FIRST- Future Investment in Social Technology

Inner Joy for the Holiday Season

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 17 Dec 2014 16:31:00 +0000

When I worked at a health clinic eight years ago as an outreach coordinator, I met a middle-age woman who made a lasting impression on me. Cherubic with a round face and body, and pleasantly mild-mannered, it was hard to write her off as just another public health case when her son was admitted in the hospital yet again. The woman's eleven year old son had chronic asthma that doctors suspected was a result of his living environment. Concerned, the doctors at Kings County wanted an investigation done on the family's living situation. I had to make my way to this woman's apartment as the asthma outreach coordinator. From what I understood then, there could be repercussions if a parent's living situation was found to exacerbate the child's chronic asthma despite doctor's warning. But what I understand now, is that if an alternative is not given, then how fair are these repercussions? And what's the use of a public health intervention without such alternatives in place for those who cannot afford any better?

It was mid-December, 2006. The steel gray sky threatened snow. Lots of it. As I walked the long, dimly lit corridor of the building, I heard the sounds of life behind those grim doors: Babies crying, music seeping under doors and into the hallways like the smells of cooking, people talking over noisy television that carried their favorite daytime talk-shows. Life was contained within these hallways.

Somehow it turned out that I was the only one who showed up at the apartment. I rang the doorbell and waited on the welcome mat that said "Home Sweet Home", spying a door with bullet holes across from where I stood. This was in the projects, in a place I would come to know as Brownsville, Brooklyn. I was fresh out of graduate school in Michigan and new to New York. I was also new as a city worker. I knew nothing about Brownsville. I knew nothing about the projects. And I knew nothing about what I would walk into when the woman opened that door to let me into the apartment. Ceiling, furniture, light fixtures, uneven floorboards, kitchen---all were infested with cockroaches. They fell from the ceiling like the peeling paint; and the woman, seemingly oblivious or just used to it, offered me water from a glass. Perhaps she thought that my twitching came from some form of neurotic spasms and not from roaches crawling out of every crevice inside the apartment, landing like ninjas on the coffee table and couch. Her welcoming demeanor, like that of many of the low income homes I visited during my tenure as an outreach coordinator, struck me as tragic. Because though those individuals might have been aware of my and my colleagues' discomfort, I could tell that they tried hard to make up for it by offering us something to eat or drink. Of course, as strangers, we stood in the middle of their space, ominous figures with our city ID's, capable of casting shadows of judgement on things they had no power to change. So in those moments, it seemed as though they went out of their way to remind us of their humanity. And ours.

My new case gestured toward the couch for me to sit, again, as though oblivious to her situation. "Least you can do is make yourself comfortable," she said, coughing. Her cough then subsided into a low wheezing. I politely insisted on standing. She watched as I clumsily pulled out my brochures on asthma and handed them to her, eager to get out of the apartment. I had planned to write a report for her to get on an expedited list for low income families that live in poor conditions. But my feet could not move fast enough. As I got closer to the door, a Christmas tree caught my eyes. I was so distracted with dodging cockroaches that I didn't notice the tree, about six feet, standing there, glowing as though all the light we lacked on that dull day had been trapped within its pines.

"This is nice," I said, not really sure why I stopped. I guess being new to New York City--a place known for its fast-pace and stoicism, there was something about seeing a Christmas tree inside someone's home. In fact, I was reminded of Home. At the time I was running away for many reasons; and being inside of that roach infested apartment, staring at that Christmas tree, brought me back. The woman's face transformed as though I had uttered the possibility of her living in the Governor's mansion until she got her situation sorted out. She lifted a chubby hand to her chest and smiled. "Thank you."

"You decorated it yourself?" I asked, feeling myself relax in her presence.

"Yes." Her eyes fell to the floor as if finally, searching the crevices of the parquet floors for the fallen roaches. "Despite everything, I make the best of every situation," she said. "I decorate our Christmas tree and the apartment, because I won't let NYCHA take my joy. They don't do shit around here, but I won't let them take my joy." Her eyes met mine again. "I hope you have a Christmas tree."

I told her no. I didn't have one, because at the time, I was single and living in a cramped space with two roommates. At the time I was also depressed, because I felt so disconnected and discombobulated in this new city. But this woman reminded me of something I thought I had lost: Internal joy. Somehow she kept hers despite her situation.

"Go buy a Christmas tree," she said. "Do it for yourself."

"I have no one to celebrate Christmas with, so what's the use?" I said.

"Do it for yourself," she repeated. "Joy comes when we find it within ourselves."

That day, I left with more joy and optimism than when I entered that building and stood in the grim hallway. I didn't buy a Christmas tree then. I didn't buy one the year after or the year after that. Finally when I bought one, it was one of those dwarf trees from Kmart that came with decorations and lights already attached.

This is the first year that I actually ever decorated a Christmas tree. This is the first year that I have ever been mindful of creating and sustaining my own joy as I diligently placed each and every decoration on the pine branches. And as I stood back, gazing up at the tree in my living room, I realized that the woman was right: Joy comes when we find it within ourselves. I exhaled thinking about the bursts of joys I've had in my life: Marriage to an amazing woman; and this year alone gave me even more to be grateful for--two Pushcart Prize nominations for my fiction, writing fellowships, job offers to lecture at various colleges and organizations, starting my own business, and much much more. But before all those things, there were moments, journeys I had to make. I might have gotten my share of lousy dates and rejection letters and jobs that made me question my purpose; but in those moments were the joys of living. Each and every one of those moments served its purpose; each one prepared me for other moments, other opportunities. God gives us little blessings to see what we do with them; for then S(H)e decides if we'd be ready for the big ones. As we walk towards our goals and dreams, we must not forget to be mindful of the beauty of each moment. It was this woman, a stranger, who made me realize that I should treasure the journey, pay attention to the flowers and the trees in the garden on my way, and let the joy within light my path.

When I stood back and gazed at my Christmas tree last night, I remembered that woman in the Brownsville projects. I never saw her again. I didn't know what ever became of her. I left the job shortly afterward (and eventually, public health altogether to pursue writing), and so I lost touch. But I will always be grateful for what she offered me that day. An offer that I did not resist. And just like she offered me light, I wish the universe has returned the favor.

Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

I CAN'T BREATHE

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 15:17:00 +0000

Art by Ruud van Empel

This whole month I have been following the reactions to the Mike Brown and Eric Garner cases. It has been an emotional roller-coaster, watching, waiting, aware of my own breath as I watch Eric Garner struggle on national tv over and over again, pleading "I CAN'T BREATHE!" I sat for the most part in disbelief, pondering the cruelty and callousness of individuals who take advantage of their power; individuals whose jobs are to protect. But these individuals have taken it upon themselves to kill without much thought. Though the victims were not angels, their lives were still valuable.

As valuable as the lives of black women...

For before there was Eric Garner, there was Gwen Carr, his mother. I will continue to support the cause for justice. However, as I chant "Black Lives Matter" in the streets with millions, I want to take the time and emphasize the fact that black women matter too. Too many times we are on the forefront of fighting for the lives of black men. However, our girls are suffering too. Our breaths have been snatched from us for the sake of our brothers. On World AIDS Day, we were in the troughs of protest against the police for killing these black men; but unknown to many, AIDS is a disease that is disproportionately killing heterosexual Black women. Like the police are disproportionately killing Black men. But no one advocates for black women. No one weeps for her. Who weeps for her when she doesn't even know how to weep for herself? Who weeps for her when she's too busy weeping for her sons and husbands and brothers in the streets? She is the mule of the world. Not even black men with their tunnel visions see her, respect her, or deem her worthy of standing up for and protecting.

So as this Black Lives Matter protest continues, I find myself highly conflicted. As Black Women, we are taught to be self-less. We were also taught to be silent, swallowing our own burdens and secrets and hurts, because "God only gives you what you can handle...and what doesn't kill you will only make you stronger...turn the other cheek." Our mothers and women figures in our lives policed us into abiding by these rules. They tell us that we should be ashamed of ourselves for daring to love the way we want and live the lives we want without first thinking of others and how it would impact them. Others tell us that we have to turn one cheek if a black man wronged us, because we would be a disgrace to the race if we dare utter our truths. Think of Anita Hill. Think about how she was persecuted in the public for daring to speak up against a powerful black man who sexually harrassed her. Recently, model and actress, Beverley Johnson uttered the same sentiment when she told Vanity Fair why it took her so long to disclose that comedian, Bill Cosby drugged her with the intent to take advantage of her three decades ago. Too many times black women bear the brunt of it all, and are often bullied into silence.

This gender policing also trickles into our personal lives as well. It is why a lot of black women don't venture outside of the race to date or even come out as lesbians. They fear that untraditional love and affection would reflect badly on the race; for remember, they are the mules...the mothers, the rocks. And God forbid they become "selfish" and do what they want to do with their own lives. The weaker ones among us stay imprisoned by these guidelines and watch from a dark space as others move on without them. They eat their sorrows, trying to stuff big black holes of regret with food, becoming large like buildings and furniture--inanimate objects that are seen and not heard. Some drink it, hoping for faster results and good numbing. A lot more max out credit cards on things they hope would do the trick. For their pain isn't cheap. In church, they cling to a shred of light inside their prison cells, humming, hoping and praying for the day of judgement to come and ease them from their burdens; their "duties".

Moreover, you see these black women in the streets chanting. It's what their churches and organizations and soroities and neighbors and so-and-so whose son passed away tell them to do. It's what they do, because as mules, they have to be the ones pulling the entire black race forward with their teeth gripping the chains. But had you been a step closer, you might recoginze the glistening in the eyes, sharp like blades. You might soon realize that the weeping and chanting are for the dead alright. For the bodies and the lives of black girls that go unnoticed. They slip through the cracks on the ground, mere shadows, for everyone to walk on. One of these days the black woman will stop in the middle of the street in protest. She will walk in the middle of traffic with her hands up and sit down. Amidst the car horns and screams and shouts and abuse, she will hug herself tightly, finally acknowledging that she's tired. That she is worthy. That she is human.

This is my dream as a black feminist. Though I am all for the cause of protesting against the wrongful killings of black men, I hope to see solidarity among sisters; and most importantly, I wish to see a blatant display of selfishness that says, "If I can't breathe, then how will I be able to give you air, muchless demand your oxygen over mine?"

Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

Check out my interview with Girls Write Now here! "Staying true to that Conviction to Write"

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 13:48:00 +0000

So honored to be featured by Girls Write Now as one of the most impressive craft talk authors!!!!! Check out my interview here! "Staying true to that Conviction to Write":

http://www.girlswritenow.org/2014/12/qa-with-nicole-y-dennis-benn/

Just Write.

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 09 Jun 2014 15:33:00 +0000

In a city full of writers all wanting the same goal, it’s imperative to respect and cherish your journey. You may get dissuaded along the way, but your biggest defiance yet is to sit silently inside yourself. Stay true to the stories that have kept you awake. Don’t worry about other writers. To each his/her own. The stories you want to tell are inside you, nestled inside memory, emotion, confusion, or simply, imagination rooted deep inside a place you rarely understand or can explain. You allow that internal force to move your pen. Open up all channels to let them run wild without care for structure, grammar, audience. Let them haunt your waking moments. As a writer you cannot be afraid to sit with things, whether good or bad. Your demons, whatever they are, exist for various reasons. Let them roam, for they are a part of you. Yes, I dare say the very word we’ve been taught to rebuke, compartmentalize, forget. By "demons", I mean tapping into your deepest, darkest self. This will allow you to write with honesty. You will un-apologetically stir those same raw emotions from readers who thought they too had compartmentalized, forgotten, and rebuked those feelings or experiences.

Write the things you know, not the things taught to you or shoved down your throat. Write the visceral things you have felt, experienced, witnessed, lived. I encounter too many writers for instance, who write the way the old white British men wrote—the ones whose words scrawled across our textbooks, especially if you are a writer from the British Caribbean. Those Caribbean writers would later recount how their first characters were white. And male. This happens in other places too, not just the Caribbean. Nigerian author, Chimamanda Adichie admits that she was once guilty of this as a novice writer. Junot Diaz recounted in a recent New York Times article that the literature in his MFA program at Cornell was dominated by mostly white males, some dead, some alive yet clutching pens that will forever be immortalized. I too had to learn this given that I grew up reading books that weren’t about me or my experiences. However, it was Toni Morrison who once said that you have to write the stories you want to read. And in this city of writers, all panting forward for the biggest agents and literary journals and publishers, be assured that someone out there—be it someone who may not be all the above—will pick up your story, read it, and be inspired by it.

Brilliant works are never written in one sitting. If someone utters such nonsense, then perhaps they’re lying. Or perhaps they might not be as brilliant. For Writers, good ones, tend to be humble. And for good reason. Because there is vulnerability in writing. Writing means you have to crack yourself open and expose yourself to the world. Each sentence, each word, is a labor of love, written with great care, handed over in blind faith of trust. Like new mothers we hold writing dare, clutched close to our hearts, too close, as to prevent them from being mangled, misinterpreted, destroyed by the world. But then we learn to let go, though still attached, forever pregnant with hopes that they will end up in good hands. Not many people can walk the earth exposed and not blush. Not when every blemish is visible to be scrutinized, stared at. Even if one thinks nakedness is the most empowering and beautiful thing. Gazes are subjective. The best bet is to try your best, put your heart and soul into writing, revise carefully, and send it out into the world. Be grateful and humble by the ability to even have a voice in the first place.

A voice. Not many are given voices. As a writer, your duty is to give a voice to the voiceless. Let this be your motivation. Every time you stare at the blank screen or blank page, terrified to write, crippled by what others might think, or crushed by a rejection letter; know that someone out there needs to hear what you have to say. Someone out there needs to know that they’re not alone in a personal struggle. Someone out there needs to see themselves, their stories in books. Let your stories empower them. Just Write.

About Stuyvesant Writers Workshop:

Stuyvesant Writing Workshop understands that writing is lonely, and that every writer needs a safe space to share their work, have it critiqued by other serious writers, and discuss authors whose stories inspire them or whose techniques they can learn from. The workshop is geared towards the working professional who has always wanted to write, but never seems to have the time; the storyteller searching for a voice; the writer who would love an opportunity to form community outside the coffee shop in the neighborhood without having to venture to Park Slope or South Brooklyn. The workshop is facilitated by yours truly!

Stuyvesant Writing Workshop is affordable with four sessions for a total of $250. Classes run from June 24th- July 15th. Tuesday evenings, 6:30pm-8:30pm. To register, please email stuyvesantwriters@gmail.com. Like Stuyvesant Writing Workshop on Facebook. Or follow us on twitter at @StuyvesantW.

Nicole

Stuyvesant Writing Workshop- Facilitated by me!

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Thu, 05 Jun 2014 02:14:00 +0000

I am facilitating a four week intensive writing workshop in Bedstuy, Brooklyn every Tuesday evening from 6:30pm-8:30pm, starting June 24th- July 15th. Please pass this on to anyone who might be interested!!If you are an aspiring writer, now is the time to pull out your pen, join me, and write! Click on the Flier below to see the details.

“I LOVE YOU, JUST NOT YOUR LIFESTYLE…” ~HOW THESE WORDS HARM US

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Thu, 22 May 2014 13:55:00 +0000

Paul Blackwood.

“I LOVE YOU, JUST NOT YOUR LIFESTYLE…”

These words meant to seem supportive are the most detrimental. For imagine being acknowledged, accepted, and dismissed in one sentence. One sentence alone that has the potential to shove you back inside that box where you couldn’t breathe. It’s those very words that butter you up as a loved one; but put you down for being you. Every time I hear those words I cringe. It’s only human to hurt, to feel the pressure of guilt pressed firmly against your ribcage where your heart is supposed to be. Because when your support system—family members or friends—tell you that you’re OK, just not how you love, it is a slow devastation. Subtle in nature, because it eats at you, though they might say that it’s uttered in love. Only those who you love have that power to assuage you tenderly, lovingly while they snap your neck. So when we hear “I love you, just not your lifestyle,” the pain is so subtle that you barely feel it.

Not until you vow to keep your sexual identity and expression to yourself by omitting certain life events, hiding your spouse, showing up to family events alone, compromising yourself for their sake, does the pain materialize; slips sideways under the breasts where it becomes sorrow. You begin to feel robbed of something you cannot quite explain;enraged by the insoluble compound rising in your throat; embittered by the displays of the affections around you, the acknowledgements of your other achievements—just not that other thing, yes that thing, the don’t-you-dare-bring-it-up-or-else-you-won’t-be-invited-or-ever-meet-your-nieces-and-nephews-thing; the—I-hope-your-novels-don’t-disgrace-us-or-reveal-too-much-about-that thing.

And then there’s the word “Lifestyle”. This misnomer is even more harmful, because it brings to mind choice, luxury, style that can be tried on, taken off, altered. The word should be LIFE. For being gay is my identity. It’s a part of who I am. Just as I am woman, black, and Jamaican. Therefore, when my identity is trivialized as a lifestyle, I implode. When I hear “I love you, just not your lifestyle”, I quickly discern that the person is telling me without really telling me that only part of me is OK. That they refuse to accept the whole; and thus does not see me as a human, but a severed being, freakishly existing outside of a circus.

I consider myself lucky in the way I choose to get my anger out. I grab my pen and write. Others self-destruct, for the rage is too much to carry alone. It’s too heavy to walk with, putting one foot before the other; and even daring to reach out to find love. For when your identity has been challenged and dismissed so often, it fucks with you. It fucks with your perceptions. When you are made to feel invisible, it makes you hate yourself and thus empties it on others—all that baggage. And their weak backs are often too worn to carry all your weight, all your baggage, because like you they have been weighed down by their own baggage too. So one day, everything snaps. And just like that you’re alone—just like those people wanted. The ones who sweetly cooed “I’m praying for you to change. You know I love you, just not your…” And all you can say to them. And all you should say to them is, “Fuck you!”

Because at the end of the day it’s your life. You should never compromise for anyone. I know you’ve all heard that cliché. But living it and saying it are two different things, especially when identities get scorched, mangled by the dragon flames of religion and society and yes, that comfort of good ole familial affection and acceptance. But sometimes good things harm you. There’s a Jamaican saying “Wah sweet nanny goat aggo run him belly.” Basically, it’s saying to just be careful of the vices you use to make yourself feel good. Be careful of that family member or friend who keeps putting you down under the sweet disguise of affection and tolerance.

It’s only human to feel that pinch of a nerve when we are denied and dismissed. But it’s also human to mourn, to say our goodbyes to those people gently—as gently as a stroke, a whisper, a kiss on the forehead or cheek—and walk away knowing that your choice to let go and move on is done in love. For YOU. ~Nicole

Kara Walker's Exhibit at Domino Sugar Factory

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 21 May 2014 15:18:00 +0000

I went to see the Sugar Sphinx, Kara Walker’s exhibit in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was hard not to marvel at the sugar babies made of molasses and carrying weave baskets of crystallized sugar; their miniature build creating large shadows of melting beneath them. Visitors stepped into these puddles as they peered inside these baskets, their shoes carrying footprints through the entire factory, unknowingly. For those who have these lived experiences of our ancestors still soaring in our blood, we know these footsteps are indelible, sticky, meant to create a trail however long.

Then we get to the Sphinx itself. A magnificent mammy-esque figure perched on all fours in the nude like a lioness resting. Her stark whiteness glows in the factory; her mammoth image, divine. I was drawn to this figure, her features; her fists tightly coiled as though angry; her eyes staring off into the distance at something we, as her viewers, failed to grasp. All she wore was a head-scarf tied the way my great-grandmother used to tie her scarf, knotted in the front; and her face said it all with the emotions suppressed, restrained under that calm exterior as people snapped pictures and snatched molecules of sugar into their lungs.

It was quite jarring at first to see many people so fascinated with the Sphinx’s magnanimous derriere, snapping pictures and carrying on conversations; their miniature heads seemingly sandwiched between her enhanced butt cheeks and vulva. White people, mostly, with their cameras gazed up into the sacred space where the Sphinx reclined on curled toes. It was then that I thought about Kara Walker’s intent. Her decision to have this naked, mammoth black woman to be gazed at, marveled at that way. The shaming and objectifying that we as black women are subjected to, used to. Of course, I admire Walker’s effort to drag everyone—black, white, asian, Hispanic, whatever the backgrounds—into this conversation of race. Of course I see how this large Sphinx could be that elephant in the room, the one whose presence is inevitable, forcing you to look, to gaze up into its face. “I dare you,” she says, her eyes meeting yours.

And now you see. Now you make sense of the message implicit in her stoic face. For how can she be ignored now? How can one’s gaze be averted? The question of power arises. Now in this space, this figure has the power to snatch people from their reality and bring them back to the reality of slavery—to the stories and images of those very workers who ploughed through cane-fields to deliver the sweetness to their tables. How bitter the taste when they look down and see the blood trailing their footsteps. ~Nicole

Tessanne, the measure of a true artiste

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Tue, 24 Dec 2013 16:21:00 +0000

Check out my latest article published in the Jamaica Gleaner (see link below):

http://jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20131224/cleisure/cleisure2.html#.UrmM6DQJ39Q.facebook

Nicole

Coming out again and again as femme

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 20 Nov 2013 19:48:00 +0000

Living out loud as a lesbian has been a challenge since the day I decided to come out. First I had to come out to myself then to others, a step that still feels like a never ending journey given my gender presentation as a femme. For years my femme persona has somewhat acted as an invisible shield against the antagonism that comes with my sexual orientation. My presence was never seen as a threat to anyone until I openned my mouth or was with other women, those I have dated who identified as butch or tomboy. I remember the first time I started dating. I was a college volunteer at a youth center where elder women would come from a nearby senior citizens center and assist with after school services. One evening I sat in a small circle of these older women who welcomed me into the group without reservations. The conversation was a whirlwind of topics, scooping me up in the middle of it all. They discussed current events, politics, the plight of school children nowadays, and the unfortunate disaster of the world trade center that had happened just a month before. Then they got into discussing the days when young men were gentlemen who courted young women. Suddenly one of them turned to me and asked if I was seeing someone. I nodded, careful not to spill the gender of the person. “Oh how nice!” they exclaimed, their eyes lighting up as though my budding romance had suddenly ignited bulbs inside them.

After the session, my girlfriend at the time was waiting outside the building. She was an athlete, so she had on a baggy sweatpants and her hoodie that had our university’s name written in bold letters across her chest. She had finished basketball practice and seemed to have been waiting in front of the youth center for a while. I was exiting the building with a few of the women I was in the circle with when I saw her. The women were still talking when their words turned to a hushed whisper. “Is that a boy or a girl? You just don't know who is what nowadays...” They were shaking their haeds and looking at the person standing by the car, who I realized was my girlfriend. She was leaning with hands buried deep inside the pockets of her baggy sweat pants, chest hidden beneath the large sweatshirt, and hair braided in a neat set of cornrows. When she saw me, she waved. This sent a hush among the women who watched closely to see how I, the nice young woman they just sat with, could have any affiliation to the person—“a young man? A young woman?”—waving. I parted ways with the women without answering their questions, walking slowly toward my girlfriend. She met me halfway and gave me a peck on the lips like any other couple would do when they are glad to see their other half. As our car drove off, I looked behind me to see the women still staring,their faces darkening like the dusk outside.

Incidents like these never prevented me from coming out to others, whether directly or indirectly. I say incidents plural because they happen all the time. Even now when I'm married to my wife and have to let people know that the ring on my finger was given to me by a woman, not a man. I figured that by coming out femme I became instrumental in showing people that anyone can be gay or lesbian; that we do not have “a look” or “a uniform”—something that has been used in the past and even now to stereotype same-gender loving people. For femmes, the preconceived notions have always been that we’re one heterosexual encounter away from “straightening out”. These comments are often made by men and to some extent, whispered among straight women. “Who faulted you?” Women would ask, curious as to why a high femme like them would rather another woman than a man. Meanwhile, their male counterparts bristle with their wishful thinking commonly referred to as the “savior mentality”—a common phenomenon among some men who seem to have the inability to acknowledge that not every woman would want them and thus see every lesbian as a potential conquest to salvage their manhood.

In fact, the veils of darkness that descend on the faces of those who were enlightened by my sexual orientation often lift when I see them again. The second encounters, in my experience, are often filled with muted questions visible in the eyes and body language. Eventually they become audible, starting off with pauses and fillers that eventually lead to the inevitable question, which gets blurted too loudly: “So…are you really…?” The last word often gets stuck, or rather left for me to say, which I never succumb to doing. “What?” I would ask, daring them to finish their sentence. I liken these moments to a game of soccer. The word they fear saying out loud becomes the ball. They dance around it, exerting themselves as they try to kick it inside the goal post. And when they eventually do, it’s a moment of reprieve rather than victory. For my confirmation seems to ease the pressure that was built up inside them; and in that same moment, blight everything they were led to believe about lesbians and what we look like. “Yes, I am a lesbian.” I would look them in the eyes when I say this to make sure that this fact is sealed within their pupils and hopefully tucked away in a part of their brain.

Unfortunately this does not happen. I am often faced with coming out again and again to the same people until they get it; until their awe turn into shock or disbelief, to denial, to anger, to bargaining, to guilt, to depression, to acceptance and hope—hope that I would repent my sins, change, or maybe swing their way—whatever the case may be, people tend to go through these stages of grief. For in truth, they are grieving the loss of their ignorance, their assumptions, all of which were like a comfort blanket to help them cope with the fact that not everyone is like them and not everyone will fall inside the box they designed to put them in with their own labels.

Therefore, I imagine that every time I come out that an angel gets her wings, figuratively and metaphorically speaking. For every confirmation, a bell jingles and a rainbow arches across the sky, letting the person who is too afraid to come out because they may not fit the sterotypes of gays and lesbians fed to them by the media or their immediate environment, know that they are not alone.

Nicole Dennis-Benn

JAMAICA-TRANSGENDER-MURDER

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Sun, 08 Sep 2013 16:27:00 +0000

It's interesting how Dwayne Jones, the transgendered teen who was murdered this summer in Jamaica, was simply referred to as a "cross dresser" in Jamaican news papers. Nothing about his life or legacy was ever mentioned as though this didn't matter. Nothing about him being transgendered, the correct term, and what that really means. For in Jamaica, the term "transgender" does not exist. There, it is subsumed with being gay; the ridicules and assaults more brutal given the lack of understanding of why a boy would feel the need to dress as a girl. Little do they know as a culture that such need to dress that way is analogous to survival; for only then does a person who feel trapped in the wrong gender, gets to express their true selves.

Huff Post did an article that delved deeper into the issue and who Dwayne Jones (I really wished they had used her "girl" name)really was...A beautiful girl who liked roses.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/08/11/jamaica-transgender-murder-_n_3739448.html

Nicole

Who is a gentrifier?

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Tue, 27 Aug 2013 23:47:00 +0000

Photo by K. Nicole Mills

Walking down any street in Brooklyn I see streets and avenues as they are and not what they used to be. There are native Brooklynites that tell me what certain neighborhoods used to be like before I moved here, and I would listen in awe. “People never went to Fort Greene unless they want to get shot,” my hairdresser, a native of Brooklyn, recounted to me one day. And as he twisted my dreadlocks he chuckled, “Not until the white people moved in and changed everything.” He said this while shaking his head as though images worse than yellow tapes and chalk outlines on the sidewalk had flashed across his eyes. Of course, because of my blackness, I was cast as a long standing member of “the community”, welcomed into conversations about gentrification without much thought about my background.

So who is a gentrifier? The people others label with that word that sound like it could be used to describe giant spiders from out of space with antennas that search for their next target—a word so ugly you might as well fear it, detest it, before knowing what it really means—are white people. More specifically, yuppies—another word for the young, ambitious whites; assumed liberal children of the prejudiced baby-boomer generation before them—a generation that would never dare live next to black people without worrying about the value of their homes, the state of their schools, the wholesomeness of their communities...wait a second...doesn’t this still exist?

But in Brooklyn, the type of segregation that now exists is a cold one; one that gets tucked under the neat, embroidered folds of aloofness. An aloofness that reminds me of those halls of high school where the privileged, stuck-up kids sat at one table, and though there might have been empty seats, a poor, nerdy kid would never dare sit there because of the assault of stares and snobbery that would be worse than a punch in the belly, a hose in the face, or a yell to “Stay the hell away”.

In Brooklyn, the “cool kids”---hipsters, as they'd rather be called--- move on the block from their homogenous worlds and already determine that they need a “Haven”. They build bars and cafes and pet shops and organic stores and boutiques and restaurants where they congregate. Though these businesses are also beneficial to the black and brown people who, like them, have gone to college and have similar passions, to other people of color, these places are deterrents. Their businesses are plopped into underserved communities with unapologetic invisible signs that read “Whites Only”. And of course, one may ask, “But why does there need to be a haven for those who choose to live in ethnic neighborhoods with rich cultures?” One answer: CHEAP RENT.

But I have since realized that race isn’t the main element that qualifies one as a gentrifier. Many black and brown "elites" move to these communities in Brooklyn, Harlem and the Bronx. Like the yuppies, buppies— another word for black and brown college grads with professional degrees and accomplishments— congregate, flocking to the lounges where we argue politics over German beer or South African wine, wine bars with tapas that remind us of our study abroad in Spain, cafes where we can get ample wifi and our favorite lattes. Like the yuppies, we would rather buy organic fruits and vegetables and poultry. We ride our bikes all over town instead of taking the city bus; we do yoga and wear vintage, proudly owning terminologies like “Quirky” to piss off the other blacks who used to say we weren’t “black enough”; we eat at restaurants with foods that must be pronounced with accents; and we hail cabs with the false assumption that they’d stop for us and not swerve to pick up the white person who lives in the same neighborhood with similar salaries to ours, and similar degrees.

The crushing reality of having the ability to exist in both worlds is what makes it hard for a buppy to be called a gentrifier. For we look like the community that is being gentrified; yet we have similar education and opportunities as the whites who have also moved into the neighborhood. Though our heart bleeds for the people being priced out of the community— people who we greet each day with pleasant smiles and friendly conversations, people who look at us with beams of admiration and curiosity in their eyes, people who greet us and treat us as individuals and not prospective threats; we enjoy the perks of having things like a farmer’s market, deliveries like Fresh Direct that finally come to the neighborhood, and businesses that provide services we’ve become accustomed to and cater to tastes we’ve acquired.

Though landlords would never increase rent when a buppy moves in, and yuppies would never be able to tell the difference between a bow-tie wearing buppy, and a homeless black dude; the race and class differences have rendered us outsiders regardless of where we turn for our “Haven”. So what do we do? Many buppies start businesses for their adopted community. And those same black businesses fail. Why? Because like the whites that can never tell the difference between the bow-tie wearing brother, and a homeless black dude, black business owners assume that blacks have the same needs and tastes; and hence, don’t have the clout needed to challenge them to do better. For example, there was once a local café in my Bedstuy neighborhood that sold stale croissants and overpriced bitter coffee, perhaps assuming people wouldn’t know the difference; and perhaps assuming because they’re “black owned”, then all the dejected buppies who were scrutinized in the yuppy cafés they frequented, may be so grateful for their “own” that they drink the bitter overpriced coffee and eat the stale croissants anyway.

In the summer of 2013 when George Zimmerman became a free man for killing Trayvon Martin, a black teenager, many educated blacks in America realized that we aren’t living in a post-racial society. Yes, we are afforded the opportunities that our ancestors fought so hard for, but still, our faces are black masks in which some (not all) whites cannot differentiate. Even if we’re dressed in our Sunday’s best. Whether we are dressed in hoodies or suits with bow-ties, it doesn’t make a difference. Hence, in this racial society that we live in, the gentrification conversation at large would never be about class differences among people; but about race— whites versus blacks. For to whites and blacks alike, the black middle class doesn’t exist.

Nicole

Limbo

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Thu, 18 Jul 2013 15:42:00 +0000

Once upon a time America was that place I looked to for freedom. I remembered summers coming here as a little girl, candy coated tongue, stone-wash jeans, starry eyes, and my hand linked with my father who pointed to the statue of liberty. I fell in love. My relationship with America began with television. My entire household watched the Huxtables in deep revere of the life America promised. Black people living comfortably without a class divide keeping them oppressed. I enrolled in SAT classes in Kingston and studied the American way of life from books I devoured in the library. I watched MTV religiously and practiced American accents with my siblings. By then, I had long given up on succeeding in Jamaica, leaving that to my more privileged peers with parents in high places. In 1999 I left Jamaica for America to go to college; the excitement as palpable as the candy that coated my tongue that day I stared up at the Statue of Liberty. I was stocked with images of MTV’s Real World, Road Rules and Felicity, thinking my life would be that simple, delectably chaotic with cool, quirky, smart roommates of all races, and if I was lucky, an adorably gay boss like Javier, Felicity’s boss at Dean & Deluca.

I wrapped myself in another identity different from the one I left behind in Jamaica. America afforded me the freedom to explore. To be whoever I pleased. I did well in school and became a social butterfly, something I never did back home where I was more of a caterpillar. And in my second year, I delved into a relationship with a woman, another thing I could never have done so freely back home. I straddled two worlds, one where I was this exotic Jamaican girl my professors and white college friends enjoyed and endearingly referred to as “different from the other blacks” and the other where I was the humbled child of diffident, provincial parents. America, it seemed, had embraced me with open arms, and I eagerly hugged back, falling deeply into a haze of delusions. For in my running away from what I knew in Jamaica, and that hurt of feeling like a bastard child due to social class, I felt I found the perfect escape.

However, something happened in graduate school. I woke up one day with a weight on my shoulder. I was beginning to become more aware of race relations in America that had never been an issue for me as an immigrant. Maybe it was because I was living in middle America, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Maybe because I was alone and by then, the newness of America had worn off. Or maybe because it was 2005 when Hurricane Katrina happened, and President Bush displayed nonchalance in getting help for the poor blacks who ended up losing their lives and homes and livelihood. Maybe it was watching the television a week later when Kanye West declared what I felt in my heart: “George Bush doesn’t like Black people.” And then fast forward to the unfair killing of Sean Bell and Oscar Grant; and now, 2013, when Trayvon Martin’s killer was set free.

The blinds came undone and my eyes opened to an ugly, harsh reality of race in this country. To whites, I was black. Not until I open my mouth. In appearance I am a “A regular black”. The kind of black that had never meant anything to them though they shared the same country. The type of black that is not exotic enough to usher into their universities or job corps. The type of black that is put into public schools with no funding. The type of black whose sons are seen as menaces, savages, labeled criminals since the day they were born. A regular black. An American Black. The bottom Black on this totem pole of blacks though it was their black that paved the roads we walk on as immigrants.

And so it was. I began to see what African Americans go through. I fell out of love. I was ready to move back home. But just three weeks in Jamaica and I was ready to flee again. I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in a tug and war, a tumultuous relationship with America. For really, I was still deeply in love though I denied it. It was the country in which I found my freedom, lost my virginity, found love, found my voice, found myself. I didn’t have to tip-toe around certain things like my sexuality. Could I really be with a woman and be happy in Jamaica if I moved back? Could I really discuss such affairs of the heart openly with friends and family without being told to shush, my voice is too loud and what happens if “they” hear me speaking like that? Could I still be a feminist in a place where men wield their power and women adapt, shrugging off misogyny like bothersome yet harmless flies? Could I feel comfortable in a society where I look at the economic and class divide without being reminded of why I left in the first place? Could I have gotten married to the love of my life (who happens to be an American Black woman)?

So I crawled back into the arms of America and buried my head in her red, white and blue bosom. Because although she has blood on her hands, I was soothed by that false concept of this American Dream drilled into me in the beginning. It was her potential that I fell in love with. All the woulda's and coulda's shown to me on tv and in the summers when I visited as a girl. Of course I could choose a place in Europe; but for an immigrant, the thought of uprooting your life again to build from scratch in another country is too much for one lifetime. So I stayed. I stayed and hoped for the best...to not sit in limbo. Til now...

Nicole

(Listening to Jimmy Cliff's "Sitting in Limbo")

The night the verdict was read I was in Harlem.

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 15 Jul 2013 23:49:00 +0000

Zimmerman, the murder of a young boy, was a free man. I read the CNN message over and over again. I remembered the heat and the dark blanket of night that spread over the streets of Harlem and inside me. Little black boys and girls played carefree on sidewalks, oblivious to what was going on. The smell of barbeque ribs and fried chicken nullified the thick sense of grief that descended on the faces of the elders. It was easy to sense the terror in their grim silences. As unbelievable as it was, life went on. Dark faces smoothed over with smiles too tight—masks that fit just right for the sake of our children that still needed to be comforted, to be protected. To be cradled as tightly as possible since one day, it could be them.

But in that moment the verdict was read, there was little we could do but carry on. For had we been frozen in the emotions we truly felt, we would’ve been unable to get through the night with a sense of false dignity. We would've picked up anything we could possibly get our hands on and thrown it; smash it to demonstrate our angst; burn it with the fire that raged inside us. But that one night numbness truly claimed us. People looked out windows of their brownstones to find companions in their grief. Their televisions blared in the background, radios turned up. We mutely searched each other’s faces and shook our heads. For in Harlem, a city that has known struggle and pain and deferred dreams; a city where our greats have walked, marched, paved ways by any means necessary for our generation to carry the torch, we were numb. Had we shouted to the starless sky those questions many people thought in their minds, we would’ve been rained upon by that deep sense of frustration, that knowledge of our worthlessness in this country. For how could a man get away with murder for killing a boy? Had the races been different, the man would’ve been imprisoned, led away in handcuffs. But because Trayvon Martin was black, his perpetrator became a saint. A victim.

That night in Harlem we found that as a people, as black people, our lives aren’t as valued. The message was loud and clear. So loud it was that we heard it all the way from that courthouse in Florida. It took Trayvon Martin to die for the rest of us to realize that we do not live in a post-racial society. And so as Harlem stirred peacefully beneath the dark blanket—the years of struggle stretched behind her like her wide streets paved with blackness—I listened for her pulse, that low hum of knowing, a deep conviction inside the buzzing…

Nicole

THE DOOR BY AVA DuVERNAY

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 00:10:00 +0000

Beautiful short film. Beautiful cast!! Wonderful video/film, featuring Gabriel Union, Afre Woodard, Goapele, and Adepero Oduye! We all need friends like these who can get us up and out of our funk. It will have you hooked. Oh, and the fashion is insane!!!!! ♥

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNM0ha87eU0

Bright Lights, Dark City by Nicole Y.Dennis-Benn

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 17:48:00 +0000

Last night I watched an All Angles special aired on October 3rd on Homeless gay youths in Jamaica. As I watched, my heart went out to the youth, mostly boys, who left their communities to seek asylum in the streets of New Kingston. The accounts of their daily struggle ranged from being assaulted with weapons that left them with visible scars that they pointed out to the camera, to being propositioned for sex. As a means of survival, they use their bodies. One youth said he knew he was possessed by a spirit he couldn’t explain. He said he prayed the spirit would leave him. Only then, he said, would he be able to exist as the son his mother wanted him to be. As he spoke, he scratched his arms as though the very spirit he spoke of were mosquitoes biting into his skin, gorging on his blood. His high pitched voice and slight bend of his wrists as he spoke were just afflictions he attributed to the spirit. He nervously adjusted a ladies purse over his shoulder and itched again: “Yea man, is di Devil. Mi guh church an’ pray bout it.”

The boys’ faces were obscured, their identities as unknown for supposed protection. Such reality is sad in itself, because homosexuals in the larger Jamaican public would forever be known as mere shadows with altered voices in front of tv screens; their existence as eidolic as an apparition spotted in a haunted house or between trees in a dense forest that our ancestors refer to as “rolling calves”. Their affliction is in the head, people say. It’s as bad as leprosy, which warrants distance, scorn even.

So as the boys spoke about their reasons for dropping out of school, leaving home, and taking to the streets at 12 and 13 years old, I listened to the sadness in their voices. Their voices were all we had. It was a sadness that not many people could hear if their heads were already filled with judgment. The boys’ cries for help were laced in sentences ridden with patois: “We nevah have any support. We nuh have nobody fi push us, encourage us.” And so they stray, attracted to the bright lights of a city where anonymity promises to protect them from the shame, wrath, and in some cases, abuse of guardians. But not without a cost.

Their homes are now makeshift sheds. They sleep in packs, after a long day of scrounging for food, making sure to wake before the police threaten to bulldoze their sheds. With nowhere else to go, they congregate on corners or in front of buildings, on steps. The only acknowledgements they get are the stares of so-called upstanding citizens with nothing to give them but scorn and contempt. No one sees the ravaged innocence in the eyes of these youths, their humanity stripped under wigs and women purses slugged over bony shoulders. They’re merely seen as a masquerade of madness, an example to mothers and fathers of things they pray their sons would never become. Yet, those parents never looked at those boys as sons.

“I want to do hair,” one boy said to the interviewer. Though his face was covered, I imagined him looking up at the huge billboards in New Kingston at nights, marveling at the beautiful models with coifs he probably knew he could do a better job with. I imagined him imagining a future with the possibility of working on a photo shoot, busying himself with a stray strand of a supermodel’s hair, a tail comb lodged in his back pocket like a magic wand. His precision would be rewarded with prestige. And no one would know that he once sat on these dirty sidewalks next to piles of people’s trash, studying beauty in someone else’s lens--beauty that he has the ability to create with his magic wand. For in these streets he would learn the importance of illusions.

But in reality, many of these gay homeless youths do not have skills that would enable them to get jobs. So most times, they use the one thing they know for survival: Sex. Imagine the hunger pangs that echo louder than reasoning, louder than the hymns learned in Sunday school about Jesus, eyes bright as they sang as children: "I am a promise...I am a possibility...I am a great big bundle of potentiality." With eyes shut tight to block those images, they now bend over to receive another man’s rage, another man’s desire, another man’s secret, another man’s insecurities, another man’s disease. Though their hands are balled into tight fists, a fight is lost.

And so the cycle continues.

You can do a lot when you’re invisible. You slip through cracks, walk in the middle of the road in the direction of traffic, your feet on the solid yellow lines; or sometimes you perch on ceiling fans, the blades dangerously slicing the humid air. You sit on edges, be it buildings or cliffs, and wait until the wind picks up and flings you in whichever direction it chooses. And no one notices you. They never noticed you. Your existence is a mere conundrum, someone’s mistake. A fate they have no control over, just like they have no control over the shapes and sizes of their own shadows splashed across city sidewalks under the harsh, acidic light of the street lamp.

Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

******

“Would you have done the same thing—openly declared your love for a woman—had you lived in Jamaica?”

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 10:16:00 +0000

It was a question that raised a lump in my throat each time it was asked, each time I thought about it, fully aware of my privilege of living in New York where same-sex marriage is legal. The first time it was asked was in a NPR interview (then in a recent TVJ interview on a program called All Angles), I took the time to swallow. The words never came instantly like all the others, because I was halted by the sudden feeling of sadness that dawned on me. I looked at my wife who was sitting next me the first time the question was asked. But no one could answer that question but me. Not the me now—the writer, scholar, adult me who had been living in New York for over a decade. It would be the me then—the one who lived in Jamaica for most of my life. Would she be OK with being open and free to love the way she loves now? Would she have dared to let her guard down and invite another woman inside? Would she?

The world awaited as the series of blinking lights in the studio alerted me that I was still on air. That still, my voice was expected to fill the households of those who drew near to their radios to listen. What if I were a gay person living and working in Jamaica? What would I have done if I had a ceremony that was leaked to the media? What would I have done in a society where I could get fired if my boss knew I was gay? What would I have done walking the hallway at work, drawing all eyes and whispers? Again, I paused at each hypothetical question, ambushed by anger. I knew that the luxury of being an out lesbian would not have been an option had I lived in Jamaica. Yes, I could’ve been open in a protected realm of certain parties or scene, but I would still be forced to live a life of secrecy where partners become “just friends” under the searing eyes of the public.

Also, had I lived as a lesbian in Jamaica, perhaps I’d start to feel as invisible as many people think about gays living there. Perhaps my fight, if I had any in me, would’ve dimmed and I would’ve adapted a more passive stance. Perhaps I would’ve eaten my fears away, buttering up depression and stuffing it like bread inside a gaping hole to numb the pain. For this pain would’ve been far more unbearable than the one imposed by sticks and stones. I would’ve shrunken away from fighting the system because perhaps my socialization would’ve been to accept things for what they are. Like any other Jamaican living there, my life would’ve been consumed with the day to day injustices of high GCT and a government that seems complacent with antiquated laws. I probably would’ve buried myself in my work and use insomnia as a way to get ahead as the world sleeps comfortably. The stress of it all would’ve probably weighed me down like the pressing heat and scalding sun with rays that would do little to revive me.

Therefore, to answer the question—I would never have done what I did had I lived in Jamaica. For had I stayed in Jamaica, I wouldn’t have gained the capacity to love someone else, because I had so much internalized hate. Had I stayed in Jamaica, I wouldn’t have met my beautiful and amazing wife. Had I stayed in Jamaica, I wouldn’t have gotten the help I needed to let go of the mental prison I was once trapped in.

It wasn’t until I lived in the United States that I learned that I have a voice—that my feelings and thoughts mattered. That my life, the way I love, and my right as a human being, are worth fighting for. Most importantly, I gained the capacity to forgive and love my country wholeheartedly, because I had learned to love and forgive myself; and thus opted to share a very important moment in my life in the country that is very much a part of me.

Nicole

Revolutionary Love by Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Sat, 02 Jun 2012 13:00:00 +0000

I WRITE THIS SO THAT OUR STORY IS TOLD IN ITS TRUEST, MOST BEAUTIFUL FORM. THAT WAY, OUR LOVE ALWAYS REIGNS OVER HATE (http://jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20120601/lead/lead4.html).

2:55pm. The day of our wedding. My skin is two shades darker, thanks to lots of sun on the beach. To many women my complexion, this would’ve been a travesty before their wedding. But for me, it’s no big deal, just an asset I wear proudly. Like a queen. My partner joins me in the water and for the next hour we swim and mingle with our guests who have also been baked and rejuvenated by the sun. “You ready?” my partner whispers, swimming up behind me to encircle her arms around my waist. “Yeah, I’m ready.” We smile at each other, aware in that moment that we’re about to do something big, bigger than us. “Come on guys, save the kiss for later.” We look up just in time to see our wedding photographer, Kwesi snap a picture of us. “Say cheese, everyone!” Kwesi calls out to our guests who have all gathered around us, our bodies bobbing in the undulating waves. Everyone splashes around to find their space in the camera’s lens. Family and friends alike. We all stand close, smiles etched on our sun-burnt faces; and the sun, nude and marvelous in all her glory rains down upon us. A blessing.

***

I married my soul-mate, Emma Benn on the luxurious compound of Silver Sands Villa in Duncans, Trelawney on Saturday, May 26th, 2012. We exchanged our vows under the wooden arch of the gazebo overlooking the ocean. As the waves crashed against the shore and the wind blew skirt tails in its sweeping lullaby, we said our “I do’s”.

My partner’s best friend, Anna, who had been her friend since college, was our officiant. We had six bridesmaids and one best man between the two of us. But one important guest loomed in the aquamarine backdrop of the sea. The green surface of the land. She needed no invitation to wear her canary yellow dress that lighted up the day as she pranced above clouds. Her mystique was even spotted in the smiles spread across faces of onlookers. She was my Jamaica, the land of my birth.

In my vows I mentioned that because of my partner I fell in love with my country again. For a long time I ran away from Jamaica, seeking refuge in the freedom that America offered. However when I met Emma, she was adamant about visiting Jamaica. “Why not?” she asked when I turned her down a few times. I couldn’t tell her then how much I was hurt by the culture stifled by the seemingly robust structures of colonialism. I couldn’t tell her then that every time I touched the soil my insecurities flooded the gates of my consciousness and broke the levees, thus paralyzing me. However, when Emma and I finally returned to the island together for our first visit as a couple in 2010, something felt different. At the time I couldn’t place what it was. There were no words to describe it since my brain had not yet processed it. I felt beautiful, stronger. Empowered.

Feeling comfortable with myself had nothing to do with maturity; it had a lot to do with acceptance, not of myself, but of my culture. You see, while I learned to love and appreciate myself, the good and the bad, I found my culture to be a big part of who I am. So running away with a knot in my chest only robbed me of half of the woman I am; half the partner; half the writer; and half the soul of the stories I live to tell. It wasn’t until I began to love myself unconditionally that I began to love my country despite the socialization and problems I endured as a child growing up there. I never felt I had a place or a voice there. I was an outsider, an interloper. I had not yet understood why I felt different, why I spoke different, and why I acted different. I only knew I was human and somewhere in the universe the dots would connect. They finally did. I now love myself enough to love my people and accept that not everyone had the opportunity I did to be exposed to certain knowledge that would rid the flaws and mentality colonialism imposed on us. I am lucky to be free, emancipated from mental slavery, free to love myself, and free to love others. In other words, I am now whole.

For this reason, I soberly chose to have my wedding celebration in Jamaica. I say “soberly” because my friends began to question my sanity once I told them that I’ll be getting married in Jamaica, a country known internationally for its blatant homophobia. “Weh di backside yuh mean yuh getting married in Jamaica?” Their eyebrows would shoot up to their hairline followed by a sharp inhale of all the oxygen in the room. I had to reassure them that everything would be fine, simultaneously trying to convince myself too. I would constantly ask myself if I’m doing the right thing. My partner and I discussed other options and had even gone around Brooklyn as we entertained the idea of having the celebration in the backyards of our favorite restaurants. “But it wouldn’t feel the same,” my partner retorted. “Jamaica is our second home.” With that statement we knew what the consensus was.

I met up with a friend of mine for drinks in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, a fellow Jamaican. By then, same-sex marriage was on the verge of being legalized in New York State. It was March 2011, and although the possibility looked dim from where we sat on that early spring night at Madibas restaurant, there was a pulse throbbing wildly beneath the surface. The thought had hatched. My partner was growing more and more excited about having our wedding in Jamaica. We began to work closely with my friend who we later hired as our wedding planner. Slowly but surely, the dream wedding began to take form in our minds and became real when we began to hire key people like the photographer, the cake vendor, the DJ, and even the boutique that would outfit our wedding party.

One thing missing was the location. Location, location, location! The following question became a conundrum greater than the world’s biggest riddle: Which hotel in Jamaica would host a gay wedding? The question loomed about our heads for months. We dug deep into the roots of the hairs on our heads. My partner and I took turns calling resorts in Kingston, the South Coast, and the North Coast. Pleasant voices with warring cadences of British and calypso accents greeted us on the phone. We clutched the receiver with sweaty palms as we prepared to come out as lesbians over and over again: “Yes, hello, we would like to inquire about hosting our wedding at your hotel. What’s the estimated cost for space? Great! Just one more thing you need to know…my partner is a woman. Yes, that’s what I said. A woman. Oh. OK. Uh-huh. I understand. Thanks for your time.” In that silence after the click of the phone we knew we would be asking around for a while. One hotel executive at a prominent hotel in Kingston told us they could host our wedding under one condition, that we not use their outdoor premises. But an indoor wedding would defeat the purpose of getting married in Jamaica with all its natural beauty, so we kindly thanked her and moved on. Our search continued, taking us all the way to Negril where another hotel kindly advised us to try Hedonism. Again, having a wedding at Hedonism would defeat the purpose of our wedding given that we see our relationship as worthy as heterosexual couples see theirs. We’re not heathens; we’re two women in love.

Then one day out of the blue I decided to surf Facebook. I became more interested in viewing wedding photos of my friends for the sheer hope of finding inspiration. Two of my acquaintances had gotten married in Jamaica and I sent both of them emails asking where they had gotten married. Both women are in heterosexual marriages, but something pushed me to inquire more about the location. In all their pictures there was a sense of intimacy with all the guests, the deep blue of the Caribbean Sea sprawled across the backdrop. I rarely spoke to these two women, and one of them I had never met in person; so I didn’t want to send them a random message requesting details. But time was running and we had to make a decision on location so I pushed the send button. I was shocked by the quick responses. One would’ve thought we were long lost girlfriends reconnecting over Facebook the way how the women eagerly chatted about their weddings. I formed a bond of sisterhood with two strangers over wedding location. Through them I found out about the beautiful property that spans the white sanded beach of the North Coast, not too far from the reaches of the all-inclusive hotels with their massive architecture, maze-like compounds, and watered down versions of my culture. We came to know this property as Silver Sands. With its quaint villas by the sea and beautiful gazebo overlooking the deep blue of the undulating waves, high security, and gated community, it provided the privacy we needed for our wedding.

Once we nailed the location for our destination wedding, we went full speed ahead with the planning. Everything fell into place, including the confirmation of guests who would be there. We rented out six different villas for our thirty-seven guests. We were blessed to have an eclectic mix of family and friends from various chapters of our lives. Emma had her best friends from college in the wedding and I had my childhood friend from middle school and high school. We paired old friends with new friends to spice up the essence of the weekend that would become the most memorable weekend of our lives. Our guests arrived the Friday before the wedding in shuttles to their assigned villas, all excited to celebrate with us. We designated villas by personality traits and who we thought would mesh well together. Many of our friends and family flew in from New York City, Boston, and Philadelphia while some drove from Kingston. By dusk on Friday, everyone who was supposed to be at our celebration was there. The dj arrived and it was non-stop dancing and mingling and fun. Our guests were treated to a welcome party put on by Silver Sands. My partner and I knew we were on our way to having a spectacular weekend. We also knew we were safe and protected by Silver Sands, which has also been a low-key destination choice for many Jamaicans and tourists alike looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of the real world.

Each villa was assigned two to four helpers. Emma and I were fortunate to get great women who assisted us throughout the weekend. These helpers were women from Duncans, Trelawney who have been in the Tourism industry long enough to not blink twice when they were informed about our wedding. In fact, the first thing one of our helpers did was hang our wedding attire up to reduce the wrinkles. She also pressed my partner’s suit and meticulously fluffed the handkerchief in the left breast pocket. As jittery brides, we tried not to take for granted the importance of mother figures fussing over us given that our own mothers had declined our wedding invitation. Our two helpers made sure that we were well taken care of, well fed, and of course, well ready to exchange our vows.

Once I knew everything was under control, I loosened up a bit. I took deep breaths and proceeded to practice mindfulness, a meditative technique I learned last year. I became aware of everything around me, the smells, the sights, the sounds. I allowed myself to feel everything flowing through me in that moment. The moving hand on the clock stopped, suspending everything in the present. I savored every second of it. My moment for life. And just like that my body relaxed. There was nothing that could steal my joy once I claimed it. I likened my joy to the process of an iceberg melting, the solid components made up of fear of rejection and knowledge of a cultural history known to refute the bond between my partner and I. Once that iceberg of fear melted I exhaled. So forceful was the exhale that I quivered. “Would you like some rum punch?” the bartender at the beach bar asked, as if she had witnessed my tenseness just seconds before. “Yes, please.” I took sips of my rum punch labeled A-Train, our signature drink which was aptly given its name because when I met my partner four years ago, I journeyed on the A-train from Brooklyn to Washington Heights almost every night to be with her.

Fast forward to our wedding. I felt like I’d emerged from a dark tunnel, greeted by her radiating light. My father walked me down the aisle; while my partner walked down the aisle with her aunt who she hand-picked to represent her father and the other elders, both past and present, who could not be there. We walked together as a couple paired with the most significant people in our lives to Whitney Houston’s “My love is your love”. Our bridal party had long taken their places in the gazebo in front of all the guests. Behind us, staff and curious onlookers snapped pictures. It was Silver Sands’ first gay wedding and everyone on the compound was excited. Helpers stopped in their tracks on their way home from a long day of work to peer at the brides dressed in white. Front desk clerks flocked to the base of the jetty to give their well wishes then snapped more pictures. People were so excited that they almost followed us onto the jetty leading to the gazebo. They were prevented to do so by the DJ.

In that moment I wished I had a camera to snap pictures of the smiles that followed us that day. I wished I had a video to capture my Jamaican people full of nothing but well wishes and love. A side of Jamaica that the world needs to see; a side that the Jamaica Gleaner and other media outlets would constantly silence with biased stories depicting ignorant thoughts that breed stereotypes of the Jamaican people, especially the working class. My helpers were the ones who snuck away during the wedding procession to sprinkle flower petals on our immaculate white sheets.

Luckily for us, everything ran smoothly. With the help of a quick thinking DJ who stepped in to cue the bridesmaids and clear the jetty during the procession and the ceremony; my very animated friend, Dahlia and my Uncle Turkey, who took to the mics to MC the evening and directed waiting staff to serve food and drinks; and the photographer, Kwesi, who temporarily put down his camera to light the candles. It was all good.

The wedding was surreal in that we never expected the love and support we got from certain people. We even met a videographer who is the owner of one of the villas. The encounter was serendipitous since we had forgotten our video camera and wanted footage of our wedding. He and his wife documented the procession and our vows. However, word got around town that a gay wedding was taking place on the premises of Silver Sands. But the workers, upon hearing this, simply kissed their teeth and fanned away any slight buzz of ignorance.

My partner and I were too ridden with wedding jitters to even care about anything else. She reached for my hand in marriage and I took it. It was just us standing there before an audience of our friends and family. I looked into her eyes and saw those connecting dots in the universe, all aligned; and I thought to myself, she completes me. When it was time to jump the broom it occurred to us that the ceremony was over. We did it. We got married in Jamaica! Well, technically, given that we had really done the legal work in New York where our marriage is in fact legal. What we did in Jamaica, was celebrate with family and friends, reenacting what was already celebrated between us before a judge at the Municipal Building in Brooklyn in the spring. Thanks to Governor Chris Cuomo, same-sex marriage was legalized in New York. Therefore when we jumped the broom, it was literally an emotional experience for the both of us.

Jumping over the broom symbolizes various things depending on the culture. But in our ceremony, uniting us as two beautiful, black women, jumping the broom symbolized the hurdle gay and lesbians had overcome for same sex marriage to be possible. On June 24, 2011, a bill was passed recognizing, for the first time, gay and lesbian unions as worthy by the state of New York. Following that great milestone, President Obama, who I proudly voted for in the 2008 presidential election when I got my US citizenship, announced to the world on May 9, 2012 that he sanctions same-sex marriage. This announcement was a tremendous honor to millions of gays and lesbians who had fought for this very right. On our wedding day we remembered those living partners of gay men and women who were left with nothing—no healthcare and thrown out of the apartments. Those who weren’t able to sit by their partner’s bedside or even dare attend the funeral. Those who took the backseat as “friend” and not recognized as partners having the rights to have any say over how their partner was buried.

Therefore, jumping the broom on our wedding day symbolized not only the ancestors who were not allowed to get married as blacks on plantations and who died to make our dreams possible; but that our union and our love for each other as Black Women will be recognized by everyone, including the very country in which we publicly exchanged our vows, Jamaica.

As the 50th Anniversary of Jamaica’s independence approaches, so has the maturity of a nation. As a Jamaican, I have seen with my eyes and felt with my heart the burgeoning of a nation that is beginning to accept individual choices with little judgment. I say “little” with a bit of caution given that it’s all relative. I’m speaking from the experience I was blessed to have on the weekend of my wedding. At fifty, Jamaica has taken baby steps, but at one hundred, I am positive my country would have already taken giant leaps. In fact, my grandchildren will one day look back at our wedding pictures and feel proud that their grandmothers were the first same-sex couple to marry openly on Jamaican soil.

Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

This moment for life…

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 14 May 2012 16:50:00 +0000

On Saturday May 12, 2012, I read excerpts of my novel to an audience of friends, and my family who came all the way from Jamaica to hear me and my fellow MFA classmates read. My partner, who is my biggest fan, was also there documenting the moment with our video camera and regular camera as well (yes, we are a couple that believes in documenting awesome moments. Soon it’ll be our baby’s first everything!). Anyway…where was I? Oh yes! My MFA thesis reading! In that moment I took to the stage knowing that this is it. This is the moment. I spent two years in my MFA program honing my craft and now, I was given the chance to read it aloud to a full auditorium of faculty, parents, and students. People leafed through pages of our bios, circling names of their loved ones. Others used the programs to fan themselves. But they were all there for one thing. To hear the MFA graduates read our work. As a MFA’er, you imagine this as a reading at your book signing at Barnes and Nobles, your name brandished across the spines of hardcovers, then later, paperback second editions, bestsellers nonetheless. Of course we all aspire for this (even if some of us want to admit it or not), so we all use this chance to capture—even a minute glimpse—of a distant premonition of success. Our readers unknowingly sat in the audience, destined to select our books off the shelf someday.

So it was in this thought process that I stood poised, elegant in a recently bought dress in front of my audience, my future readers. I thought of Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, Audre Lorde and other women of color writers before me. Yes, I thought, breathing in the Jasmine scent of my sweating armpits, this is it. The beginning. My beginning. Everything felt surreal when I leaned into the microphone, opened my mouth, and heard the words on the page echo into the consciousness of my listeners. Each word had an effect, tumbling down the aisles, thick with my accent, moving across rows un-apologetically defying the humble decorum I once assumed in the beginning of my immigrant experience. I met the eyes of my smiling mother and grandmother, aware of them squaring their shoulders and elongating their necks amidst the foreign audience who know their daughter and grandmother as more than an Alien. My words incited heads to tilt to the side and elbows to align with knee caps in an effort to move closer to the source. People stopped fanning, stopped circling bios. They paused long enough to listen. To savor. To appreciate. I remained poised at the podium, taking it all in. For I reasoned then that this--—me standing there in front of an audience, reading my work--—was what I was born to do. I took deep breaths and delivered the story the way it was meant to be heard. After my reading I was greeted with applause and “great job!” However, nothing beats the feeling that resonated inside. It was a feeling greater than anything I’ve experienced in my 30 years, quickly swelling my chest, quickening my pace, and reducing the earth’s gravitational pull so that at one point I felt like I was flying. It welled up inside me and when I looked at myself in the mirror I was able to name it. This feeling. I used my fingers to try to touch it, tracing my reflection in the mirror, my upturned lips, the dark onyx pupils in my eyes sparkling as if newly polished. I could look inside them and see me smiling, see me radiant, see me proud. See me.

I’ve accomplished my dream of successfully completing a writing program. I have expressed many times before on this blog how meaningful writing is to me, and the fact that I pursued my passion and took it to a higher level makes this experience even more visceral. I savor each moment, collecting each experience during the two years like precious stones. I’ll treasure them. I’ll also use them, knowing that my moment doesn’t stop here. There will be many more moments in life when I’ll feel accomplished. Like now. There will be many more moments in life when I’ll smile at that woman in the mirror. Like now. But what I’ll learn from these bursts of joy, these moments in life, is that I am responsible for creating them. God has blessed me with this talent, this passion, this drive to succeed, and the right people in my life to encourage me. BUT. The rest is up to me.

Now as I prepare for graduation I know in my heart that I’ve achieved something significant. Something amazing. I have a completed my first novel, which I’m currently shopping around to agents as well as a collection of short stories. Whenever I mention this to people, they raise their brows and say, “Girl, you really wrote your ass of in that MFA program didn’t you!” And I’d smile at them, like I smile at myself in the mirror. I tell them that I was given a second chance and I chose not to waste it. I chose to honor it and work hard. God has blessed me the opportunity to pursue my dream and I went for it. It was a leap of faith that I’m happy I took with the encouragement of my partner. She made me realize that I was given a gift and I’d be damned if I take it for granted. With this in mind, I’ve begun to submit my work to every literary journal I can possibly think of. I start from the top—the big dawgs like the New Yorker, Kenyon Review, Granta, etc. I decide that even if I get rejected, I’ll wear those rejections like scars, beautiful in their own right, for they are reminders that I’m actually doing something—that I actually tried. And I’ll try again. And again. And again. Every writer has suffered rejection and so I will willingly give myself that opportunity too. For I am a writer. A real one. Now, more than ever. I’m living, breathing, sleeping, eating, being a writer. And my mantra now: Real failure is NOT trying at all. So I'll keep writing. It's only the right thing to do.

Today, I can honestly say that I’m happy and proud of myself for trying. This Friday I’ll walk across the stage to receive my second Master’s degree—the ONLY degree most meaningful to me—my Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, Fiction from Sarah Lawrence College. Cheers to the beginning of a special journey!!!!  Nicole

Giving up Male privilege

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 18:50:00 +0000

Like any elite club masculinity establishes its eligibility criteria with strict rules against those who dare diverge from it. Fathers train sons in preparation to be inducted into this club. Grueling drills begin as early as two years old when the boy child, still witnessing the world through wide, glassy eyes, is taught that he is different. The realization of this difference is seemingly unpleasant when he’s told not to cry, for crying is for girls. It’s in this moment that the child makes a life altering decision. The sogginess of his diapers perplexes him more, but he is suddenly given an ultimatum that will crystallize in his mind. It’ll grow big enough to be chipped away into a crown. The heaviness of it he’ll try to manage throughout his life.

So what about the boy who dares to be different? The boy who dares to take off his jeweled crown and places it on the head of a goat? The one who has been raised in a culture where masculinity is a prized possession? A power to be executed. Masculinity varies according to culture. In some cultures, the women ought to be submissive. In others, the women are seen only as sex objects. While in most, gender equality is that distant goal that glistens like an unattainable star.

Jamaica happens to be one of those countries where masculinity is perceived as sexual dominance.

Often in our music, male artists describe the violent ways in which they’d have a woman in bed. And women, of course, dare not challenge this notion unless if they’re enlightened feminists. Usually the ones who went to UWI or who had left the Island to be college educated and had come across Women Studies courses. In fact, women dancehall artists like Lady Saw for example would encourage “rough sex”, making the whole grit teeth experience a badge of honor. For a woman who cannot satisfy her man in such violent ways—or dare I say, allow herself to be literally raped—becomes the laughing stock, “the wifey” who gets dumped for “the matey” (aka. the other woman) because she can’t satisfy her husband in the ways the violent sex lyrics of the songs imply.

Also, it’s very rare that women voices get heard. Yes, we have a woman prime minister, which is seen even in the western world as progressive. But so many of our women live in secrecy. Incest and rape are high among our women. Yet, it’s hushed, kept quietly like that monthly visit from Aunt Flo. Discreet. It’s treated with care, the way one treats a wound, covering the gaping hole with hopes that it’ll disappear. But it never does. They’re raped again in songs. Over and over again, sandwiched between stereos and boom boxes. At that point the women can’t do much about this violation except to succumb to it. Gives it dominance over her life. Survival of the fittest, right? She begins to incorporate it as a way to be more desirable, to please. Walks away from the dancehall feeling nothing. Just a deep resentment for the woman who dares to raise hell about the lyrics. “Hush yuh mouth an’ suck it up,” she whispers sharply. For isn’t this what she was told as a girl who once cried to her own mother who told her the same thing? Just hush…

Meanwhile the boys are patted on the back for number of girls they score with. But more than the numbers is the technique. For the typical Jamaican man who adheres to the lyrics of the dancehall hates the concept of cunnilingus, fearing he’d be deemed an abominable sissy or “chi-chi”. He likes to thrust viciously (as reported in lyrics) into the woman like she’s a stuffed cushion and not a human being to prove this point. This point he proves not only to himself, but to other males who themselves would dare not admit to succumbing to their woman’s needs in bed. Such is the elite club of masculinity that men would literally die emotionally, physically and even mentally to be a part of it. To be considered “one of the boys”.

Those who dare to break out of these norms are often questioned. Scrutinized. The effeminate gay man, for example is a walking death sentence given the hyper-masculine fear they incite. The mere glimpse of feminine behavior in these men sparks an attack—sometimes violent, depending on the community or neighborhood. Other times the insults are verbal. But contrary to the adage “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never harm me”, words do hurt. And the wounds are lasting. The more masculine gay men on the other hand often pride themselves for “passing”. They know that their male privilege is more valuable than let’s say, showing open affection to a male partner. But at some point they get paranoid, afraid they’ll be found out. Hence the cyclical abuse that happens in these relationships driven by the internal conflict of living up to a certain standard of masculinity.

Now in walks the transgendered woman. Once a boy. The ones who dare to openly challenge masculine norms, having enough courage to stand up to it, give up their coveted passes. One transgendered woman I know says the day she decided to live as a woman was the day she knew she was doing something big. She walked away from her privilege on a pair of four inch heels, never looking back. Not even once. “Honey, I’d rather pawn that crown to get my nails done,” she said with frank sincerity. Never mind that she’ll be giving up a lot.

Those coveted passes that come with a) higher pay (as men are known to get more pay and raises than women), b) the ability to be assessed for your intellect and skills, and not be objectified c) the luxury of getting more respect from both men and women, d) the higher probability of getting a promotion, e) the absolute certainty of tenured faculty positions. The caveats to this include: lucrative publishing deals, having your name embellished as the leader or pioneer of some sort in your field, mentally jerk off and be patted on the back for it, sit at a table and expect to get the most servings of food (whether or not the server is cognizant of their own biases). And the list of privileges goes on.

The real heroes in my eyes then, are the people who could care less about having these privileges revoked. The transgendered women who are the ultimate revolutionaries. They’ve been fighting this gendered fight since they were young. Girls trapped inside the bodies of boys. Girls unable to fathom the mental and emotional abuse of a boy deemed “different” from his peers. Girls beaten and taunted because their boy body acted in ways they feel. Girls ostracized because unlike other girls, they couldn’t express simple attraction to boys without being beaten. Girls unable to use the girl’s restroom because to the world they were boys. And boys had their places, still do, on top of the totem pole.

And still, the fight continues given that women say to these transgendered individuals: “Why? Why give up your privilege? Why not just continue wearing your male costume and fake it?” Little do they know or understand how hard it is for a transgendered individual to come to terms with this themselves. Subjecting them to gender roles they're not cut out for is like silencing them, taking away a big part of who they are. Perhaps those women born female at birth, the ones inclined to ask these questions, can’t possibly believe that someone who was born a male would dare give up his privilege. Perhaps these women watched their brothers be told to go discover the world without penalty, without responsibility, without obligation. While the women get stuck with feeding and taking care of the parent(s) who imparted this dichotomy. Perhaps these women were survivors of rape or incest and have struggled thereafter with getting in touch with their feminine selves.

So a man’s willingness to look the way that might attract perpetrators to more than just his wallet is foreign to them. For being born a woman hasn’t been a luxury for many. From menstrual cramps to breaking glass ceilings with force. However, this resistance or questioning of how a man could possibly want to be us shows how we’re socialized to think. In a world so polarized by gender, the suspicion of anyone who dares to break this barrier is a reflection of one’s internalized biases.

Nicole © 2012

Living my life like I'm chosen...

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 17:20:00 +0000

You know that girl who good things always happen to? Yeah, the one in high school who got voted prom queen and valedictorian? The one with the easy smile who had everyone kissing the ground she walked on?

So…

Slowly but surely I’ve risen above comparing myself to others. There’s always going to be someone prettier than me, smarter than me, or who is a better writer than me. I shrug my shoulders and call that life. However what I take from living this life is valuing my own journey. I have been chosen to be a vessel for the voiceless and by all means I want to honor that and appreciate it. Being chosen is a luxury that comes with self-acceptance. A mindful recognition of my own capabilities. My strength.

Years ago I was that child who thought I was too dark to be favored. Too nappy-headed to be called beautiful. Too shy to be acknowledged. Too clumsy to be given tasks. Too awkward to be a part of the in crowd. But now I rise out of myself a phoenix. I don’t look back to mope on what should’ve been, I look back to gain momentum. To push myself forward. To reflect in this light---Its rays warming my skin, sinking into my pores, and awakening something in me. The little girl perhaps who now stretches and yawns like a glorious princess. Her eyes flutter open and she wonders where she is and how she got here. She rips off her old dress and dances naked in the sun, its rays pouring down on her like rain. With outstretched arms and her face toward the sky she skips and rejoices.

You see, I was never chosen for the earthly things. The exclusive groups and whatnot. Yet, as I begin to accept everything about myself I’m beginning to see others gravitate toward my energy. I’m beginning to see doors open up, emails streaming in, strangers stopping to give me second looks, smiling. For this new me walking this earth is living my life like I KNOW I’ve been chosen.

Somewhere in the depths of my prior insecurities I’ve dared reach to find my crown. It still glistens. Good as new. I now wear it like a queen. And everyone is taking notice, including the Almighty.

Nicole

The concept of a “Big woman”

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 18:36:00 +0000

In the Caribbean when people refer to a woman or a man as “Big” it means they’ve matured, their fruits ripe and on display for the community and the world to see. “Big” means you have arrived on that step where adulthood begins. No longer a child. The expectation now is to harvest wisdom from seeds of mistakes. Work hard so that the fruits of your labor come out tasting sweet. And continue that climb up the ladder, sun beating down your back, muscles fatigued, sweat pouring down your face.

Something happens to a person when they turn 30. My birthday was in September and since then 30 has shown me a few things, some of which I'd love to share.

30 has struck me with conviction, reminding me of my mission. The urgency of it.

30 has incited me to look deep within and reach out to the little girl inside, the one I had forgotten about when I used to aim to please others.

30 has given me the strength and confidence to cut toxic people from my life without looking back. Even if they happen to be long time friends. Or blood relatives.

30 has crowned me with an appreciation of my beauty. The beauty I took for granted. The beauty I often used to deny even as women did double takes and men stumbled over their egos to impress.

30 blessed me with a deep love and appreciation for my parents who now look to me for advise, their proud stares obvious when I answer them back with the wisdom they taught me. My successes reminding them of the sacrifices they made.

30 has reinforced my capacity to love and to receive love.

30 has rejuvenated my wanderlust and desire to go on new adventures. Even if it means traveling all over the world. No longer do I wait to think about it. I go.

30 has given me the audacity to do what I’m good at. Writing has always been a part of me and now I dare commit and flourish from it.

30 has allowed me to stand firm in my beliefs as a fighter. But it has also taught me how to acknowledge my emotions and say out loud how I feel so that nothing defeats me.

30 has shaped me into the woman my great-grandmother said I would become. The feisty, intelligent, fearlessly talented woman she concocted with her Maroon blood. The woman I’m still working on.

30 has reassured me that perfection is for gods. But the ability to acknowledge weaknesses and personal limitations with the intention of learning from them, is what makes me a Big Woman.

Nicole

Hello 2012!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 00:49:00 +0000

In less than a five hours 2011 will be over and 2012 will be here! A big year for many, many reasons. 2011 was the year that I sowed many seeds. I worked diligently, watering them everyday. I sought the right elements to help me nurture them: Great friends. A good mentor. A wonderful support team. My partner. In the last half of the year the seeds started to sprout, rising above the soil toward light. 2012 will be the year when I see them burgeon into dreams.

It's time. It's about to happen. I'm standing on the edge of glory and as the ball drops tonight, I'll be an effervescent firework, ready to light up the world!

Nicole

To Althea, my classmate at St. Andrew High who made me realize something wonderful...

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 17:41:00 +0000

My yearbook pic, Circa 1998

This Thanksgiving I was in a reflective mood. Of course the day says it all “Thanksgiving”. I’ve always been thankful, but for some reason this Thanksgiving took me on an interesting journey. I journeyed along paths that I hadn’t been on in years. Paths that made me realize now how blessed I am. Paths that had faded with life, concealed, colored sepia like old pictures.

It was the image of my high school’s Annual Award Ceremony that stuck with me. Images that were snapped over a decade ago. I was twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen, then fifteen, then sixteen. Five years of images. All superimposed. Prizes and certificates were given to the brightest and most talented students. Although this was Jamaica, I still knew then that it was America’s Thanksgiving Day because I sought escape in cable television. I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade religiously every year as I ironed my school uniform. The Award Ceremony started at 2pm. I would get there early to line up with my class. All the girls giddy with excitement as if we were preparing for the Academy Awards and were nominated.

Dressed in my pressed uniform, my hair neatly combed, every strand in place, I would watch girls in my class and from different grades go up to take their prizes on stage. The prizes were Best Student, Most Improved, Service, Excellence, etc. None of which I was ever awarded. The girls who were awarded these prizes got to shake the principal’s hand and stood in place to have their pictures snapped. Their shoulder length hair bouncing, loose ironed curls cascading. I watched them happily bounce back to their assigned seating, certificate in hand, smiles on their faces. Their necks acquired a certain tilt, bending their heads backwards, noses up in the air. They were destined for college, destined for top scores on the CXC’s, the A-Levels. They were even destined for the coveted opportunity to take the American exam, the SAT’s where they could apply for colleges like Swarthmore, Wesleyan, Vassar, Middlebury.

"Only girls like that get to go somewhere," said Althea, a fellow average student who sat with me in the back. "We'll never be on their level, so get used to this," she said to me. She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. Her words were like a slap in the face. Tears stung my eyes when she said it in response to me telling her that I would love to receive a prize the following year. I had never felt so infuriated, so resentful, so angry, so defeated. Althea must have felt the same.

Of course, I sat at this Award Ceremony every year wondering if I would ever be nominated for a prize. How did the teachers choose the nominees? Year after year I would study hard and do well on exams, yet I never got nominated. Never got a chance to shake the principal’s hand. Never had my picture snapped. Yet, I always showed up. Always had my hair in place, uniform ironed, shoes polished as if I were nominated. It was mandatory that average students show up. It was mandatory that we pretend to show our support by being on our best behavior. It was mandatory that we have smiles pasted to our faces and applause handy for when a lucky classmate, always the same set of girls, gets her award. Maybe Althea was right after all. In the back of my mind I wondered if this was how life would be. Smiles and applause meant for others.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade floated on one year and I was late for the Award Ceremony. By then I had come to the conclusion that I’d never mount to excellence in my school, in my home country for that matter. I’d always be considered average or not good enough. Like Althea I would begin to give up. Begin to accept my fate as a "dunce darky". The British system kicked my ass and my self-esteem to a pulp. I couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling ugly, because I wasn’t light enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my parents were working class, I wasn’t smart enough. Just average. So I was late on purpose. Got my first detention because of it. But I didn’t care. At least I got to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in its entirety. America inspired me.

The day came when I decided not to show up to the Award Ceremony altogether. I was sixteen and fed up. Tired of seeing certain girls get prizes. Tired of being a good sport about it, because deep down something told me I’m great and just as worthy. To this day I can’t tell you where that voice came from, but it incited me to march to my mother and give her an ultimatum. Did I say I was only sixteen? “I will never make it if I stay in this damn country,” I said to her. She looked at me for what seemed like an eternity. I used the word “damn”. She hated when we swear. Yet, it was something else that silenced her. Something else that she saw rising within me. My growing frustration. “OK,” she said very slowly. “I’ll call your father.”

The next day I was called into my mother’s room. I learned that I would never be subjected to another Award Ceremony. I learned that day that I would be migrating to America in the summer to live with my father and start college. I learned that day that my mother had thought long and hard about this. I would finally get a chance to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in real life.

My freshman year of college I reveled in the opportunity of living in a country that doesn’t see me as “average”. My first semester in college I got straight A’s. My second semester I won an academic scholarship. My second year I made the Dean’s List. Four times. Little ‘ole me. The one who never once got nominated in high school for a piece of paper or a handshake that promised to validate my excellence. I was having a ball in college. In college I learned I’m a brilliant writer. Something that I was discouraged from in high school after an English teacher read my college essay and said it was crap. Said the Queen wouldn't be happy with such colloquial terms. Fuck the Queen, I thought. Uhm…excuse me miss, but I got into Cornell University with that letter. Thank you very much.

At my Cornell graduation my mother flew up from Jamaica. She had a certificate in hand. “What’s this?” I asked her. “I forgot to give this to you.” She presented it to me in a large brown envelop. I opened it and read the certificate out loud. “St. Andrew High School for Girls, class 6R, student nominated for academic excellence and service.” I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The certificate was issued a few months after I migrated in June, 1999. My graduation from college was in 2003. Four years had past. Had I gotten it years before when I was in high school, I would’ve probably not felt I needed to migrate to America to be validated. To have my gifts be recognized. But I did. And I’m glad I did. I didn't get a certificate then, yet I pushed forward. I achieved what I set out to achieve because deep down I knew I could. I learned in the process that no one or nothing can make me feel worthy but me. I may not have been nominated for excellence in high school, or felt I couldn't accomplish anything; but God worked it out that today, at this very moment, I am blessed. And have accomplished a lot. So far. For this I give thanks.

If Althea could see me now. I would give her a hug. I would say to her girl, thank you. "Only girls like that get to go somewhere," Althea had said to me then. But I would let her know now that she is worthy to succeed. That she has always been that girl. Worthy.Me today, Circa November 24, 2011

Nicole

Status Writers vs. Contract Writers...What's the use of these terms when all I wanna do is write?

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 19:38:00 +0000

"What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" Erykah Badu

I was ruminating on this thought as I write. I just read an essay by Jonathon Franzen who was adamant about making a differentiation between a "contract writer" and a "status writer". A "status writer", he says, is a person who writes with no intention of being understood by a certain group of readers; a person who seeks to build his/her reputation among the elites by indulging in literary masturbation and leaving readers behind in the dust. While a "contract writer" on the other hand is a writer who is invested in engaging the reader; someone who is passionate about reaching at least one soul because they have something to say.

But the implicit question here is, who gets published? Who determines what's art? Who are the people who decide? Is it the masses or the suits behind sliding glass doors overlooking fifth avenue and Central Park? Is it Granta or your local newspaper? Is it the New Yorker or The Mississippi Review? Is it your mother or the head of Random House? Is it the women in your church or the men with thick glasses who shop at vintage stores, read the New Yorker, and ride their bikes across the Williamsburg bridge? Clearly, if you can reach both the church women and the academic liberals, then that means you're a good writer who should not be labeled or put inside a box. As a writer, you also have to know who your audience is. For example, whenever I turn on my computer to write, I picture that brown lesbian girl in Jamaica or here in Brooklyn who I'd want to read my book, a version of myself that never had the opportunity to read work by lesbian authors of color about lesbians of color, which had nothing to do with threesomes, sex, and more sex. I'd also like the homophobic Christian to pick my book up and identify with some of the emotions and turmoils queer individuals go through. That we're not about parades with half-naked people running around in the streets, but human beings with souls.

In my opinion, art isn't art if it doesn't touch the souls of individuals. There must be something humanistic about our art/writing that speaks to the reader, whether he dresses in a suit everyday or jeans and t-shirt. It doesn't matter. Also, I don't believe that one should put themselves in either categories of status versus contract, because in my opinion we have the ability to merge the two. For example, Toni Morrison is a writer who appeals to the elites and the masses. How does she do that? Well, she writes from the heart. She writes from a place within that pulls from her experiences with people and with herself.

As people, we're complex beings. So complex that not even our mothers who have known us since birth can label us if they should try. Because as individuals, we're still learning about ourselves, all the different elements, shades, that make us unique. So it is with this understanding, I believe, that a writer who is successful in touching the hearts and souls of readers draw from. As readers you're allowed to become voyeurs into the lives of these strange individuals who are not so strange when you begin to see yourself, people you may know, or think you know. So, back to the initial argument: "Contract" versus "Status" writer isn't a valid judgment for Jonathon Franzen to make given that at any given point people can be who they want to be, depending on the height of their career, the pressure to live up to labels, the need for affirmation, the lust for fame.

But the person (writer) who is most affected by all this smoke is the person (writer) who is forgetting one important thing: The readers.

As my favorite artist of all time, the great Erykah Badu says: "What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" And I shall add, what good do your words do, if people can't understand you and IDENTIFY?

Nicole © 2011

Hey World!

noreply@blogger.com (Brooklyn Soul) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 16:13:00 +0000

Wow...I haven't been on here for a while! So much has been happening that by the time I actually get to sit down to write, I'm busy crunking out my novel and not a blog. I told you at the beginning of 2011 that this is the year that I'll be planting seeds. And I shall proudly announce that those seeds are beginning to germinate. I see signs of life sprouting from them, reaching toward an eternal sunshine. I'm loving what I do and living life blissfully surrounded by wonderful and supportive friends and family and partner.

Things are beginning to pick up. I got a lovely writing mentor in the bag. A gift from God. An angel. I got my work cut out for me. Networking like crazy. Writing like crazy. And like Jean-Michel Basquiat, I come up for air only to hang with the people most dear to me, have a drink with them, break bread, dance, pick apples. Then go back to my hole to write some more. For my 30th birthday....yes, I turned 30!!!...my partner surprised me with a literary themed celebration. A surprise birthday party followed where all my lovey-doves came out to wish me well. I was Zora Neale Hurston for my birthday month. And I felt her spirit every step of the way as I toasted to a new chapter. We stayed at the Harlem Renaissance House and had Harlem nights out. Talk about a sign!

Did I mention I'm also planning a "big event" next year? *wink* Yes...and the wheel keeps turning. But I'm balancing real well. It's super exciting. 2012 will be a big year. Gigantic. So gigantic that on New Years Eve I'm planning to wear a tutu and a pair of ballet shoes at the party, set to take a leap into the new year. I'll be the one twirling on the dance floor. Giving thanks.

In the meantime I'm enjoying myself. I tell anyone who asks how I'm doing that I'm "wrIting hard". And I mean every word of it. In the past when I used to say "working hard" it was only to make conversation. To shrug a perfunctory question off with a perfunctory answer. But "Writing hard" as opposed to "working hard" means that I'm enjoying every bit of the process. I feel more connected to myself, my characters and others. Like James Baldwin who's friends used to ask him how his characters are doing since he thought of them so often, my close friends are beginning to ask me how my characters doing, because they know that's all I think about. I sip my cup of coffee and open the morning paper and my partner ruefully asks "So, how's E today?" I meet my friend for brunch and she wants to know what another character is up to. I love it! I'm existing boldly as a "coooky", quirky writer with all these characters inside my head who my loved ones know about.

NEEEE-WAY...(in Ellen Degenerous' voice)...I may not be good with the blogging thing while I'm working. But I'll drop by to wave hello every now and again. So many issues to discuss...Like Occupying Wall Street! Fight the power!

Until then, see you soon!

Best,

Nicole