Abdullah I. Shawafemailed me recently to be added toA Cornered Gurl. I had read a few pieces of his via Medium and enjoyed each of them. To receive that email, struck a chord in me, one that was happy to be awakened. His first contribution to ACG is a heartfelt piece personifying love and how love would react if we as humans asked it how it truly felt about its role in life–about its role as something we chase, yet handle so carelessly at times. I was happy to receive this piece in the ACG queue, review it, edit only a few areas, and get it published. I am honored to share this poetry-prose piece and Abdullah I. Shawaf with each of you.
When We Asked Love, Who Are You and Where Do You Exist?
As he was eager to be asked, he told us about the place where everything seems darkened and hopeless.
The greatest combat in history happened between love and hatred in a neutral heart — when both of the armies held a sign: “A winner takes what he puts his hands on, and the loser loses his right to vote.”
There we asked Love, one of the survivors, who are you?
And as he was eager to be asked, he answered:
I’m a flower shining in the dark, trying to forget that flowers need light to survive.
I’m a leashed power that stayed on the war line for a complete life, willing to change but not having the green light.
I am the survivor of the cold war, where survivors tell the story before they are gone.
Where soldiers’ powers are made of life events, and their colors are either darkened or blank.
Where the two sides fighting who will be the part who takes over and drives.
And from there, the events were to decide whether the heart leans to the good or the bad side.
Then I realized that no one controls his life, as his events shaped his mind.
No one was born violent, but what changed him is his environment.
I’m convinced the first call to racism was a joke that made everyone laugh, but the victim, he cried and got more soldiers on the hatred side.
He was upset by how people throw their words like daggers, and they don’t care about how much it hurts. And soon, racism was no longer a joke; it became a thought.
But one thing is sure; no one completely changes.
No matter how much hatred is there, there will be love somewhere.
You will find love in the strangest places where you never expected, it exists there.
It’s hidden, deep and covered under the ashes, waiting for the chance to be unleashed.
Octavia Butler, born on June 22, 1947, gifted us with a genre of writing we had not experienced from African-American artists and writers before her or alongside her. Her work transcended time, broke down universal barriers, and shifted the category of “science fiction.” She wrote with a vigilance that somehow felt oneiric yet quite real while reading her work.
We could have been her characters. We are her characters.
The way she beckoned a plot and described her settings could pull you from wherever you were while reading her books, short stories, and essays and deposit you to that very spot. She was mythical yet real. She was defiant yet obedient. She was skillful yet willing to learn more about her craft.
She was a writer I simply had to read. My first book by Octavia Butler was the enthralling and still incredibly popular, Kindred which was given as a reading assignment in my African-American Literature class when I was in college.
It is a story of a young writer (Dana) shifting through time, traveling from her current period of the 1970s in California back to the days of antebellum slavery in Maryland. There, in the throes of thriving slavery, she meets her ancestors (Rufus and Alice Greenwood) and experiences the life and times of what it meant to be enslaved, but in temporary doses brought on by dizzy spells that initiated the time traveling.
She was mythical yet real. She was defiant yet obedient. She was skillful yet willing to learn more about her craft.
Butler depicts just how painful the shifts in time can be by bringing on dizzy spells that land Dana in various places during the antebellum slavery days where Rufus always seems to be in some sort of trouble and Dana arrives in the nick of time to help him.
By her third trip shifting, she and her white husband Kevin are both placed at Rufus’ home where they had to prove to the young master that they are indeed from the future and their stay in that time gets longer and even more intense.
It is an invigorating and impressive read as well. However, I did not expect anything less given the reviews I read before diving into reading the book for the first time. Plus, my African-American Literature professor gushed openly about it and was sure it would change our lives after we read it. It changed mine.
I wanted to know more about this writer who was unafraid to test the waters and completely transform the way I looked at science fiction. Thus, over time, I bought Parable of the Talents, Parable of the Sower, and Fledgling. I was not disappointed. Butler shares her gift of diving into the unknown, encountering mystics, and the push and pull of spiritualism with every read. I read her work and want to know what was growing in her mind — how did she come up with the talented work she gave us?
Butler became a receiver of firsts. She was the first science fiction writer to earn the McArthur Fellowship, class of 1995. She was forty-eight years old when she received the award. A few accompanying her within this class was journalist Alma Guillermo Prieto, writer Sandra Cisneros, and filmmaker Allison Anders. Butler also won the Hugo Award and Nebula Prize respectively, for not one, but several of her written works; Bloodchild and Speech Sounds, and Parable of the Talents and Parable of the Sower.
She is also known as the “godmother of Afrofuturism” which is a title never bestowed upon anyone else. Much of her vision for her work can be seen in videos by Beyoncé, in episodes of Black Mirror, and in movies by Ava DuVernay.
Butler shares her gift of diving into the unknown, encountering mystics, and the push and pull of spiritualism with every read.
When I mention my favorite writers, she is on that list. I have written a few pieces that toe the line of science fiction, spiritualism, and fantasy because of reading her work. She inspired me to push the envelope and never be afraid to try new genres in writing.
Octavia Bulter died at the age of fifty-eight on February 24, 2006, from a stroke. It is hard to believe that it has been nearly fourteen years since her death, however, the work she produced lives on. I will always remember her as the “Queen Mother of Science Fiction.” Butler’s body of work, the way in which she devoted her time and skills to encourage young writers via workshops, and public speaking about her personal growth in the sci-fi genre (which was traditionally dominated by white men) are symbols of Butler’s willingness to help writers hone their craft.
At first, I thought Butler’s work an esoteric brand, but as time passed, that view has changed. Not only is her legacy a strong one in the African-American community — she is widely known and acknowledged for her efforts and accomplishments as an African-American science fiction writer.
To Octavia Butler: the first to do so many things in the world of writing. There will never be another.
Originally published in Our Human Family via Medium. The link shared is a friend link as the piece is behind Medium’s paywall. Thank you for reading.
Donation
Creative content straight from the mind of an innovator trying to shift the world with her writing.
God has a way of
sitting your ass down
when all you want to do
is ignore your body’s pain,
push through its topsy turvy
attitude, and rage against
your limitations. You want to
show it that you have the upper hand.
You don’t.
You want to believe that you do.
But, you don’t.
One morning, you’re fine.
The day is just like any other,
you fill your body with the
needed iron and Vitamin D it lacks,
you eat a hearty breakfast,
drink a cup of coffee,
and bounce your way out of the door.
The next morning, you’re blocked.
The bed locks you in.
Your back cramps up — spasms,
you brace yourself for torture.
Your left leg tightens.
You know this pain.
You know what’s coming.
You try to get up, try to
beat the rush of thunder
that rattles your bones, your
own personal storm.
You know the rain . . .
The pounding and
howling winds.
You also know, it will pass.
You lie back down,
caress the bed that caresses you,
and try to close your eyes.
You take this moment.
You free yourself from
work, running errands,
editing, research, publishing,
and saving someone else’s day.
You swallow that saucy pride
of yours and realize, finally, realize
that today is the day
you better try to save
yourself.
I never thought a heart could
break into a million pieces
until you captured mine,
mangled it, shook past lives
from its hold, and wagered
with its weight.
your storm is what I needed most.
Since your departure,
I look at my hands,
my fingers, my feet, my toes.
nothing looks the same.
nothing feels the same.
I am this new thing without you.
I have had time to crawl
into spaces left unchecked,
pull out my confidence,
and rest in the wake of
a healing body.
I am at a crossroads —
one road less traveled versus
another with potholes
and traffic jams.
and I see myself smiling,
happier to have had this loss.
This, in a bold and gratifying way,
is my muse. It is my understanding
of a new world without blinders.
Without stop signs and smoke signals.
It is my appreciation for a détente
in the middle of a growth spurt.
For a measured path at
the end of a tethered rope . . .
I bet you didn’t think
I would thank you for
this growth one day, but
I am grateful for every
denouncement you threw
in my direction.
I wear stronger gloves now
and the next series of
curveballs headed
this way will be fiercely caught.
“They gave out condom samplers at school today.” The soiled air of their single-family home embraced Jazmin as soon as she entered the front door. Her Mom was sitting on the couch reading the latest issue of her favorite magazine. She looked up from the article as soon as the door slammed.
“They did what?!”
“Condoms. They gave them out today during my Sex Education class. You know . . . The one you signed the permission slip for me to take?”
“Condoms? What the hell? Why didn’t they ask me if I am okay with you receiving condoms? I don’t recall that being a blip or description of the course on the permission slip.”
“It’s a part of the course, Mom. They showed us a video about sex, sexually transmitted diseases, pregnancy prevention, and even one on how to put a condom on your male partner.”
Cara began to rise up from the couch, but thought against it and sat back down. She sat there listening to her daughter — this fifteen-year-old communicating to her about sex, condoms, and birth control. She sighed heavily before speaking again.
“Jazzy, I didn’t even think about what could possibly be discussed outside of ‘Do this. Don’t do that. And, make sure you protect yourself’ when I signed that permission slip. I am grateful your school offers this type of education, but you know we can talk about these things too. You know that right?”
Jazmin looked up at her Mom, smiled at her gently, and silently thanked the heavens for a woman so understanding as her.
“I know, Mom. Besides, I have no use for this type of condom — I’m a lesbian. I asked if they had any dental dams or if they intended to show any videos on how to use those and the program organizers dismissed my questions. I’d been meaning to tell you, just hadn’t had the time. Now, seems perfect, though.”
Cara smiled sweetly at her girl. This time, she slowly gathered her slim frame from the couch, walked over to Jazmin, and sheltered her with her arms.
“Oh, Jazzy. I’ve known. I’ve always known. I wanted you to find your way, to share with me whenever you felt you needed to. And now . . . Well, now you have. And just so you know, condoms can be used as dental dams. I will pull up a few YouTube videos for you on how to turn a condom into a dental dam, okay?”
“What?! How?! Mom, why do you know this? I mean, I am glad that you do, but — how?!”
“Watching you grow up has prepared me for impromptu happenings. You have never been any kind of normal society likes to place on children and knowing this, I made certain I would be ready for whoever you are or want to be. When you were about ten years old, I noticed how closely you clung to Amanda, the neighbors’ girl. I still notice. I’m no fool, Jazzy.”
“So . . . you know about us?
“I do.”
“And, you’re okay with it?”
“I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jazmin twiddled her thumbs and wiped a single tear from her eyes. She knew her Mom was great, but now she really knew. The soiled air closed in on the two of them and their hug was the safest place to be at that moment. Then, Jazmin thought about the possibilities of Cara slipping up and outing them in front of Amanda’s parents . . .
“Her parents would die! We can’t tell the Thompsons, Mom. Amanda would kill me and I really, really want her to be my girlfriend for a long time. Forever, even. I kinda love her. No — I love her.”
“Well, I hope you would want to explore other women too, but for now — I understand your heart is where it wants to be. You let me worry about the Thompsons. I’ll talk to those program organizers at your school too.”
The two of them stood in the middle of their living room, embraced in a hug that never had to end, and enjoying every second of it.
“Sex education laws vary greatly among the states. Most states have laws that address some form of sexual education in schools, differing between what may or may not be taught and whether a parent may remove their child from certain sexual education programs with which they disagree.
The majority of states allow parents to remove their child or “opt-out” of sexually-related instruction, while other states require affirmative parental consent for a child to take sexual education classes or participate in school-based health clinic services.” — FindLaw’s Team of legal writers and editors
Originally published in The Weekly Knob via Medium. The link shared is a friend link as this is a piece behind Medium’s paywall.
Donation
Creative content straight from the mind of an innovator trying to shift the world with her writing.
Ngang God’swill N.is a contributor toA Cornered Gurl and has been for quite some time. I have the great pleasure of watching this young man spread his wings and get rather vocal on Medium. Just from interacting with him and reading his work, I can tell that his heart is genuine and he has his mind set on reaching out to others and connecting with them too.
The piece I have selected to share is a non-fictional piece detailing the importance of letting boys express themselves, cry, and get emotional when they need to so that when they grow up to become men, they understand their emotions and know how to love genuinely and give vulnerable pieces of themselves to others. It is a letter in poetical-prose that touched me as soon as I read it.
Don’t Let Them Become Like Me
A letter to you all.
Hello you,
You may not have known or realized this, but remember all those times I couldn’t speak, that I shut the door and hid from you? Rember that I blocked you and rejected your calls. Do you remember all the days I couldn’t smile, when my voice was a shameful whisper? I was begging you to save me. I was begging you to read me, to reach me.
It’s like this you see, a man must not cry. Must be bold and sharp, strong and enduring, like a super being. But where should I keep all this pain I feel boiling inside, this confusion that chokes me, this insecurity and fear that threatens to break me? Where should I keep these tears that drown my heart, flood my lungs and leave me gasping for air?
You fail to see that I am human too. When you cut me, I bleed; and when you kiss me, I feel those wild sensations too. I sleep when I get weary when my bones ache and my breath feels like a bath of boiling water. But you shut your eyes to all these and dish out violence upon my gentle heart. Stealing all the compassion, the love of my boyish heart, and the color of my toddler days. How much do you think I can take?
How can you now demand water from a rock? How can you ask me to give you love? Where do you think I will get it? I do not know love. Ask me for pain; that is all you’ve ever given me.
You were consistent in my dosage; generations, eras, millennia. It has always been the same, I remember. So ask of me pain, and I will give you all that you have given me, and like the good servant in the Bible; I will also give you all the proceeds it yielded.
I didn’t stop loving, the choice was never mine to make. Attention-deficit is all I have ever known, blindfolded and plunged into an illusion that tomorrow rests on my shoulders alone. Systematically, you heaped the world on my shoulders, one piece at a time till you could barely see me beneath it all. Slowly I slipped into the darkness underneath and sipped in the darkness. It was a gentle process, incessant and scheduled, till my soul became a shadow; with logic for a compass. Now you know why I dish out the most hurt;
Because I am even more hurt and broken than this world.
Somehow, in all this blackness, this journey of pain, abandonment, betrayal, and brokenness, you expect me to be something I’m not. Caring, sensitive, respectful; YOU LIE!
It is painful to scrape off layers accumulated over the years, I will have to relive all the wounds again; the fights and loneliness. The days I realized that my sister’s proper raising was more important than mine, that I was just not important.
How do you expect me to forget the entitlement lessons drilled into me on the battlefield, the silence where I battled with purpose and personality? Tell me how to forget family responsibilities on my shoulders at age twelve, or the pressure it brought. I was a man, RIGHT?!
How can I forget the sacrifices, the stories that haunt my mind; the horrors I have lived? The things I have done and the decisions I have taken that have caused so much hurt to people. Tell me how can I get back the pieces of my soul, the ones I traded to help fulfill my role as a man. Because I am at a loss, I am yet again in another chat with self; of purpose and personality. Will you let me find an answer again? ALONE!?
I have been a man all my life, and I understand what the pressure can do to one’s sanity. You can’t understand as I do, this penis is a personal cross.
Still, from the madness and insanity, I try to reach out to all that is mine. The love you stole from my heart, the laughter and warmth that once made me tick, the calm and cordial temperaments that once made me. The same things you denied me and gave my sister, then praised her over me, as though the choice was mine.
And it’s known that destruction is an easier path, but here, this pit, dismantling is near impossible. It is like having a go at a baobab tree, with a broomstick praying and hoping for a miracle; I will persist still. But for these little ones, these baby brothers you just birthed, please be kinder to them.
Here is a unique chance to right all the wrongs, to wash away the stain. Treat these lads right, tell them it is okay to cry, to love and to not always know the answer. Teach them that it is okay to be human, to make mistakes. Teach them that humanity is a team — brother and sister — and that life is a team sport.
Don’t let them become like me; let them be better.
A Cornered Gurl 
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