don't they keep people who are in the 30th percentile back a year.... do I have to repeat year 28 if I don't get my numbers up?  I know, it's absurd and masochistic, but these are the workings of my mind!  It's true.  

I've made it a point (actually a 2008 goal) to enjoy whatever I'm doing as if it were the only thing... as if there weren't an incessant longing in my heart to be, or do, or have something better!  Interesting:  the words 'better' and 'than' go together.  Something can only be better in relation to something else.  I always wanna be better... better than... better than.... everybody?  Better than myself?  How do you quiet these thoughts?  Mediatation... monk-dom... perhaps... but they'll come back like barnacles to the bottom of a boat.  You scrape and scrape, but if you put that boat back in the ocean, the moment I step back into the world, the barnacles will return.  Guaranteed.  How do you be in the world, but not of it?  How do you garner contentment regardless of circumstance?  So do I have to die before it stops?  Is death the only thing that stops it?

My grandfather started to talk about his final rest and I felt my chest tighten and the backs of my eyes heat up.  Why did he want to talk to me about that?  Perhaps he's made peace, but did he even consider that I hadn't - that in my mind he should live forever?  I asked him to stop being so fatalistic, and he said that he wanted to say just one thing to me about it... this is what he said (and I paraphrase)

"I used to be afraid of dying because I didn't know how I was going to eat. (huge Papa laugh)  But when I realized that God would feed me, I was alright."

 

Buddha speaks. 

Gee's Bend B-Roll - Me on stage...
Gees Bend

Ye shall know the Truth...

Ye shall know the Truth...

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