Don’t Wait (Bad title, I know.)

coy fish

I’m 34, and I’m just learning how to swim. I grew up in Charleston, and visited the ocean often, but I never learned to swim. I walked on my hands near the shoreline, even spent time holding my breath underwater, but I couldn’t survive in the 6 foot end of a pool. I kept promising myself I would take lessons, but I put it off.

Last year in 2016, I went through a time period when I was really down. There were so many things I wanted that I wasn’t accomplishing, and most of it had to do with my physical health. I have so many excuses—I’m a working mother of three young children, I’m a writer and a full-time teacher. It’s understandable if I don’t make it to the gym, or take good care of myself. But suddenly I got tired of my own excuses and decided to do something about what I wanted. I decided to live the life as close to the one I wanted as possible.

Last October during the low emotional point I mentioned above, I began to work out. I promised myself I would work out five days a week, and I did. I forgave myself days I couldn’t make it. I didn’t hold myself to a diet. The idea was just to develop the habit of working out Monday through Friday. It is now March 2017, and by the grace of God, I am still in practice. I try my best to take it one day at a time.

But back to swimming. A friend of mine, Daron Drew, knew that not being able to swim was a barrier. She is good at recognizing things that are holding me back. She arranged for me to get swim lessons and what a gift! I can now say that I know how to swim! I can breathe while doing the front crawl. Last week I swam in the 12 foot end of the pool!

I hope you begin something new today that you’ve wanted to do for a while. Call who you have to call, do your research, but begin.


Locker Room Talk

This is non-fiction. Trigger Warning: assault. 

Now imagine you are a Carolina girl in a navy blue and rose-colored dress made of the softest fabric. You’d bought the dress that very day in White Plains, exploring the city before heading back to your host’s estate. Imagine your shoulders are bare in the dress and the sun is going down in Tarrytown, New York, where you are a writer-in-residence. After attending an outdoor ballet performance and reception you are wandering in a sculpture garden admiring antique roses and stonework a century old.  You cannot contain the joy you feel, and it spills off in your conversations with strangers, while the dancers mingle with their private audience.

When monsters come to steal, they come for the life within you, the light within you. And suddenly, in front of a sculpture of David (you, lost in its beauty) the monster appears in the form of a security guard a retired police officer, he says, and you feel safe. You feel embraced, protected—you are behind gates. The guard calls for someone to drive you back to your guest house, itself a work of art. You are living in art. Your dress trembles in the shyest breeze as you climb into the truck. The guard holds the door open, like a gentleman, and in the opening between your thigh and dress, he inserts his hand. He squeezes your bare butt cheek twice, then slams the car door, quickly signaling for the driver to go. You freeze, stunned.  The night comes falling down around you in blue sheets. Words with nowhere to go pile up in your cheeks.


On Boldness

I nursbreastfeedinged my baby on the sidewalk. In the shadow created between two cars, I bent down and sat with her in the crook of my arm, lifted a breast out of my dress, and fed her.
I’d brought her to her first poetry reading. She was almost 5 months, so inside she’d been cooing and was starting to whine. Oh, the looks!
I decided to feed her to keep her calm, to buy more time for us to be there, so I ended up on the sidewalk. It was my first academic reading since having another baby.
Truth was, I was still healing from a c-section, still in awe of how quickly I was alright after giving birth a second time. (I’d had twins the first time.) I’d written a poem I call “TEETH” about this process, and I was going to read it. I’d dressed my baby in the same color dress as mine, a periwinkle blue. As I read a series of poems during the reading, my sister held her. My heart pounded the entire time I read, the way it always did when I did any form of public speaking. I had done my usual practice of focusing all of my nervous energy on not appearing nervous. Anxiety fluttered through me the entire time.
When it came time for me to read the poem “TEETH,” I had my sister bring my baby, whose name is Maya, to the stage. As soon as Maya was on my hip, pulling at my earring, her familiar weight in my arms, my entire body quieted. In me rose this sensation of ferocity, and I read the poem with a power purely motivated from living through bringing her and her sisters into the world.

Other than giving me strength, reading with Maya in my arms was something I needed to do. In my profession as a poet and academic, there are attitudes that are not supportive of parenting. As artists we are taught that our work is our primary focus and that anything that distracts from it is to be avoided. With each additional responsibility, our work suffers. And in some ways, it’s true. But having my children made me value the time I had to write. No more loitering in the bathtub or a coffee shop for hours! When I have opportunities to write, I do. There is no such thing as writer’s block when you have limited time. I’ve produced and published more work in the years since I’ve become a mother than any other time in my writing life. At the time, I needed to bring Maya to that reading and into that space with me to prove to myself that it wasn’t over. My work wasn’t over just because I’d become a mother.

I wish I could harness this power every time I read or did public speaking, but the truth is that most of the time I struggle. I consistently challenge myself in this area–I speak or read at several places a year, taking every opportunity I can, usually. I push myself by learning helpful tips and information about it. It’s always hard, and having a baby on hand is very rare! (And now–at their ages– my children would be screaming my name the entire time.):-)

What are some uncomfortable and bold things that you’ve done? What area(s) do you challenge yourself in?

See the reading I mentioned above here: (The first words missing in the recording are, “This body.”) Catch Maya and I around the 6 minute mark.)

Lena Dunham and I


LENA Dumb, man. But I think if I was sitting next to a young professional football player who was completely ignoring me, I may have experienced similar thoughts— that he discounted me as interesting, as a woman—and it would have made me feel bad, I’m just saying. I wouldn’t however, talk about it publicly, as if my thoughts were fact. Of course the most problematic part of this story lies in the fact that Lena Dunham is white and he was black, and that as a white woman, she was telling the story. And who is telling the story is so important; it is such a position of power. (See TedTalk,See History.) Lena Dunham needs more information.

The truth is, many women often feel entitled to men’s attention. (And I know this isn’t always played out noticeably. It’s usually all mental.) We want to be perceived as attractive and viable love interests. The more un-evolved and emotionally immature we are, the more hurt we are when we don’t receive that acknowledgement. I don’t want to relate to the men I meet by wondering whether or not they’re attracted to me. It’s ultra-ridiculous. I still have to consciously rely on my faith and check my thoughts regarding men. I like to think I’ve come a long way.   I want to be seen as human–first. The older I’ve become, I’ve recognized how necessary it is that I am seen as human, especially as a black woman. Not super-human, not on-fleek, not extraordinary, not the exception, not your kind of black woman, just human. See me like that. See me.

Day One







I’m beginning this blog as an act of agency to counter self-oppression. I mean that with the utmost seriousness. I’m also starting it because my opinions are longer than a Facebook post. I believe I have valuable information to give regarding art, writing, mothering and life-style. I’m ready to share myself and what I have to offer.  I’m ready for you to disagree with me, dislike me, or like me—whichever you prefer!

To quote a Facebook post I wrote this morning, “I refuse to be ruled by fear.” I am sick of fear. I am tired of finding it hiding in small crevices of my mind. I don’t want to be afraid of someone thinking I’m pretentious or dull.  I don’t want to be afraid of failing. I don’t want to be afraid that I will never try or that I will never be successful to the level I want to. And lastly, I don’t want to be afraid of the demands that will come with success.

I hope you will decide to live as boldly and as well as you can. I will be encouraging you to do so. As a teaching artist I consider it my job to stimulate your mind with ideas and enhance your life by cultivating peace. The very things I crave, I give. Thank you for joining me in this journey!