like Nas’ “It Ain’t Hard To Tell“, when we spot each other in a room full of our workmates, we fight to get to that hug we’ve been missing–that embrace that saddles us with contentment.
we fight for the purity of touch.
I know you. you know me. we broke down walls to be able to say, “She’s whole without being halved.” we have the drop on one another but we’ll never use it.
I am counting down the days until I see you again. until I get to hear that Flint, Michigan accent with a sprinkle of the Deep South swirling on your tongue.
maybe it’ll be the right time to say, “Yes” to what we’ve had to say “No” to for so long.
or maybe I’m just living through my fantasies again–envisioning you as the key to my heart’s happiness. or maybe, we’re treading lightly because the heavy waves are getting heavier and we need these damn jobs.
we’ve been cautious for years.
and there’s no cat and mouse with us–we’re simply plagued by curiosity and frozen from impending corporate damage.
how long will we be able to hold up our end of the bargain before we have to surrender?
are we willing to battle in the wars of political correctness for the honor of true love?
am I?
*Background music: It Ain’t Hard Tell instrumental, produced by The Large Professor
It was a humid Sunday morning, and I was washing my hands at the sink in the women’s bathroom of my then church. A fellow usher/acquaintance came thundering through the door.
Her glasses were tilted slightly, her forehead had several beads of sweat congregating on it like the people in the pews of the sanctuary. She huffed and puffed and nearly blew the walls down, and then loudly said to me . . .
“Tre, girl!!! Help me!”
Before I could respond, this acquaintance lifted up her form-fitting black dress to her hips and tugged at a modern-day corset that seemed to be making its way down a path it was not supposed to go.
I stood there for a few seconds with wet hands, perplexed by this human who was exasperated and waiting for my assistance. I quickly dried my hands.
This was new territory for me. So many questions were running through my mind. What do I do? Where do I start? Should we just remove this thing altogether?!Why is she even asking me for help?!
So, I did what any nervously questioning human being would do. I slowly stepped behind her and said, “What do I do?”
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She began pulling her dress up even further and then called instructions out to me military style. This isn’t the kind of company I’d normally keep and at this intimate level of care, I worried that I was going to do something wrong.
“Pull the Spanx down, while I shimmy out of it.” Everything floated through my highly anointed yet VERY bisexual mind as I listened to this attractive woman in obvious discomfort instruct me on how to remove a conflicted piece of clothing from her voluptuous and striking body.
DO WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!
I coughed to signal nervousness and then cleared my throat. “You want me to do what now, Jewel?!”
“Pull it down while I try to shimmy free. But don’t pull at it hard, pull slowly. Be gentle. Don’t tear the sides.”
UM . . .
This was my first real encounter with Spanx. The way my brain works is I began wondering why she put this God-forsaken thing on in the first place. Let your curves be free, love . . . is what I truly wanted to say. But she was wearing a form-fitting black dress, in church, during the summer months, and maybe there was something beneficial I didn’t know about to this torture.
I tugged at what felt like leather hide for minutes while she wiggled her hips feverishly to escape the clutches of the manufactured bone-crushing fabric. What seemed like forever, but was probably more like five minutes later, she was free.
She pushed her glasses perfectly on her nose, smoothed her dress down, tidied up her bun, folded the Spanx up and slapped them in her purse, then called to me . . . “Ooh, Tre! Girl, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”
I shook my head in total disbelief but I didn’t want to be rude. “Cool beans, Jewel. You’re most welcome.”
After she left the bathroom, I washed my hands again, stared at the mirror, and said to myself, “What in the world just happened?”
A fellow usher/acquaintance was being tortured by a piece of clothing, and well . . . it was my calling to help.
*Names changed for the purposes of privacy and respect.
Back in the day, the author and I used to participate on a music & writing platform and occasionally connected via AIM. I always felt she’d do what she was meant to do with her artwork. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I had no doubt that I would. It has the author’s voice, her passion, and the intensity for the importance of the topic at hand shines through each page effortlessly.
The Amazon review is below:
“STWTS Should Be Taught In Sex & Gender Courses.
And I say this, having had my stent in one such class while in college, and if I was assigned this book to read, I probably would have felt as if I learned more.
It is a beautiful thing to be able to see words within pages that perfectly describe what I have felt–still feel sometimes about street harassment and the various interactions I’ve had with men while in public.
It is a VERY real thing and should not be brushed aside or swept under the proverbial rug.
The artwork accompanying the stories helps to drive the power of the words home as well as what every woman, non-binary person, and trans-woman has experienced and how street harassment has shaped their lives. You can see the strain and exhaustion on every face.
It also opens a door to dialogue and the changes men must make for this issue to become a non-issue.
The author/artist did a phenomenal job with this book, and I am happy to have it as a part of my collection and favorite reads.”
Being a Woman: Forthcoming. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
It is the perfect way to complete a series. Out of all three, though, the first book is my favorite. It set the tone for the project and had the most impactful words within it.
Below is my Amazon review:
“Emotionally Charged, Binding Poetry.
In this third offering from the “Being a Woman,” project, “Forthcoming” took what I thought was a completely different turn, but this did not dampen or lessen the strength and depth of the poems shared.
Michele shone a light on the dearly departed, the forgotten, the worried, the weakened, and the powerful in this book.
It was easy to connect with quite a few poems and allow my emotions to get the best of me: I felt something. And I assume that’s exactly what the author wants.
Ending the collection, “Forthcoming” finishes on a high note with its last offering, “Return Home”, which solidifies the book in a huge way, and allows the reader to breathe a sigh of relief.
If you haven’t already made this book one of your own, I suggest that you do, and soon.”
Does anyone else need to attend a Books Anonymous meeting or two or three?!
Season 1 of this MAX animated series is also on Netflix. I am hooked! There are 12 episodes and I watched 9 of them on Sunday. I watched the remaining 3 episodes Monday evening after work.
They’re bite-sized. Each of them is no more than 23-28 minutes. The story’ll pull you in with emotionally charged occurrences and devastating results in the last 4 episodes.
I was cursing at the screen and telling “Kris” off as if she could hear me. I was Team Azi and Demeter 227 all the way! It’s a heartbreaking and invigorating tale, and I could not look away!
And . . . it has a happy ending. I was pleased to see everything work out for the “good characters.” I was also pleased to see the main evil creature get its comeuppance.
If you’re into animated science fiction/fantasy/alien life forms, etc., then this series is one you should queue up and enjoy! I’m secretly praying there will be a Season 2!
As I was writing this post, one of my closest friends called to let me know a fellow classmate of ours died over the weekend. Currently, the cause is unknown, and there are no further details, no funeral or viewing arrangements, etc.
We have lost many classmates over the years; the first for me happened when I was only fourteen years old. I do not want to say I’m numb to this, for I am not. I just . . . it’s becoming much too frequent to ignore how dead it makes me feel inside.
He was forty-four years old and surviving him are his three children. Two in high school; a son and a daughter, and one in elementary school. Death is a seeker. It has an agenda and when it is on a mission, that mission will always get accomplished. Whatever need the Lord has for this soul is God’s alone.
*Sighs* I just really wish this wasn’t the news she had to share. But, here we are. And there’s nothing any of us can do about it. It’s life doing what life does and we must go on.
Sadness doesn’t need an introduction–it pops up out of nowhere, clearly ready to stir things up in such an odd way–I can either sink or swim when it chooses to creep in, which one will it be?
A Cornered Gurl 
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