Monthly Archives: August 2018

A Letter to my Husband

Dedicated to all my Sisters who are married to white men

Baby. Hi. Please hear me on something. If I describe an issue as racial, please hear me openly before you judge. Put yourself in my shoes for a moment: To white people, I am black. To black people, I am light-skinned. And to Latino people, I am flaca. Whereas, to everyone, you are always white.

Consider, intellectually, how complicated that is. Consider how emotionally complicated. How Spiritually and Physically complicated. How historically complicated. How can I reconcile all these voices, all these Ancestors? That is something I have to answer moment-to-moment in order to maintain equilibrium.

Anyway, put yourself in my shoes. And don’t worry, I’ve been putting myself into your shoes since I was a kid and saw Captain Kirk for the first time. You cannot argue with Capt. Kirk, unless you are Spock. I was like, “Damn. I want my own ship…,” and further damn, I want to be Wise.

Get it? There were no black Captain Kirks. No black Spocks. I could not even DREAM without going outside the box. That’s a lot to ask of a child.

If you feel defensive towards my words, then please, just be with that. Be with your defensiveness. What is it you want to defend? If you do all these things, and you still think I’m overreacting, I will accept some truth around Tai-needing-to tone-herself-down. Tai is being dramatic.

I prefer to think of myself as wild. There has always been that in me: a place that will not be tamed, like the forest of trees on my head. I am in the business of reclaiming my power. I am off-key a lot. I am exploring this voice inside me that wants to talk, to wail, to sing her names into the seven winds. I want to be heard. I want justice. I want equality. I want America to come together unlike ever before in the butchery we call expansion. And I know you do too.

So, for example, yesterday, two twenty-something white women rang my front doorbell. They started talking at me with a kind of hidden violence, meant to disarm me. The thing they were trying to sell, in this case, was one of those third-party energy scam policies that are rampant in Roxbury right now. So first of all, I was annoyed by the unscrupulousness of the scam itself. Then I felt irate at the people who took advantage of these young women and finally, I felt mad at the women themselves, for participating in the greed at my expense. They flaunted these terrifying masks of invulnerability.

It was like a bad dream.


Broken, full of dreams

“Summary: First performed by American Ballet Theater on April 22 1948, Fall River Legend is the story of Lizzie Borden, the Massachusetts spinster who was tried for the ax-murder of her father and stepmother. Although Lizzie was actually acquitted, in the ballet she is convicted and hanged. De Mille creates a portrait of a shy, sensitive but receptive girl, turned into a murderess by her father’s psychological abandonment in favor of his second wife, a sour, jealous, manipulative woman who frustrates Lizzie’s budding romance with her minister. Gothic in tone and deeply perceptive in its depiction of the consequences of love thwarted, Fall River Legend reveals a truth deeper than reality.” From

Fall River Legend is one of my favorite ballets. The masterful choreography by Agnes de Mille was matched by an epic score by Morton Gould. Fall River did the thing that art can do at its best: be a vehicle for feeling. Fall River articulated the hush of hidden things, longings, humiliation, humor, frailty, the dream of the mother.

And those goddamn consecutive pirouettes, from fourth-to-fourth, that changed direction. Fall forward! Put on the brakes!

For me, Virginia Johnson of Dance Theatre of Harlem, defined the role of Lizzie Borden. Of course, she managed to make those damn turns look easy, as one skipping into the throes of first love. Those turns…not perfect, never perfect, but so fully alive. Virginia spoke to us in how she picked up the axe. Picked it up and hid it in her skirt. The horror of realization. The chill up the spine.

How does one make sense of the need for sexual love in a world like Lizzie’s, that is, 19th century religious New England? How does one meet that need within when something about you doesn’t meet the society’s standards of worthiness in that area? How does a spinster feel good about her need for sexuality, when, at least externally, she has been stripped of it? How could Lizzie love herself when love was not reflected to her? How do you see past the reflection, or without a reflection? These were some of the underlying issues that Lizzie faced. I was fifteen the first time I saw Fall River, hardly a spinster, but for different reasons, outcast. As such, I was also desperate to make sense of those questions.

Lizzie falls in love with the pastor, and in doing so, reveals herself to be more than her pain. She is a sexual being. For this, she is punished by others for reflecting what they had denied in her and denied in themselves, through her, which was of course, her beauty. Her beauty, unique in this world. Her beauty, broken, but still full of dreams. Just like all of us. (Blade Runner 2049 airhorns!).

Where was I? Lizzie was punished by the preacher, whom she felt betrayed her. She was punished by her jealous mother-in-law. Lizzie was punished by her father’s indifference. And it doesn’t end there: she was punished by a community that tried to console, but lacked the togetherness of spirit and rituals that give a warm coat to cold night of grief.

Lizzie kills her father and step-mother. Please, understand, I am not advocating killing anyone, but why is it, that when men kill the bad guy, they are seen as heros, but when women kill the bad guy, they are labeled, shunned, imprisoned, burnt at the stake?

The towns-peoples’ rejection of Lizzie is a rejection of themselves. They are unwilling to look at their own failure in the matter, or to even recognize that they have a responsibility towards Lizzie, and so they chose Lizzie as a scapegoat. In other words, they choose to reinforce an idea of separation between themselves and the “other.” That’s how we hate. Lizzie had no one. Her tragedy points us in the direction of love.

I could not have articulated all of that upon my first viewing of the ballet in 1985 at age 15, but I could feel the mystery that it stirred within me. That first experience of Fall River was one of the few examples I remember then, of seeing a complicated, thoughtful woman character, through the medium of art, that looked like me, inside and out. For the first time, I saw myself onstage, especially through Lizzie, but also through the predominantly black community it portrayed, dealing with issues about being human in the way that only stories can.

If you’re not in the story, you’re not fully in the collective consciousness. So art, and in this case, Fall River danced by Dance Theatre of Harlem, put me in my own narrative. Dig that.

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