Coming Home Tour Countdown - BP Deleted Scene

In a funny twist, this Being Plumville drabble is even older than the Reconstructing Jada Channing ficlet I'd just posted. I tell this story every time I speak, but Being Plumville came about because I was having serious angst about RJC (at the time it was called The Life to Live...yeah, I was deep in my soap opera watching during college! lol), so I'd started plotting what would eventually be Being Plumville. My friend, again the wonderful Thalia, had given me a prompt to help get the creative juices flowing even if I couldn't truly start writing the actual story until November for National Novel Writing Month. Below is the prompt and then the drabble that I wrote to go along with it. It's unbeta'ed, so please forgive errors and enjoy!

~~~~

"Song Lyric Prompt for NaNo '04"

(c) 2011, 2004 by Savannah J. Frierson


Song Lyric - 'The worst is over now and we can breathe again. I wanna hold you high, you steal my pain away...' ~Seether and Amy Lee, "Broken"

His hand was sweaty, yet impossibly tight around hers as they ran across the quad towards an ill-located patch of trees…well, ill-located under normal circumstances.

The riot had been a long time coming, danced around and implicated in veiled words…even the looks between the students on campus held a promise of something--but no one knew it would be like this.

This was their own personal Watts, the explosion of frustration, anger and hurt unleashed by a people fed up with being second class; the searching for the explanation why their leader—their savior was shot to death on a Tennessee balcony six months ago…everyone thought they’d avoided such violence, such blatant disrespect of the status quo that many people—his people—fell into their safe, insular bubble of small-town Southern life.

But other people—her people—had had enough. This new generation would not kowtow to intimidation and threats. Dogs and water hoses didn’t scare them, at least not as much as the thought of being unfree did, and the well of patience had been overflowing long before now.

Yes, this clash was long overdue.

She stumbled over a hidden rock but he pulled her along, telling her they were almost there. The trees’ branches beckoned them, ready to ensconce them in their natural sanctuary. They’d reached their oasis, but he didn’t stop until they were well on the other side, at the farthest extremity from the Armageddon across the yard.

A gunshot sounded and she jumped. He leaned against the tree and brought her tight against him, hoping his arms would shield her from the ugliness they heard. It was hard to believe they were on opposite sides of the confrontation, right before the detonation. It was hard to believe they were such close friends in their single-digit years, he protecting her from hurtful words and teasing shoves.

Fifteen years later, he was doing the same. Looking across that invisible line, that arbitrary line, made him realize he didn’t like where he stood. He didn’t like being a physical representation of her unseen, deep-seeded oppression. His place was beside her, behind her, around her—not in front, and certainly not above. She’d looked at no one but him during the face-off, as if trying to reconcile the man before her with the boy she used to know.

The boy who promised to protect her always.

The riot’s noise was growing faint, and soon there was tense silence. His arms tightened around her, and he rested his chin atop her head. She burrowed into him, squeezing his arms around his middle. It was a familiar embrace, full of the childhood innocence that sheltered them from “the way things were;” but now there was a new feeling, a more profound aura.

It was the embrace of the way things could become.

What's a Month and Three-Quarters Between Friends?

For all of my desire and desire to write, which is a form of communication, I am actually very bad at it when it comes to the essence of myself. I recently had a "Come to Jesus" conversation, one I'd avoided for five months because 1.) there were things on the horizon that needed to come to fruition before we spoke and 2.) I was anxious about it. And there is no better procrastinator than a writer for a lot of things. Let's recap--I don't have a major book deal; I haven't released a new book in almost a year; I haven't finished a project in half a year; I'm working a job that isn't the glitzy and glamorous one folks would expect for a Harvard graduate. But I talked him down from the ledge, basically letting him know that I had options on how to get where I need and want to be. He felt better afterwards, and I can admit I did as well. Apparently, I needed to talk it out and not just let it swarm in my mind until it becomes a convoluted mess.

As for the hiatus from this blog, that wasn't even remotely intentional...I'd had two very bad conversations with my uncle and with my father within days of my birthday. I was hot. I was pissed. And that funky mood had lasted weeks, exacerbated by ToM showing up quite uninvited at my door and sending my mood beyond the depths of hell. I did what I normally did when I was bothered and upset--kept it inside. Went silent. Packed it away and kept it moving. When Father's Day rolled around, my father told my sister he wasn't expecting a phone call from me because I was mad at him when we spoke last.

Really?

To complicate matters, sometime before, I had two of my closest friends over for a day at the beach...which ended up being a day at my apartment complex because it was too damn hot and gas was too damn high to drive to damn far to the too damn crowded beach. We started talking about relationships and sex, which drifted to me talking about my inexperience with both and referencing a previous post about me mentioning my molestation. This was the first time one of my friends had heard this story because she hadn't read that blog, and she became incredibly upset. I'd refused to say who it'd been because I'm not trying to see any one of them on the evening news, but they'd reiterated something my friend BJ had been telling me for a while now--I don't let myself feel things. The hard things. The passionate things. And if I can't feel those things, I won't be able to experience the very things I want to experience--relationships, love, loving.

Maybe I needed these almost two months to process all of that, because I know I still hold back a lot of the times in my writing. The more I write, the more I'm getting better at letting go and letting flow, but I still have tremendous work to do. Strong emotions overwhelm and many times frighten me, because when I give into them, I say things I can't take back...and probably things I wouldn't want to take back, if I'm honest with myself. I'd be laid bare and then what? This trepidation applies for good and bad feelings too.

I've blown up two notable times, and it was really bad, to the point it's legend in the family. Because I am a writer, and I know how to string thoughts together, I could be very adroit in how to make it so words not only hurt, but pulverize, or make it so they're soaked with sap, because that's the depth of emotion I feel. But in my family, we're generally not allowed to feel that deeply--good or bad--or at the very least acknowledge that we do. So I retreat inward so I can pack it down enough in order to operate "business as usual". The things that truly, deep-down hurt me, I discuss as if I am a reporter with cool detachment so I don't focus on the nitty-gritty feelings. It's disingenuous. It shortchanges me as a full person with full feelings, and I need to work on that.

Yeah, it almost took me two months to admit that...this was supposed to be a short blog update too.

Slight confession regarding those two bad conversations after my birthday--I'd felt so invigorated when I expressed my irritation with my father and didn't let my uncle make his irritation my irritation. I'd stood by both of my feelings and was proud of myself for doing so.

My 28th Born Day

Today is my birthday. I went out and had breakfast at the Cracker Barrel by myself, and got a phone call from my grandmother’s cousin while I was there. Then I went grocery shopping because the world didn’t end as I was promised, and I bought myself a birthday cheesecake—the cashier wished me a happy birthday. After that, I was at home and did some reading and hung out on the Internet, but I was also answering the most Facebook birthday greetings I’d ever received thus far and spoke with my sister and my father and my friends. I went to dinner at IHOP because the Chinese place where I wanted to eat didn’t deliver and the woman hung up on me after she told me! Then came back home and spoke to more relatives.

All this to say, I spent my birthday alone, but the universe didn’t dare allow me to be lonely. It was a good birthday. J

Beautiful Bana

In this society, physical attractiveness is the foundational criterion to determine someone’s self-worth; the more attractive one is, the more one is likely to be identified with positive markers, such as “goodness”, “Intelligence”, “leadership”, etc. It is for this reason that prospective parents are often teased by people praying the baby takes after the more attractive side of the family or thinking a comment of “the baby is so precious” instead of “cute” could be grounds for ending friendships.

For the majority of this society, the standard of physical attractiveness is Western European Beauty. We’re taught it from childhood with fairy tales and it is reinforced with the majority of television shows and movies that are produced this year. Even the English language, the primary language spoken in this society, has codified color terms, in which white is pureness and good and black is dirty and evil. Therefore, there’s no wonder why you get a documentary like this:

Now, as for my journey…

- My mother didn’t let me play with white Barbies, let alone own one. I’d wanted one, though; not because the doll was white, but because the doll came with the accessories I needed to continue playing with my black dolls, and I couldn’t understand why my mother couldn’t understand that. But she did—the white doll was more expensive because it had more value, and that wasn’t just monetary, either.

- Of all the childhood games my sister and I played, I don’t ever recall playing “Princess”; maybe this is because we didn’t think, subconsciously, princesses could be black. We played the hell out of “Shipwreck” and “Pirates”, though.

- My mother was my first standard of beauty, and she still is. Apparently, she was also a lot of men’s, too, and still is. But that standard was rarely reflected on TV and in movies, and she died when I was nine.

- My first “One True Pairing” (OTP) was Heathcliff and Clair Huxtable. My second was Dwayne and Whitley Wayne.

- I had my very first white friend in first grade when I went to Catholic school (from pre-K–5^th grade I’d attended a black school save the first grade). She was blonde and blue-eyed and looked like she came right out of a fairy tale, like Cinderella before she grew up. We only hung out in the parking lot of the school at the end of the day while our mothers chit-chatted, and never went to each other’s houses like I did with my other black friends. I never saw her again when I left that school.

- I was first touched inappropriately when I was in third grade, except I didn’t know it other than I was confused why my classmate kept trying to stick his hands between my legs. My mother marched down to that as if she had the hounds of hell on leads. The boy didn’t return for fourth grade.

- I first remember being sexualized when I was in fifth grade, because my booty was the first to transform from a child’s shape to a woman’s. “Baby Got Back” became my theme song and I hated it. I was still a child; that song was entirely inappropriate for any of us to be singing at the ages of 9–11, but that was the first realization that this society doesn’t treat black children as children, just little adults, even if none of us were savvy enough to realize that consciously.

- I could never understand why Lisa Turtle, who was arguably the prettiest and flyest girl at Bayside High, could never find a mutual attraction for her, and had a dorky Screech after her for “comic relief”. Takeaway #1—liking a black girl is a funny thing. Takeaway #2—better to be single than to settle (of course, this one, I think, was far more subtle for me).

- Living Single was groundbreaking and I didn’t even know it, for it showed various-bodied-and-hued black women being regarded as sexy, beautiful, lovable, and desirable, something that I took for granted because that was my reality watching my mother and older female cousins. Not only that, the show aged very well. RIDE THE MAVERICK!!

- I had my very first crush (a black boy) when I was three years old, but didn’t do anything because he was shy and probably thought I had cooties. I had my second crush (a white boy) when I was twelve years old, but I didn’t do anything because he was popular and probably wouldn’t be interested because I’m black.

- Also when I was twelve, someone thought my eight-year-old sister was my daughter. …

- I used to be jealous of my younger sister because everyone would say she looked like our mother, which meant she was beautiful (which she is); and few would ever say I looked like anyone, which I took to mean I wasn’t. And when they did give me a relation, it was my grandmother. Way to make a teenage girl feel better by comparing her to her 70-something grandmother! And what made this even worse was a boy in my 8^th-grade home room said I had “grandma hands”.

- By the time I reached high school, I figured out the definition of “hot” for a girl was almost the direct opposite of me, which was just as well because I couldn’t date in high school anyway and I wasn’t attracted to many of the guys at my school (although this isn’t to say none of them were attractive).

- I think I fell in love for the first time during the summer when I was thirteen and an older boy (South Asian) made me feel like a girl.

- At fourteen I started flipping through Sweet Valley High books to see if a black girl was given some “screen time”; if not, I didn’t check it out.

- At fifteen I started following boy bands and would get excited whenever there was a black girl cast in the videos.

- My third OTP, Shawn and Angela from Boy Meets World, will forever be one because for once, being in love with a black girl on a teen-oriented show wasn’t treated as a joke (yes, this includes Family Matters, even if I were rooting for Urkel/Laura).

- I was sixteen years old the first time a black boy (and yes, a crush) told me he didn’t black girls, and I remember being seized with a slight panic that if black boys didn’t date black girls, who in the world did?

- My school had a clothing drive and I went to the grocery store to buy diapers for it. The cashier asked me how old my child was. Considering I’ve always looked younger than I am, this really took me aback. But I only looked younger in the face; my body was that of a grown woman, very curvy and shapely, and I’d always been self-conscious about drawing attention.

- I was seventeen when I got my first “marriage proposal” as well as when the first unrelated male told me I was beautiful. (two separate boys, only one was serious.) We were told to write down something nice about our classmates, and the majority was the usual “funny”, “smart”, “nice” accolades I’d get; but the “beautiful” one stunned me so much that later that evening I’d asked him if he’d meant it, afraid it was joke. He said he meant it, and I barely contained my tears. The first time I thought I was beautiful was later that year when I was in a cotillion. Unfortunately, nobody mentioned it.

- Eighteen was a busy year—first kiss, second molestation, although this molestation was by a man old enough to be my father. It took me months to tell someone because I didn’t think anyone would believe me or folks would think it was my fault. But last time I checked, being braless and wearing shorts in one’s own home during the summer in the South wasn’t grounds for uninvited touches.

- I’d never felt uglier, unwanted, and unlovable in my life than during my four years of college and the four years after it—The Boston Years. It was as if I were living out a rom-com where I was the black, fat, sassy, asexual mammy/BFF who provided the laughs and the sage advice but would never be in consideration for a romantic “happily ever after”. The one and only date I went on during this time was with an ex-con who worked security at my summer job—mind, I didn’t know he was an ex-con until we were on the date. And he kept asking if I could cook (which I must be able to do because I’m a big black woman from the South and all), so yeah, that was a no-go. Incidentally, this is also the time I decided I would give a shot at the writing thing.

- On the other hand, around this time interracial pairings on soap operas featuring black women had, for some reason exploded on soap operas…and quite predictably crashed and burned; but while they were on there, they were awesome. My favorites were Fox/Whitney—Passions (I’m still bitter by how they destroyed this one), Nik/Gia—General Hospital, Paco/Preta—Da Cor do Pecado (a Portuguese telenovela dubbed in Spanish was how I watched, loved this one, probably because this was the only one that got a happily ever after), and Evangeline/almost anyone—One Life to Live. And now I can admit another reason why these relationships were frustrating was because just about all of them were “standard-acceptable” beauties; basically the Lisa Turtles who finally got some loving (as did Lisa for one episode, with Zach…yeah, bitter about that too).

- My heroines tend to fit my very first standard of beauty, that of my mother and other women in my family, which means they are usually short, usually curvy/full-figured, and usually dark to medium-toned in skin color. The more society-standard beauties are usually secondary/tertiary characters. I know for a lot of people, romances are about the fantasy. Well, one of my fantasies is for people who look like me to be unapologetically loved and considered beautiful.

- I get ridiculously excited whenever I see a black woman being loved in real life and in media because the sight is about as frequent as Halley’s Comet. It gives me hope that could be me one day.

- One of my good friends from home gave me an assignment to pick one thing I liked about myself, with special emphasis on the physical self. I had extreme difficulty with the exercise.

- Barack and Michelle Obama are fourth OTP because for once, a black woman being loved is something that cannot be dismissed or ignored on a national stage. If they ever break up (which I forbid them to do) I will be shedding some seriously fugly tears.

- When I was twenty-five I attracted another security guard’s attention, another man old enough to be my father. It was disconcerting because he would always stare at me when I walked in the building and continue to stare until I got on the elevator. Finally one day he said “You have a nice walk.” Freaked me out so badly I muttered a quick thanks and sped-walked to the elevator because I could not determine if his comment was lust or genuine admiration.

- When I was twenty-six, Disney finally decided to create a Black princess, yet I couldn’t be as thrilled as I liked because she spent the majority of the film as a frog.

- For Lent 2010, I decided I would give up low self-esteem, which meant I had to stop sipping on the “I’m Not Good Enough” syrup that had been my BFF since birth. The withdrawal was brutal, and there are still times I fall off the wagon; but I’m much better at running to catch up to it now than before. One of the things I’ve accepted about myself was I’ll never be a single-digit dress size no matter how much weight I lose; and it was okay for me to like the curves I have. And my walk.

- When I was about to turn twenty-seven, my grandmother died. During this time I took a lot of pictures with my camera phone of old pictures of her. She was beautiful, so I guess that means I’m beautiful too (and yes, as soon as I typed that out I burst in to tears, because that, right then, was the first time I said it and truly, truly meant it).

- Yesterday, there was an article explaining why black women were ugly, and I was laughing to myself about the utter nonsense of it all until I became irate that this “PhD” was passing off his conclusions as “scientific fact” instead of his racist opinion. But my favorite part was the author’s confusion why the black women in his “study” thought of themselves as physically attractive when “science” says they’re not. And just thinking about my long, winding struggle to get to a revelation many women never reach, let alone black women, and his attempt to nullify these black women’s opinions of themselves because they do not conform to his/Western-European standard of beauty really pissed me off. But now, I want to give these women high fives for owning their beauty for themselves and refusing to sip the “You’re Not Good Enough” syrup this “PhD” was trying to shove down their throats.

Perhaps it is threatening to some when black women stop believing they can only be asexual mammies or hypersexual Jezebels, or that they can only consider themselves beautiful when a Western European society deems them so…or they have to have enough European or nonblack blood to even hope to be considered beautiful in the first place. That their bodies are always there for the taking—whether by permission or not, and rarely with tenderness and care—and that little black girls (and boys) aren’t little black girls (and boys) because they are merely pre-adults. The politics of respectability are alive and well, making black women scared of their femininity and being unreceptive to genuine, respectful appreciation or not treating themselves as the valuable beings they truly are because being marked as “ugly” means unvaluable, so they treat their bodies any kind of way and allow others to do the same. Every damn day we’re told black women aren’t capable of being loving or being loved; that just because can “do bad all by ourselves” (why it gotta be bad?) we don’t desire to “do good with a supportive partner”. I’m tired of trying to reach a standard I was never supposed to meet; but more importantly I’m tired of being fed the line there is only one standard to meet in the first damn place. I don’t need to be beautiful for everyone—hell, I don’t even need to be beautiful—but I do need to be a good person, and that has nothing to do with my dress size or the perfect symmetry of my face.

All that to say, I’m fierce as hell, and you can kick rocks if you disagree.

10 Facts about Me

I was in the process of writing a long blog post, but then I got a little distracted and began rambling and meh. So, here's a meme I did for one of my online hangouts. Maybe I'll continue working on the original post...or maybe not, right now it looks daunting (which probably means I should keep working on it #le sigh).

~~~~

1.) I was named after my maternal grandmother (Jordan—RiP Grandma Lillie, one year gone this May).

2.) I’ve sung with Bobby McFerrin (with my college choir Kuumba Singers).

3.) I played Carnegie Hall when I was 18 (orchestra/viola).

4.) I started truly writing when I was 12 years old (poetry).

5.) I haven’t been kissed since I was 18 (I’ll be 28 this month).

6.) My favorite part of my body is my eyes (they are brown, but nothing plain about them to me).

7.) My favorite novel I’ve written thus far is Reconstructing Jada Channing, which is, incidentally, the first novel I’ve ever written and my worst reviewed novel on Amazon (#kanyeshrug).

7.) My favorite desserts are cheesecake and my Grandma Katie’s pound cake (RiP, Grandma Katie, 10 years gone this August).

8.) I love the feel of my natural hair against my fingertips, and it’s a quirk I’ve inherited from my mother, apparently (RiP Mama, 19 years gone this November).

9.) My favorite movie ever in life is Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (Frank all day; this was also my Grandma Lillie’s least favorite movie because we watched it all the time…back to back…#can’t be tamed).

10.) I have a ride-or-die personality when it comes to friends, and length of time between talking doesn’t negate that.

A Year Ago Today. This Minute.

I didn’t spend a lot of time yesterday talking about my Grandma Lillie, the woman who raised me and my sister, in the audio blog, and that wasn’t necessarily intentional. However, considering today is the actual anniversary of her death, it’s probably more important I do this now than before.

Now, I often say I didn’t have a nickname until I got to college and then was dubbed the “Sav”, but that’s not the truth. I just never considered it a nickname because it wasn’t “nicked”. But my grandmother had given me another name since I had functional memory.

“Butt-Butt”.

Apparently, even at the age of 2/3, my tush was something to behold—that Jordan Body in its early stage. But not only that, I’d even run up to my grandmother and sing “Pat the butt, Grandma, pat the butt!” So she’d call me Butt-Butt and pat my tushie as she’d sing the “Pat the Butt-Butt!” song. Clearly, I was crazy, because there other times when I’d run and hide from when she’d want to “whoop that ass!”

It was not a game.

But then my younger sister came along, complete with the Jordan Body herself, so my Grandmother snatched my first name from me and tacked it onto her! Probably one of the reasons from age BIRTH to about SEVEN of my sis I couldn’t stand her, but then Grandma gave me a new name.

Bana. And then she’d call me “Bana-Bana”. And I don’t think I ever told my friends this at home, but then they started calling me that, because that’s what my grandmother called me. And then my sis calls me “Ban”.

So, yeah. She’s never going to call me Bana anymore, and that’s really…an awful thing to never hear from her again. My poor sister has been crying on and off all day; I think she’s taking this harder than I am in a lot of ways, because she had to watch the demise up close. She was also there when Grandma passed away; I was too busy driving back home thinking she would make it another day. And I miss her. There are some days that are so gorgeously sunny and I think, “Today would be a perfect day to call Grandma”, and then I remember I can’t anymore. Every time I drive home, or arrive from a trip, it is always bittersweet because I remember I can’t call Grandma to tell her I made it safely. But then, so many positive things have happened to me that I can’t help but think she, my Grandma Katie, and my mama are whispering in God’s ear about me. And my sister, for that matter. I firmly think everything happens for a reason, and the reason why I decided to move, or to start my Lent Project 2010, or to follow my own path with this writing thing, I got the strength to follow my lead from her. She supported me fully in my writing, talking me and my books up, almost annoying me with requests to ship her some autographed books from Boston so she could sell them to her classes (she taught arts and crafts) or to damn near anyone who called the house. And she got her sales too.

Grandma was boss. I want to be that boss when I grow up, with the name she gave me.

Lillie Belle Jordan Glover: November 30, 1921 - May 9, 2010

More Seedlings

Amazon Link

PS: Shout out to all my blogging friends who are trying the audio thing! Only took me a week and some change to figure out how to embed audio onto Blogger! lol

The Seeds That Were Planted

I was about five or six years old and I was at the park near my kindergarten. My mother had taken my sister and me to the park to play, and there was a white family there. Somehow, I and the white boy in that family ended up playing together on the swings, in the tire rounds where the dirt was, etc, until his older sister came up to us with a scowl on her face and said to her brother, "You shouldn't be playing with her!" We both looked at each other in confusion before his sister grabbed his wrist and yanked him away. I went up to my mother bewildered by the whole thing, asking her why was that girl so mean and why couldn't I play with my new friend, and she murmured nonsense to me and guided me with sister in tow to the car to leave.

This is 1988/1989, over twenty years after the end of the modern Civil Rights Movement in the United States.

I often cite Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry as the book that made me want to be a writer, which is true. But when I was answering a similar question during my readers session at RSJ 2011, I realized one of the reasons why I was drawn to the book was because it humanized an interracial friendship that really shouldn't have ever happened in the 1930s South. Jeremy Simms, a white boy, was always friendly with Cassie Logan and her family despite the entire rest of his family being almost beyond racists. Even when I was reading it the first time, Jeremy intrigued me because I wanted to know how he avoided drinking the Kool-Aid while the others in his family seemed to be drinking free refills of it every fifteen minutes or so. He was such a sweet, pure soul, and I remember praying and reading with not a little trepidation that he would end up just as racist as the rest of his family, as Uncle Hammer had portended. I think I would've cried some ugly tears had that happened.

So, Roll of Thunder planted the seed; then Maniac Magee was the fertilizer. I loved this book. I had it constantly checked out of the library, and it was a change of pace because now the protagonist was a white boy instead of the black girl from Roll of Thunder. He was similar to Jeremy in many ways--a loner who didn't really care about conventions and just "did him". He didn't care about the "rules" of the society because he lived outside them, and with that was a certain freedom to take people as they come and make decisions based on that.

You know, like Martin Luther King said he wanted us to do one day. And actually, I have more thoughts about this particular line in a very long and insightful speech is always co-opted but never really practice but that's for another time.

I went to an all-black school from the age or three to the age of 11, with a brief interlude at Catholic school for first grade. There was pretty much not a day that didn't go by without us hear something about Martin Luther King, Jr. or Rosa Parks, or Harriet Tubman, etc. I knew much about my history and was taught to be proud of it; but I could never understand why white kids didn't attend our school. I'd even asked my mother why couldn't white kids go to my school; she said they couldn't they just chose not to attend. I couldn't understand that at all, because I thought my school was boss; and then I'd wonder if all white people were just really light black people or if all black people were just really tan white people.

*pats bb!Sav*

I do find it notable that of all the characters who are allowed that particular freedom in those early books were white and male. Of course at the time I wasn't savvy enough to notice such a nuance, but I suppose it has to be them because white males are at the top of the societal ladder, which means they have a freedom of mobility those below don't generally have--particularly black females. And actually, it's only now as I write this blog that I even realize just how early my interest in interracial relationships in literature really was. These two books were among my very favorites as a child, and they had me scouring for more books that highlighted interracial relationships among kids, and see how they bridged that racial divide.

As I became older and started thinking a boy's cooties weren't necessarily a bad thing, my interest became more inclusive and almost predominated by romantic interracial relationships featuring black women (or actually, relationships that featured black women, period, because those shows were just going off the air right when I needed them most *clings to Living Single and bemoans the fact her non-cable having self couldn't access Girlfriends because living in the country meant no UPN without it*). In fact, I'd wondered if one of the reasons Jeremy was so different from his folks was because Jeremy was or would end up a little in love with Cassie, but Ms. Taylor decided to pair Cassie with Moe instead (I liked Moe...Moe *snuggles him*). But I still thought of the "what if?" possibilities had Ms. Taylor decided to go the other route. Then the more I consumed media (mainly TV and movies) and started to have crushes on teen stars (who were usually white) I began to create my own stories where girls who looked like me could get some love. It took a while for me to put those stories on paper, and even then those black girls started to look less like "the most beautiful of beautiful ever" to be worthy of said man to just "regla" girls who could be the most beautiful of beautiful for their man.

Thus sprouted my interest in writing interracial love stories featuring a black woman and a nonblack man. Of course, this choice raises several eyebrows, particularly for those who know me personally because I'm very much proud to be a person of African descent and I'm very much advocate for black love in real life and the media--to the point I get ridiculously excited when I see a black couple being loving to each other because that's something you just so rarely see in the media. But that's the problem--it is as if it is mutually exclusive to be proud to be black/to see black love while at the same time being open to dating/loving outside one's race. And no, it's not good enough for a black couple to be together just because both parties are black; color as the foundation of a relationship will never be strong enough to have that relationship last. One of the reasons I focused my studies on interracial fiction in college because I wanted to see how interracial relationships (not strictly of the romantic variety) were handled through the ages. There were some very, um, interesting ideas (my "favorite" is an actual black and white striped child of an interracial union from like the late 16th century), but there was still an element of...I don't want to say fetishism, but the inability for a story to be told in such a way where the story didn't end tragically or in such a way that I was frustrated with one or both of the lead characters.

I'd decided for my thesis I would write my own interracial fiction--Reconstructing Jada Channing was the very first original story I gave a serious attempt to writing...and then I thought this was crap and decided to start writing Being Plumville. Reconstructing Jada Channing garnered high praise in my departments, to the point it was named the best thesis on African-American Literature at my alma mater for the 2004-2005 school term; and Being Plumville has opened so many doors for me I cannot count. Now, I have several publications out, all of which the main focus is a black woman loving and being loved, because in the end, that's all that matters. And in many ways, giving the heroine a hero who is different from her racially and/or culturally forces her to learn more about herself in the context of not only a black woman, but a member of humanity (and the hero, too, for that matter. And to get one's characters to that plane of "love is love" is my ultimate goal of all.

(Note: Felix Reynolds in Being Plumville is definitely inspired by Jeremy Simms and Ronnie Bass from the film Remember the Titans. If you're not acquainted with either, I highly recommend you check out Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and Remember the Titans. RtT is an automatic stop-and-watch at my house, I don't even care. My sis and I quote the mess out of that film. Oh, and one more thing--Gerry & Julius = O.T.P.)

Can't Have One without the Other

In the byline, if you will, of this blog, it says this is supposed to be about my journey as an author. And it has been...just weighted very heavily on the professional side of that journey. What I've been avoiding, even denying in a large sense, is that personal side of the journey; and what I am realizing is the professional can only go as far as the personal will allow. So, in that vein, I will be doing more personal blogging. Probably. Many of the things I'll discuss here I haven't told a soul...haven't even owned up to it myself. But this isn't my first time journaling, and there is something to be said about seeing the progression of moods from day to day to week to week to month to month to year to year. It's scary, humbling, and freeing to see all of this; and to give the world access to it even more so (because even though I can't really tell if people read this blog, I do know some of the few folk who do). But if I call myself a writer, I have to square with the fact I do that every time produce a book. So, be prepared for more BTS posts about what makes me tick enough to write what I write. If for nothing else, it'll probably be beneficial to me to keep myself honest and open to receiving the stories that have chosen me to tell them.

Romance Slam Jam 2011 - The Beginning

I’d entertained the idea of doing audio posts; but the glitch I found was uploading the files to create podcasts. I’ll table that idea for now and I just write them out the semi old–fashioned way for the time being. The trip to Baltimore for the Romance Slam Jam started off…challenging. First of all, it was the first real day of ToM (men, ask the women in your life what that is), which means I was already miserable. And then, found out my original departure of 9:50pm on Tuesday was pushed back to 10:30pm…then 11:45pm…then 12:15am…and I didn’t get on the train until 12:40am on Wednesday. Bless my coworker and her husband’s hearts, the folks who’d offered to drop me at the train station. They hung around until 11pm and told me to text them as soon as I arrived to the hotel…which didn’t occur until about 11:30 or so that morning. Yet considering I wasn’t supposed to get to the hotel until 10-something anyway, that wasn’t so bad. Just, the principle of the thing to wait that long at the train station AND miss my initial connecting train. That was unnecessary stress on one of the worst days of the month for me. But I made it!

And I napped. People, I don’t nap, but I needed to yesterday; otherwise, I would’ve been no good to anyone. I’m just glad I do have a room to myself; I could relax in a way that I wouldn’t have been able to do so with one.

I ate lunch alone and then sat at a table with fellow RSJ people because they’d walked in just as I was finished. Went down to dinner alone and ended up eating with a large group of authors who’ve taken me under their wings a bit. I’m among the youngest authors here, if not the youngest. Per usual. They keep teasing me about my youth here, but it’s all good. I’m always eager to learn from those who’ve been in the game longer and are being successful at it I’m far more settled this third go round than I was when I first came to the RSJ in 2008. I was a nervous wreck then; now I have more ownership over my space in the writing circle.

According to the schedule, I’m the only person in my reader’s session; however, I think that’s going to change considering the other session has three people in it. Either I’ll join them or one will join me. Or I’ll just sit in the other one, because that reader’s session features one of my mentors!

Nevertheless, I’m going to will a great RSJ 2011 into the universe, and maybe I’ll get a bit of writing done along the way. I tend to have good luck with that, considering I’d written the majority of Trolling Nights at the 2008 iteration of it.

Enjoy your day!

Strolling down Memory Lane toward My Goal

I've been going over old writing this past week, checking out my stable, as it were, because it's writing contest/awards season; otherwise, I probably wouldn't have bothered. On the one hand, I'm looking at how much are really still works in progress. On the other, I'm looking at how good these works are. This is a change for me, folks, because before, I would nitpick at all the stuff that's wrong about these stories. This time, I'm reading and almost forgetting I wrote it because I'm getting absorbed in the story (I say almost because I'm aware enough to make changes here and there). These stories are strong, even if they don't ultimately win any contests or awards. I'm noticing how much I've improved upon my craft and it's relieving to see, actually. I'm falling in love with my characters all over again, and I know that I will be proud when these manuscripts are finally ready for publication.

Perhaps it's the way I'm approaching this writing contest season now, in that I won't consider any response, whether good or bad, as the definitive word on my talent or the opportunities I have to make it in this industry. In fact, I went back and looked at some old "rejections" (either regarding poor scoring in contests or unsuccessful queries to publishers/editors/agents)--none of them said I couldn't write. I'd been too absorbed in the "no" to really read everything that was being said in the responses. I can write. I've had wonderful friends and mentors encourage me on that front, and every author needs to hear that from someone other than his or herself to remain sane. The real concern, for me especially, was and is truly, "does anyone but me care about this story?" That's what's great about being able to independently publish. It doesn't much matter if a publisher cosigns you or not, I as an independent author can share my story directly to the readers and have them decide if they care about the story. I don't have to worry about publishers playing the odds against my book to determine if they'll foot the bill publishing it (although that is still one goal of mine, as publisher have a larger readership pool to access than little ol' me).

I first heard this from Evelyn Palfrey, even though I'm sure countless others have said it--there is a reader for every book, but no book for every reader. I'm grateful for all the readers I get, truly. I've had so many people come up to me and say things such as, "yours is the first interracial/multicultural/fiction/African-American book I've ever read and I loved it! Comments like that help ground me and keep me focused on why I'm writing in the first place. Making a true living off my writing really is a main goal, to be sure, but I'm trying to write stories people want to read but may not be getting in mainstream publishing.

Yet.

Reverb 10: Day 31 - Core Story

December 31 – Core Story.
What central story is at the core of you, and how do you share it with the world? (Bonus: Consider your reflections from this month. Look through them to discover a thread you may not have noticed until today.)

My core story is love--love of self, love of others, believing that one is lovable and deserves to be love. That's the story I always strive to tell in my writing. That's the story I'm trying to tell for myself. Love doesn't just apply to the perfect people; one does not need to be perfect to give or receive it. All it needs to be is genuine, without an agenda. People want to give their love, and it's such a better life when one loves him or herself unconditionally. The problem is, it's very difficult, especially in a society where love is codefied with socially accepted beauty, with parameters on who can love whom, with the desert of love is supposedly directly correlated with things that really don't matter in the long run. I write to show people are people, and I'm learning I"m fine just the way I am; lovable just the way I am; that I need to love me, because I'm always with me. If I love myself, I'll never have to worry about being unloved again, and that will be a fantastic thing to know and understand. You receive what you put out in the universe; as soon as I put out that I am lovable and capable of loving, that will be the kind of energy I'll attract in my life, and that's the kind of energy that I not only want, but I truly need as well.

Everyone, thank you for keeping up with me and have a very Happy New Year (and Kuumba!)!

Reverb 10: Day 30 – Gift

December 30 – Gift.
This month, gifts and gift-giving can seem inescapable. What’s the most memorable gift, tangible or emotional, you received this year?

The gift of acceptance, and it's a gift I gave myself. Learning to accept the good things, to accept the things I cannot change, and to even accept bad things will happen to you, and how to flip it so that I may learn and grow from it. Learning to accept myself and accept that people have already accepted me, and sometimes it's not my place to know why.

Reverb 10: Days 28 - 29

December 28 – Achieve.
What’s the thing you most want to achieve next year? How do you imagine you’ll feel when you get it? Free? Happy? Complete? Blissful? Write that feeling down. Then, brainstorm 10 things you can do, or 10 new thoughts you can think, in order to experience that feeling today.

I want to be prolifically read next year; meaning, I want people to be able to read my work in such a way that publishers know I have some awesome stories to tell and people truly want to read it. The ten things I can do to accomplish that:

1.) Publish more. 2.) Promote more. 3.) Network more. 4.) Communicate with my lit agent and the publisher I already have more. 5.) Forgive myself more. 6.) Write more. 7.) Read more. 8.) Review more. 9.) Help others more. 10.) Pray more.


December 29 – Defining Moment.
Describe a defining moment or series of events that has affected your life this year.

The defining moment of this year was when I woke up one morning and my irreverent self said, "For Lent, I'm giving up low self-esteem." I think without that decision, there would have been several other events I would not have handled very well, including the accidents I'd been in, the deaths I'd experienced, and even going back to my reunions. That moment of decision straightened my spine and inserted a core mantra inside of my that I could draw up whenever I started feeling really down; and I had friends that helped me along the way. That event was a definite, definite turning point for me.

Reverb 10: Days 26 - 27

December 26 – Soul Food.
What did you eat this year that you will never forget? What went into your mouth & touched your soul?

As soon as my roommate and I got onto the cruise ship for the RSJ anniversary cruise, we found the food deck because we were all famished. I cannot remember what we had for lunch, but I remember that dessert. It was a turtle cheesecake, and that was one of the best cheesecakes I'd ever had. It was soo good, my roommate even liked it--and she wasn't generally a cheesecake fan! I proceeded to spend the next five days looking for that cheesecake, but to no avail! I loved it; it made me so happy. It was a good way to start off an excellent cruise!


December 27 – Ordinary Joy.
Our most profound joy is often experienced during ordinary moments. What was one of your most joyful ordinary moments this year?

Whenever I can find a quiet moment and just let a book suck me in, that's an enjoyable moment; and it's actually these last few days that I've been able to have those because it's been almost nonstop for me this year. But that quiet, me and book moment...yeah. That's an awesome ordinary joy.

Reverb 10: Day 25 – Photo

December 25 – Photo – a present to yourself.

Sift through all the photos of you from the past year. Choose one that best captures you; either who you are, or who you strive to be. Find the shot of you that is worth a thousand words. Share the image, who shot it, where, and what it best reveals about you.

I took this picture of myself after I'd spent an afternoon at a port of call during the Romance Slam Jam cruise. I hadn't intended to stay long off the boat--just go onto the island, snap a few shots, and get back on the ship just to say I'd "been" to Jamaica. I was alone, so that had been the plan, until a group of readers adopted me for the afternoon and we met one of the readers' friends who'd moved to Jamaica a few years ago. During that trip I'd gotten hit on, bartered two of my books for two bracelets, and bought some Jamaican soap as souvenirs. It was a great afternoon; it told me that life is full of unexpected surprises, people can be truly lovely, and I'm so dope the men all pause! ;p Also, this picture is a good indicator of my hair lenght back in April, as it's grown much more since then!

Reverb 10: Days 22 - 24

I hope everyone who celebrates Christmas had a fantstic one and everyone will have a wonderful New Year! Here's my Reverb10 catch-up post!

December 22 – Travel.
How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year?

I traveled by every mode of transportation this year, which is pretty cool--boat, car, train, pane, bicycle! This year, I did fulfill a dream of traveling to the Caribbean as I'd never done it. Maybe next year I'll shoot for South America or even the Western half of the United States, as it's been a while since I'd been there. And Chicago to see my sister.


December 23 – New Name Let’s meet again, for the first time.
If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?

Hmm, I really like my name, so I don't know if I'd ever want to do that; but if I had to introduce myself with a pseudonym, probably Esther because it means star and I'm trying to let my inner light shine really brightly.


December 24 – Everything’s OK.
What was the best moment that could serve as proof that everything is going to be alright? And how will you incorporate that discovery into the year ahead?



Around the time my grandmother died, there was so much laughter despite the deep sadness we felt; and so many other things were going right in many people's lives, that I knew not only would we survive this, we would be resilient while doing so. I truly believe Grandma had been putting some things in place for us before she passed, so even though I still get sad now, I can still look around and see how truly blessed I and my family is.

Reverb 10: Day 21 – Future Self

December 21 – Future Self.

Imagine yourself five years from now. What advice would you give your current self for the year ahead? (Bonus: Write a note to yourself 10 years ago. What would you tell your younger self?) (Author: Jenny Blake)

Dear Savannah of 2011,

Don't ever let anyone silence or devalue your story, including yourself. When you start feeling muffled, open your mouth really wide and shout. It may not feel comfortable those first few tries, but don't worry about that. The more you practice, the more it'll become second nature. And try to use that cleverness for good instead of snark (more often; don't let go of the snark completely, however!)

Also, smile more. You have a beautiful smile, dear. And don't be scared of your walk, either. Your walk is fire; everyone else will be the moths.

Dear Savannah of 2000/2001,

You're about to enter a stage of ridiculousness in your life--both in good and bad ways. When you get to those hallowed halls of ivy, don't be too blown away by it. You made it into that school for a reason; and though you'll continuously meet people smarter, more beautiful, more talented, that doesn't mean your contributions are any less worthy. You will be a friend to the most unlikely of people--do not consider these friendships as shows of pity or that you are unworthy of them. You will be a valuable force to people, a breath of fresh air, a wonder. Allow that; don't discount it. And when you embark on that path to your dreams, be dogged and don't let those stumbling blocks (no matter how well intentioned they are) stop you from keeping on. Get up, brush those scratched needs up, find some bandages, and keep it moving. And if someone offers you a ride, don't be proud; accept it--but do your homework first. You want to take a ride, not be taken for one!

And you betta sang till the spirit moves in your heart.

Reverb 10: Day 20 - Beyond Avoidance

December 20 – Beyond Avoidance.
What should you have done this year but didn’t because you were too scared, worried, unsure, busy or otherwise deterred from doing? (Bonus: Will you do it?) (Author: Jake Nickell)

I wasn't as outgoing as I could've been this year because I was still uncomfortable in my process of building up self-esteem. I thought myself too fragile to be on that social landscape, but now I realize I was selling myself too short, again. I found that out going to my reunions. People really do want to be around me and know about me and that was a cool thing to realize. However, there was a safety net there because I'd known (of) these people before. The trick is now to put what I'd learned there into practice among complete strangers. It has to happen sometime, especially since I want to ultimately make my living as an author.

Reverb 10: Day 19 - Healing

December 19 – Healing.
What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011? (Author: Leonie Allan)

I did a lot of crying this year. A lot. I hate crying; I try to avoid it as much as possible, but crying is a catharsis for all the emotional backlog I'd been keeping bottled up. I cried until my head split; I cried until my eyes were bloodshot. I cried until an entire box of tissues ended up in the trash. I cried for the myriad of hurts I'd packed down and down and down until I couldn't recognize one from the other. I cried for things I didn't even know I was sad about; I cried because I didn't have enough breath for laughter anymore; I cried because I was tired of acting like some cheesy scene in a movie didn't get me right in the gut. I wept for the unchangeable past, the uncertain future, and the volatile present.