This is one of the short stories that I am putting together in my compilation of short stories titled, Subway Series.
1am Saturday evening on the 2 train to the Bronx…
Marie, exhausted from the day and night’s work, gently closed her eyes like a shade lowering on a window. Her face subdued and muscles relaxed. Her old, plump face looked like a black cherub. Her wide nose and thick lips were her father’s features. The rest she assumed was of her mother who she never met. The fine scars and scratches on her face told a story her lips never uttered. Her coarse, wavy graying hair was tucked into a shirt she wrapped around her head.
Marie opened her eyes. The subway car was packed. So much money to pay for a ride that had insufficient air-conditioning this summer night, she thought. The lights all burned out save two, which flickered like a strobe light putting Marie in a trance. She felt her sweaty face. Her hands caressed her scars.
Her mind traveled to Haiti. She was nine years old then. Marie loved school and was raised by her father, who worked around the island as a carpenter. She often stayed home alone while her father walked from neighborhood to neighborhood fixing and building things for families. She was an active little girl, so thin her legs looked like broomsticks. Marie played with all the neighborhood children hiding around bushes and people’s compounds. Her father and the neighbors always enjoyed her humor and high energy.
This one particular day, Marie walked along the narrow dirt road to visit the Massacre River. She wanted to lay her hands in the river and feel the power of her ancestors who proceeded home before her. Maybe her mother’s energy, which she knew nothing about, would overtake her body and allow her to swim freely.
Three drunken cane workers passed her speaking obnoxiously about things a little girl should not hear. Her eyelids bowed to the men as she picked up her pace. Suddenly, she felt her heart race and palms sweat.
The men whistled and one said in Creole, “Stop it! She’s Salvatore’s daughter.”
One man rudely spoke, “Sal, that COCKROACH! Why does he leave his little flower to roam the streets alone?”
Marie walked faster.
“Sal owes me money. I let him go on too long” the man snickered.
“Well, I guess we must do it then” and nodded to each other.
“NO!” a voice yelled.
But the men followed Marie.
Marie looked back and now saw the men following her.
She ran through the cane fields. The pain as she ran through the sugarcanes was intense. She felt like her skin was on fire. The cane scratched her face. One of the men tackled her like she was a chicken running away from its coop. Her face hit the ground knocking three of her teeth out. The man on top of her was nasty with sticky sweat and breathed heavily. The other man repeatedly punched her in the face while the other man looked on nervously. The man on top of her turned Marie on her back as she fought and whimpered. She was frightened and thought they would kill her. The darkest of the three men yelled at the other two to hold her legs. She felt the muscles of her fragile legs tear then rip apart from each other.
The man punching Marie tried to cover her mouth but she bit his hand with the teeth she had left in her bloody mouth. In the process, she bit the tip of her tongue off. One man entered her young body and she yelled in agony. Marie felt like her bottom half was ripped open and apart. It was no longer attached to her. She looked at the sky through the cane stalks and drifted away thinking of the bittersweet taste of the cane. The men took their turns and finished with her, then urinated on her face.
Marie passed out.
Marie’s father had just finished slicing the throat of the goat Marie had loved for the night’s dinner. A mob of people headed towards his one level 3-room house. In their arms, they carried a bloody little girl. He realized the bloody girl was Marie by her yellow dress with daisies on it. His eyes widened and he screamed a painful cry to the world.
The men laid Marie on the steps as they also cried.
The light flickered again in the train and Marie blinked. She realized her face was wet with tears. White women who boarded the train at the 66th Street station just stared. Marie noticed how she let that tragic moment dictate her life in New York hundreds of miles away from her homeland. It dictated her decisions with men, family, and relationships. She lived all alone in this grand city and ate herself within yards of death’s door.
Three men boarded the train. They were dressed in all white with drums covered in red fabric. They began playing as a whisper and then picked up the beat pounding the drum. Marie stood up and listened to the beat and danced. Her arms flailed and her body jerked. All eyes were now on her. And she danced. Her feet moved. Her body moved. Her eyes closed. Her body became one with the rhythm.
Marie danced back to Haiti. Back to Africa. She danced back to freedom.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
To all our female workers...
Earlier this week, I rode the train and saw a woman in her late 30s- early 40s wearing her black and red McDonald’s uniform and riding to work. The sight of this beautiful woman triggered an emotion inside of me, which was offset by questions in my head: Did this woman have a family at home? Did she enjoy her job? How much was her salary? How long had she been in this country? What was her birthplace country? How was she treated there? These were all questions that I would never know the answer to.
This woman was a representation of thousands of women in this capitalistic society who are forced to work menial jobs earning a quarter of a living. I know too many women who have families to raise, but are often forced to take time away from their children so they can have some pocket money. Why is it fair for them to make the bare minimum? Is society dictating to these women that their self worth is valued at $7.50 an hour? This woman cooks your food, takes your money (which she will never benefit from), and serves you with a pleasant smile. All so you can feel comfortable with the exploitation that just occurred.
Have you ever thought about the pain this woman faces as unsatisfied customers hurl insults at her? The wounds of our words can cut so deep that she internalizes derogatory comments made about her. As she puts on her uniform for work and brushes her hair she looks into her own eyes in the mirror. She wishes every day that someone will see the great person she is inside, the goals she has set for herself, the journey she survived to the USA on a raft-like boat. Her makeup becomes her war paint as she prepares for battle every afternoon to serve hundreds of folks each day. Some never saying “Thank You” because, of course, it is what is expected of her. This woman is human and has had life experiences. She is strong and diligent in her work because she hopes for a better way for her children.
Yeah, we can all take the route of saying, “We all have choices” or “She could have stayed in her country.” But, just like her, we are all trying to find a way to live in this world. So as you see someone who serves you today, know that that person is a beautiful soul. Someone who has the right to be respected. Today I say, “Thank You”-- to all the housekeepers, babysitters on Park Ave., food workers at McDonald’s, women who sell fruit on the side of the street, women who push their icy carts, women who take my plate as I am finished in a restaurant…and you are respected.
This woman was a representation of thousands of women in this capitalistic society who are forced to work menial jobs earning a quarter of a living. I know too many women who have families to raise, but are often forced to take time away from their children so they can have some pocket money. Why is it fair for them to make the bare minimum? Is society dictating to these women that their self worth is valued at $7.50 an hour? This woman cooks your food, takes your money (which she will never benefit from), and serves you with a pleasant smile. All so you can feel comfortable with the exploitation that just occurred.
Have you ever thought about the pain this woman faces as unsatisfied customers hurl insults at her? The wounds of our words can cut so deep that she internalizes derogatory comments made about her. As she puts on her uniform for work and brushes her hair she looks into her own eyes in the mirror. She wishes every day that someone will see the great person she is inside, the goals she has set for herself, the journey she survived to the USA on a raft-like boat. Her makeup becomes her war paint as she prepares for battle every afternoon to serve hundreds of folks each day. Some never saying “Thank You” because, of course, it is what is expected of her. This woman is human and has had life experiences. She is strong and diligent in her work because she hopes for a better way for her children.
Yeah, we can all take the route of saying, “We all have choices” or “She could have stayed in her country.” But, just like her, we are all trying to find a way to live in this world. So as you see someone who serves you today, know that that person is a beautiful soul. Someone who has the right to be respected. Today I say, “Thank You”-- to all the housekeepers, babysitters on Park Ave., food workers at McDonald’s, women who sell fruit on the side of the street, women who push their icy carts, women who take my plate as I am finished in a restaurant…and you are respected.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
People of Color and the Arts
So, I have been meaning to write blogs on my thoughts, feelings, and encounters with the world in my head, as well as, the outside world. So many things in my head so I am using this avenue as a catharsis to release the mental baggage. I figured I would begin the Arts. Here we go...
I recently saw an interesting performance by Groovaloo at the Joyce theatre in Chelsea. The show explored the dancers' stories using hip hop dance as the platform. The "hip hop" dancers (mostly white (FYI) with sprinkles of color here and there) showcased their hip hop moves and choreography. The dances, not so bad. But I really couldn't get over how all these white people on stage were parading around displaying hip hop dances for all the white people in the audience who frequent the Joyce. (I have been to the Joyce several times and whenever I go I find that usually I, the person I am with, and the staff are definitely in the minority).
I sat as the whites in the audience cheered and clapped the dancers on. All I could think about was hip hop culture itself and what being a man of color means in the hip hop world. It was more than the presentation put on for these people. Hip hop started with the beautiful Black and Hispanics who expressed themselves through dance, art, grafitti, word. Rap music was born. Rap was the call and Breakdancing was the response. How could they possibly understand the struggles of a generation that used hip hop as an escape, some as a ticket out? All they saw was the pretty picture in each dance move.
While the dancers danced, a narrative of their stories was spoken in the background. One woman's stood out to me. She was a woman of the Caucasian persuasion claiming how she wanted to sing soul music. She goes on to say her family and friends claimed, "I want to be black...and they were right. I did want to be black. I wanted to sing soul." *SMH* So Blacks are the only people who sing soul? That's like someone telling me, "I want to be Puerto Rican or Asian so bad."How about we be proud of who we are as humans and not trying to wish we were something other, like race? I don't get it. I've never said "Oh how I wish I were white." I am proud of who I am and what experiences I have faced. They have led me to be the wonderful young man which I am. I wouldn't change that. How about we learn about each other's cultures and embrace them instead of trying to appropriate them?
I figured this Groovaloo performance to be a way for the white people in the audience to feel like they had a connection to hip hop culture. While nice, the spectacle seemed a bit contrived. All I could seem to think about was how receptive would the audience have been if Blacks or Hispanics were on stage Riverdancing or performing Chinese traditional dances? I'm sure the dynamics would be different.
Also, while I am on people of color and the Arts, I want to comment about my experiences with frequenting galleries around the Chelsea and Beacon, NY area. The "white box" often a title used for gallery spaces has proven to be a lil discriminate. It is an uncomfortable feeling to walk into galleries and feel like the pink elephant in the room. I often find myself and my closest friend are often the only "polka-dots" there. Why don't I see people of color in galleries? I mean most of the work I've seen shown has all been by Black or Hispanic artists and the the people viewing and capitalizing off of the work are mostly white, so why aren't we supporting our people? The reactions I usually get are: stares, people often looking at me like I must have stepped into the wrong venue, or ignored.
One particular memory comes to mind. This past May I visited the galleries on Main Street in Beacon, NY. I walked into the Arts center and was astonished at the response me and my friend were welcomed with. It was a pastels exhibit. The curator for the show thought it necessary to explain what pastels were (keep in my mind my friend is an artist) *we look at eachother trying to ignore* As we walk through the center and view the amazing work. He brings up to the curator that he is an artist. Her response: Oh we have African Americans show work in February for Black History Month. *Really Lady!!! First, he is Native American and Brazilian. Next, what an insult that you would only consider works by an artist of color on Black History Month* She then looks at me and says, "Oh and we do something nice for Latins in October." That should have been my cue to educate this woman but I was so shocked by her responses that we just looked at each other and walked out. Is this how we think in 2009? Now, I had to wonder, if this is how she thinks how many other individuals I have come in contact with at the galleries think the same way? I mean their nonverbal communication speaks volumes to my mind, but darn!When will we learn as a people to be accepting? When will we learn that they must not exploit us and capitalize off of us (art, music, reality tv!) ! We must take a stand for ourselves.
So I say to my beautiful people of various shades and colors, go visit an art gallery or theatre and support our artists, our dancers, our actors, our people!
I recently saw an interesting performance by Groovaloo at the Joyce theatre in Chelsea. The show explored the dancers' stories using hip hop dance as the platform. The "hip hop" dancers (mostly white (FYI) with sprinkles of color here and there) showcased their hip hop moves and choreography. The dances, not so bad. But I really couldn't get over how all these white people on stage were parading around displaying hip hop dances for all the white people in the audience who frequent the Joyce. (I have been to the Joyce several times and whenever I go I find that usually I, the person I am with, and the staff are definitely in the minority).
I sat as the whites in the audience cheered and clapped the dancers on. All I could think about was hip hop culture itself and what being a man of color means in the hip hop world. It was more than the presentation put on for these people. Hip hop started with the beautiful Black and Hispanics who expressed themselves through dance, art, grafitti, word. Rap music was born. Rap was the call and Breakdancing was the response. How could they possibly understand the struggles of a generation that used hip hop as an escape, some as a ticket out? All they saw was the pretty picture in each dance move.
While the dancers danced, a narrative of their stories was spoken in the background. One woman's stood out to me. She was a woman of the Caucasian persuasion claiming how she wanted to sing soul music. She goes on to say her family and friends claimed, "I want to be black...and they were right. I did want to be black. I wanted to sing soul." *SMH* So Blacks are the only people who sing soul? That's like someone telling me, "I want to be Puerto Rican or Asian so bad."How about we be proud of who we are as humans and not trying to wish we were something other, like race? I don't get it. I've never said "Oh how I wish I were white." I am proud of who I am and what experiences I have faced. They have led me to be the wonderful young man which I am. I wouldn't change that. How about we learn about each other's cultures and embrace them instead of trying to appropriate them?
I figured this Groovaloo performance to be a way for the white people in the audience to feel like they had a connection to hip hop culture. While nice, the spectacle seemed a bit contrived. All I could seem to think about was how receptive would the audience have been if Blacks or Hispanics were on stage Riverdancing or performing Chinese traditional dances? I'm sure the dynamics would be different.
Also, while I am on people of color and the Arts, I want to comment about my experiences with frequenting galleries around the Chelsea and Beacon, NY area. The "white box" often a title used for gallery spaces has proven to be a lil discriminate. It is an uncomfortable feeling to walk into galleries and feel like the pink elephant in the room. I often find myself and my closest friend are often the only "polka-dots" there. Why don't I see people of color in galleries? I mean most of the work I've seen shown has all been by Black or Hispanic artists and the the people viewing and capitalizing off of the work are mostly white, so why aren't we supporting our people? The reactions I usually get are: stares, people often looking at me like I must have stepped into the wrong venue, or ignored.
One particular memory comes to mind. This past May I visited the galleries on Main Street in Beacon, NY. I walked into the Arts center and was astonished at the response me and my friend were welcomed with. It was a pastels exhibit. The curator for the show thought it necessary to explain what pastels were (keep in my mind my friend is an artist) *we look at eachother trying to ignore* As we walk through the center and view the amazing work. He brings up to the curator that he is an artist. Her response: Oh we have African Americans show work in February for Black History Month. *Really Lady!!! First, he is Native American and Brazilian. Next, what an insult that you would only consider works by an artist of color on Black History Month* She then looks at me and says, "Oh and we do something nice for Latins in October." That should have been my cue to educate this woman but I was so shocked by her responses that we just looked at each other and walked out. Is this how we think in 2009? Now, I had to wonder, if this is how she thinks how many other individuals I have come in contact with at the galleries think the same way? I mean their nonverbal communication speaks volumes to my mind, but darn!When will we learn as a people to be accepting? When will we learn that they must not exploit us and capitalize off of us (art, music, reality tv!) ! We must take a stand for ourselves.
So I say to my beautiful people of various shades and colors, go visit an art gallery or theatre and support our artists, our dancers, our actors, our people!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)