Di-Di Mau: A Memorial Day Reflection

The grinning boy that never became a man represents so many soldiers that left parts or all of themselves on battlefields. I often say that I am happy to know my dad; honored I was chosen to be his. But I am fully aware that the man I know is not the one my mother fell in love with and married. That guy seems like a cool dude--not necessarily cooler than the man I know. But I would've liked to have known him outside of stories and pictures (and maybe gotten some of his speed skills--he was a track phenom too). But I was denied that. War does that. War requires that. Freedom requires that. On Memorial Day, when we memorialize the physical bodies lost in service, we have to also remember that those who came back physically alive did not come back whole. And on Memorial Day, I memorialize them--and the parts of them we lost--too.

[vintage UtR] The Hush

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mute

This is a long one.  Get some tea.
–d

Last night I learned that a young man from around my way had died. Over the past several weeks, he has been in the hospital largely unresponsive and plainly diminished. There was hope but little. There was discussion of his illness but little. He was just. Dying.

At 28, he will join a list of young men from around my way who. Just. Died. They were all, if not explicitly, homosexual. And this is how they all died. Of some unnamed failure of the body that is always explicitly not one of the common ones: cancer, diabetes, heart disease. The Hush tells all. It is AIDS.

We never say that; we might name the failure that AIDS has authored: pneumonia, meningitis; with the proper inflection even “he was sick” works.

“That boy’s funny” was as close as we got to naming…

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[vintage UtR] Things I’ve wanted to be in no particular order

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The Boy’s Girl
A Delta flight attendant
Valedictorian
An Alvin Ailey dancer—
Soul Train would do
Stokely Carmichael’s concubine (shh)
The subject of a song, a nice song
21
That sigh
Mama
Cover Girl
A broadcast journalist
on Walden Pond
Finally
A missionary
Carnival Queen
The Black Madonna
Damn
In long skirts
Dramatic
Always
Marva Collins, Assata,
or Maxine Shaw
A scream
Fancy
Encyclopedia Brown
Samba—just samba
Wealthier, selfish
A b-girl
Taller-shorter-skinnier-thicker
Someday (soon)
Bald
Drawn in black ink.

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How the Body Remembers in its first gallery exhibit!

I'll also be reading the poems that were inspired by Alvin Ailey's Revelations and ultimately inspired me to make the artwork and enter into this conversation about how the body remembers and perform traumas.  Yes yes y'all!  Be there?

How the Body Remembers (On the Body’s Performance of Trauma as Ekphrasis)

delivered at the Northeast Modern Language Association Conference Toronto, ON 2 May 2015 Slide 1: "How the Body Remembers" is not just a creative project but is, I guess like all my creative projects, a question I’m trying to answer for myself--this time about how our physical bodies perform traumas. The question came up after [...]

Breathing Lessons 101 is on the road to Charlottesville Virginia!

Breathing Lessons 101 is heading to Charlottesville Virginia on Friday, May 8th! I'll be reading as part of the Reading Series at the Bridge Progressive Arts Initiative along with author of the novel Nothing Left to Burn, Jay Varner, and poet, novelist, and editor Brittany Cavallaro. Exciting times, y'all--be there and/or please share! https://www.facebook.com/events/346357012230460/

Awkward Hugs for Everyone!

Ayyyyy new followers (and old friends)--I see y'all! Thanks for joining this conversation; hope things don't get awkward. But you know, I can be a little bit of a lot of that so-o-o-o. Stay awhile--it's gonna be fun!

Want’s Weight

She remembered holding his hand, thumbing the meaty part under his thumb. And she remembered how she hardly ever held his hand. Or smiled. She remembered how he smelled—soapy—and his minty breath. He said he brushed his teeth because he planned to kiss her. She remembered him fingering her eyebrows. And his eyes. She remembered [...]

After Lunch

After lunch he lays in her lap. She twists his hair while they watch game shows and soaps. He feels her up; she slaps his hand. Your head is heavy. She twists some more. They go out for a walk holding hands. His father’s neighborhood does not have the eyes of hers or his mom’s and as free as she feels here she knows the escape is not permanent. So when we gonna do this again?

The Request of His Body

But he has known since he met her that the girl on the other line owns herself. Only you surprise yourself by how much. You worry when he laughs, “Just wondering.” But there is more than wondering you hear.