Super

"Boom Bye Bye" by Buju Banton
...ooman is the greatest ting dat eva put pon the land...

The PJs is my new jawn on television. It is a stop motion show that ran on what was then known as the WB from Januray of 1999 to May of 2001. During the show's tenure, I don't think I was that into it but I have rediscovered in the last few weeks.

It follows the superintendent of a urban development building filled with Black people and immigrants primarily from the US's neighboring islands like Cuba and Jamaica.

There is a character that represents many groups in poor, urban communities, including crackheads. It jovially discusses the tragedies of urban life in its humor. It has the bittersweet quality of a functional communities, friends amongst neighbors, juxtposed against the dreariness that is the life of the poor.

The PJs has a lightness and a simultaneous depth in every punch line, situation, and character. I don't know if the humor is exclusive to poor people of color, as I am not White. But growing up in the culture I have, I wonder if White people get it, especially economically fortuante White people. I wonder if the humor and the tragedy are balanced or if they only see the misery of poverty.

I think it was Sonia Sanchez who wrote a poem about how defining "they" make poverty to be. She explained that they poverty of her beginning does not qualify the success of her later. She happened to be poor economically, but that does not mean her life was lacking in more meaningful ways. I think that is forgotten about the poor.

Michael Eric Dyson (my intellectual lover and these blogs possibly being our love child?) likes to argue that America has entered a stage in which the poor are blamed for being poor. His most poignant point is that despite their station in our economic hierarchy, they are people with dignity, with pride, with heart, with happiness, whole lives, and with potential but missing the opportunity and the resources.

So, I am struggling to remember that despite my mess in life, I am a whole person, with potential . Plus, The PJs is just funny as all hell.

Little Darlin'

"Stir It Up" by Bob Marley

...it's not really about the words this time...but at minute 3:25 starts this melody that stops the earthquake, pushes your life off the edge of death, and gives the solutions an outline at least, which is better than the nothing you had before...

Yesterday I travelled to my third world democracy: the parentals. My Dad has been asking for me to come over and discuss some suggestions he had about my life.

It's funny: suggestions about my life. As if my life is some piece of unfinished art, some uneditted book. But I guess it is. That is exactly what my life is.

He and Mom think it is a good idea that I go home, but home as in Sierra Leone. I think it is a good idea. They think that I should get away from this "toxic America", and I think I agree. I am immeasurably unahppy. I am constantly lonely. My vices are my friends now because my friends are simply inadequate. My friends lack nothing as human beings or as caring friends. I simply do not care about my life enough. However important they say I am in their lives does not translate into a reason to live.

But I know that I should be alive, so I am quite conflicted. I cannot lose anything by going back home for a while. Maybe being away from my vices will help me make more and better friends.

The thing that I worry about though is my Mommy. I do not feel like there is anything to be done to get her back. My pictures are missing from the living room. I know that was her idea. My father would never be that angry. And it is painful. It is that kind of painful that chokes you and makes you cry even when you do not want to. You are simply forced to cry at even the most inopportune of moments.

Funnily, I did not notice my pictures were gone until I was about to leave. It rocked me so hard that I could not even wait for my brother to finish talking to my Dad. I had to go to the car and cry like I had died. My pictures were gone...as if I had died.

I wrote her a letter. I said I missed her. I said I loved her. I apologized. I said I missed her. I cry all the time because I just want to talk to her. And she has removed my pictures.

I cannot just walk away. I cannot just let it go and move on. She is not a mean boyfriend. She is my mother. And my Lima Bean. I have to be in his life so I have to be in her life. The guilt I would feel if I left Lima would kill me so I'll endure the torture that is seeing my mother who does not say a word to me. He is worth it and if I think of this problem in terms of Lima and not Mommy, maybe I will not cry so much.

Because at minute 3:25 of "Stir it Up" until the song goes off, I have the outline of a solution at least, which is better than the nothing I had before...

Keep Me Where the Light Is

"Gravity" by John Mayer
...gravity...is working against me...

I keep doing stupid things. I keep calling him or emailing him or rehearsing a phone call or mentally writing an email. I keep messing up. I keep dragging it on.

I told him that I'm not trying to drag this on. My actions indicate otherwise.

I'm not trying to drag this on. I'm trying to walk away; trying not to make us the end of me. But I keep doing stupid things.

I keep crying; like a bitch. I reprimand myself for crying and then I cry because I reprimanded myself. And then the songs on my iTunes start arguing. Lyfe Jennings hands me a tissue and tells me my tears are cathartic. He says God is counting my tears and will replenish my spent energy with happiness.

Toni Braxton hugs me and says I must let it go. I must let him go. She says that all of him Will escape in my water.

R. Kelly croons that I am sinking to rise no more. And as the cold tears gather around me, I realize I am losing the energy to swim. I'm not going to make it.

Mary J. Blige stays up late with me every night. We cry and scream, cuss and shout, sleep and get some peace of mind, and sit in silence while I go down and pretend not to cry.

John Mayer tells me about myself; calls me out; blows away my smokescreen of lies and sets up the most unforgiving mirror. I get angry and I change the song, but his words are intrusive and relentless.

Lauryn says that love is just like water: replenishing and deadly like shit.

Mariah doesn't do a damn thing but put on her tragedy and make me cry. Then when I begin to reprimand myself, she pushes Jazmine Sullivan on the stage.

Jazmine don't do nothing but tell the truth and spell G-o-s-p-e-l. I am sad when she sings but I dare not cry. I feel like she can hear me and will reprimand me before I can reach for the tissue box that is already soaked from the water I have caught in my hands.