The same thing I am praised for, is the same thing people try to snatch me for—this thing I do with these 26 letters.
In the face of abject crazy which is the current world, I would be remiss in my duties as a writer not to speak or record it. When I decided to lean into writing, being a writer as a career, I knew what I was getting into—what it would cost, and what I aimed to do in it.
This is the thing I love, communication and the art of word play. It’s what I do. It’s legit what I do. And for the love of it, I happen to write down my imagination to sell to people. I keep pens on hand, my desk is covered in papers and my laptops are always running out of space.
This, indeed, is my sweet spot.
Love and blessings,
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Note: As of this posting, the world at large does not know the identity of this couple, and maybe that is for the best. I have lots of feelings. LOTS of feelings.
One of the reasons why I like TikTok is because it allows me to respond to news in real time, and find things out in real time. I saw these engagement photos on TikTok, and I still don’t know who this couple is; I don’t know who the photographer is; and there is nothing on Beyoncé’s internet that can confirm any information. After seeing the pictures, I had no desire to see or learn anymore.
Like, nothing else!
There are more pictures than the two I have here, but the ancestral rage would not allow me to post all five that I saw. For the people that know me in real life, know that I have dated interracially. My first husband was actually White, and my children are biracial. I, like Mae West, only limit myself to two types of men: domestic and imported. Even with all the interracial dating that I have done, I couldn’t imagine doing this:
Now, I am going to go out on a limb and say that this idea, this theme was HER idea.
When I saw these pictures (oh, they only get worse), I wanted to know how this concept was even uttered, and why he as a BLACK MAN would agree to this! How does the woman you chose to marry, bring this idea to you–you agree to it!–only to know that she was serious!
Think about this now:
You, a Black man propose to a White woman. Your fiancée, a White woman, wants to do engagement photos. You, a Black man, agree. Your fiancée, a White woman, proposes a theme for said engagement photos. You, a Black man, agree. Your fiancée, a White woman, proposes that theme be antebellum slavery–with her as a White woman as a Mistress, and you–as a Black man–as the slave. You, a Black man, whom asked a White woman to marry you, agree to her idea. You as a couple find a photographer willing to do these engagement photos, and you, as a couple, pay the photographer. You, as a Black man with his White fiancée, pose for these pictures. You, as the couple chose the ones you want. Then, somehow, this pictures are released.
The reaction to these pictures on-line is a tsunami! Rightly so! One of the things that I heard more than once is, “There are some Black men that make dating interracially their whole identity.” I don’t see a lie. There are some White women that believe having a relationship with a Black man allows them to own them, collective Black culture, and they can bring White supremacy in their relationship! I really need to know how she is sharing these pictures to! Whom is HE sharing these pictures with! Why was this okay? WHY?
I am a fan of history, dress up and think that engagement photos are a chance to show the personality of the couple. The only thing that I see with these photos is the price of capitalism! I don’t blame the photographer. I am more shocked that he, a Black man, agreed to this–and no one stopped him! No one told him to watch out for Rose, and that GET OUT was right! What disturbs me the most–he’s probably going to marry her anyway. And the slippery slope will begin again. I can tell you right now, he’s going to let her get away with N-word ‘slip ups,’ tokenizing/weaponizing any children they have and saying, “I know my wife isn’t racist because she married me.”
Is this why we can’t be free? I’ll wait.
[Images screenshot from the TikTok account the_savage_lokius.]
Note: I am not a nurse, a doctor or a scientist. I am woman, a mother, a Black women whom is a mother, who desires you all to be safe and prosper. These are only my thoughts. Thank you. -JBHarris
I am a retired CNA. A Certified Nurse’s Assistant, with the plantar fasciitis, tender left hip, and sore shoulder to prove it. I have seen people die, seen people recover, seen people give up, and seen nurses do all they can to preserve life. My last year of being a CNA was during the initial COVID-19 wave. I started this year with a dying marriage, two children, in a global pandemic. I remember calling my mother–whom had been nurse when AIDS was being called GRID–to ask what to do. I believe it was her knowledge, common sense, and God that kept me through that entire year.
Was I apprehensive about the vaccine? Yes. I will not lie to you. I wasn’t going to take it! I thought the creation of it was too quick (viruses mutate and there wasn’t enough information about any mutations at that point), and I am aware of the history of medical experimentation of Black/Brown/Indigenous people in this nation. I wanted to wait. When talked to my mother, she told me, “Pray, take the shot, and keep going.” This is literally what I did. I monitored my symptoms on TikTok when I got the first vaccine in December 2020. There were thousands of people in my comments of that video whom said that I was crazy, I had been microchipped and there were magnets in it (the same things that are being said now).
I remember when I protested with my mother about taking the vaccine, she told me, “Jennifer, some protection is better than no protection.” I don’t know why that statement made everything click (she is my mother!), but it did. I am a Black woman, raising children in an anti-Black world, and don’t want to leave them unprotected. Then, there was my best friend whom is autoimmune. And her daughter that has respiratory issues. And my daughters whom are best friends with them. Immunity was important not just for me–but for my kids.
My kids. My heartbeat in two places.
I chose to get my children vaccinated because it is my job to protect them. As best as I can, as long as I am able. The week that my daughters got their second shot–completing their immunity cycle–there were 12 children in an ICU in Mississippi. Where my family is from…where my grandmother left when my mother was not even 8 years old. Everything in me shattered!
I came home from their vaccination appointment and my life converged into one point. The million little decisions that brought me to this point–some decisions I made, some I didn’t. This is what I thought: If my grandmother hadn’t left, my family may still be in Mississippi. Had my mother not become a nurse in Missouri, whom married the man that was my father, I would have never grown up respecting science. Had I not respected science, seen it work, I would not have listened to my mother. Had I not listened to her, believed God and her, I wouldn’t have vaccinated my children. These things all connect, dear ones. They all connect!
With the looming onslaught of the Delta variant, I urge you all to be careful. Think deeply,. carefully, about how you are going to move in the world around this. The first wave of this was terrible, and scary. I fear that this second wave may be the same…with far more grave consequences.
Note: I am a single mother of biracial children. I have to teach my daughters how to move in the world is Black, as woman, and not die myself while doing it.
I had The Talk with my daughters, 12 and 13 1/2, while doing 70 mph going down I-70 going to my best friend’s house to see their best friends. I had done all I could to bury the nastiness of the world from them. I tried to keep just how mean the world could be from them, why it can be to them, and what they could do about it.
My daughters are in middle school. And really? Honestly? It was almost too late…I should have had it earlier. This is what it is like to be Black and a parent in a nation that is decidedly anti-Black. You are constantly playing Chess–never checkers. White families can do that, not us.
When I made the decisions to get my daughters cell phones, my mother protested and I screamed internally. I have been her child almost 40 years, and when I was 13–my father suggested I get a pager. My mother said no. Now, 27 years later, her granddaughter have cellphones. And she protested. The only thing that I could manage to tell her was, “The world is crazy, Mama.”
The world is crazy, Mama.
I had already had told my daughters not touch things in the store (“People may think you’re stealing!”), what to do if you get lost in the store (“Don’t go to store security/police, go to someone that works at the store and give them your Mom’s name.), and the emergency contact list (“What is your grandmother’s name/number? What is your aunt’s name/number?”). But when I had to tell them what to do when stopped by the police? I screamed. I howled. When I realized that my youngest daughter is the same as Tamir Rice. When I realized that in September my oldest will be as old as Emmitt Till will ever be, and one year younger than Jordan Edwards–I fought the air!
I felt helpless–for all I did, am doing, to raise my daughters to be ‘respectable Black girls’—a police officer with a God complex can take that way. And never be accounted for. As I sped to my best friend’s house, the safety of her house, husband, and daughters who are best friends with my daughters, I fought tears.
I had to tell them: “Even though your father is White, your mother is Black. And because your mother is Black you will always be seen as little, Black girls.” And then I thought of the 4 little girls, the young women in Birmingham–whom would be the same age as their maternal grandmother, 71.
Again we went over what to do if they were stopped: Don’t go to the car. Make sure they see your hands. Do what you are asked. Ask if you can call you mother. “If you can’t get me, what do you do?” “Call grandma.” My heart, my heart in two places, shattered. All I can do, all I do, is give them what they need to survive. What more could I do? Being Black in this nation comes with the Unwritten: in order to survive, you have to know exactly what can kill you, and who may try to.
We got to their best friends’ house, safe and sound. I collapsed on her table and almost scream-cried. The world I had constructed for my daughters, the last peace that I tried to give them, was gone. The world was in my house…again. But this time, I was Mama. Like my mothers before me, I had to learn how to put down a wolf or a dog–and know the difference. The only thing I found that works, if make my daughters into the wolves…and give them a pack that will protect them above all else.
This is a peek into my head as I begin writing some of the most intimate prose I have in my writing career thus far. Look for a sample of one of these poems tomorrow. I promise it’ll be worth the wait! This book will be released October 31, 2021. Thank you. -JBHarris
There was a time that I couldn’t tap into this gift, and I was completely distraught over it. I have spoken about this at length in WriteLife. But the thing about it is, the person whom was most influential in the discovery, or resurgence of that gift is someone that I veiled…for the better part of 18 years.
I am a writer. I am a storyteller. I am Black, woman and writer. I truly believe that I need all three of these identities to move in the world. I believe without the ability to write, to channel what I feel into a controlled format, I would be in a lot worse shape. But, let me back up…a little bit.
He knows who he is. I have mentioned who he is. And I talk about him in this book as well. Michael Lynwood Brown is Peter Parker. And me? Well, I was his Mary Jane. I was his…completely. In being honest, I had not, have not, loved anyone else as I have loved him. The hardest thing I have done, one of the hardest things I have done, is to walk away from him. For the sake of being a lady, all I will say is the repeated wisdom of what my best friend in the world told me.
“Love is a check. Commitment cashes it.”
In processing all of this, in accepting that I waited on a man—that did not know what he wanted—to want me, to see me, to love me–I wrote. What I thought would be 3 poems with the theme of Death, Burial and Resurrection, has turned into a collection of poems.
I refused to let him live in my head rent free.
However, there is an irony to this. “When I writer falls in love with you, you can never die.” I understand that Michael will be a part of my life always (and being the person that he is, I’m sure he’s thrilled about that)–but the veneer is gone. The kidgloves are off, and the best way for me to process this–is to write it out.
In this collection I am having my own personal reckoning–from messy start to clumsy end! This collection is not a dig at him–that is easy. But it is…tacky. This collection is written to heal…for me to heal. I was in love with this man, for the better part of my adult life, and he didn’t choose me! I am healing from the fact that I have been what amounts to a life-handed wife, side chick, professional toy for a man that could not see who I was or would become! Or, conversely–he did see it, and gave me just enough to believe that I would get this happily ever after. I didn’t. And I never will.
I was the MJ. For those of you familiar with this uber-romance between Peter and MJ should be aware of how powerful that is. I was chosen one! For that cause, these poems will be written through that vantage point of a broken-hearted, loving, angry, sullen and even forgiving Mary Jane Watson. As that persona, I can examine exactly how I feel–and maybe how I got there!
I deal with that: someone that I envisioned marrying, and ending my days with…didn’t want that with me. I was asking too much. I was too insistent about it. I was wrong for wanting a plan! I needed to shrink more. I needed to be more of what he wanted–but he couldn’t be anything that I needed.
I loved him from 22…to 39. This book is salve. It is a balm. It is a reminder that my life didn’t start with him…and neither shall it end with him. Tomorrow will be the first poem that I wrote that will be included in that collection. It will be in three parts, posted all day. Enjoy.
How fitting…but I’m a writer! I always get the last word.
This flash fiction was supposed to be a VOCAL submission, but I missed the due date. Enjoy. -JBHarris
Camilla sipped her Merlot at the end of the bar, smirking at the YSL lipstick shade on her wine glass. She reached in her bag, pulling out her matching gold compact. Dabbing at the corner of her mouth, she smiled. Camilla sat in her booth, watching the people in Vincenzo’s Bistro move around her.
The wait staff, the bartenders, and the sous chef that kept coming out personally to ask if she enjoyed the lamb meal. “Ms. Linzo-Morgan?” It was him again, Angelo the same sous chef, asked for the third time that night. “I just need to know if you enjoyed the meal.” She had smiled, still gracious a fourth time, smoothing there straightened shoulder-length black hair in the mirror, proud that her eyes, the color of cognac, glowed in the low light.
She knew he was only accommodating to her because if her name on his pay checks now. Camilla sipped her Merlot again, happy that she decided to invest in Hellene of Troy, the small local winery, rather than the staple, Montgomery Wines. Watching Angelo flirt with her niece, Samantha, she grinned, watching her smooth dyed blonde hair against her sepia skin as he told Samantha how stunning she was. Clearly he was noticing how well she was filling out her black Vincenzo’s waitress polo.
Camilla swirled the glass, puckering her lips, pressing them together to extend the life of her lipstick, just like her mother taught her. “Remember CoCo Chanel! A lady must always be ready to meet a dashing stranger or an old enemy.” She continued her sipping, swallowing, feeling her body warm with the power of the alcohol and the grape sweetness coating her tongue. Camilla’s phone alerted, and she reached into her Dhamiere Ebene Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag to retrieve it. Camilla began smilng , seeing the name in the gray box on her iPhone.
C-Go to the cleaners. Pick up the black dress. -Derrick.
She put the phone on the table, reaching for her glass drinking in the remainder of her Merlot. Swallowing hard, she returned the text message in four words.
Airport. Hour. Sending car.
Looking up from her table she searched for Samantha. Seeing her come from the back of house, through the swinging black door. “Pillar!” Camilla snapped twice, and Samantha almost dropped the wine glasses she was in process of putting away. Samantha looked at her aunt, Camilla kept her face smooth, only remembering to blink. The calling of a nickname before snapping twice as a fire alarm in the Linzo family. Camilla’s husband, Samantha’s uncle was dead. They had two hours to leave St. Louis for the albi to work. Two hours for his mistress to find the body.
Note: There is a poetry series coming with topic as well. One poem of this three part series will be posted here. The complete set will be in SEND FOR A POET: Poems for Love, Godliness & Revolution. More information will be given for that next week. -JBHarris
There is a power to Sha’Carri Richardson that I am in love with! There is an undeniability to her that I make known to myself and my own daughters. She knows how talented she is, what she brings, and doesn’t care if you can’t get over her full set, blonde hair blends and tattoos poppin’ on all that melanin.
Sha’Carri is not here for what you think.
What I have paid attention to about this is just how the Black community has either rallied to support her, or demonized her for ‘knowing better’. For those not paying attention, Sha’Carri found out that her biological mother died from reporter. She smoked marijuana to deal and still go run. And still won.
Pause:Black women are not given the privilege to deal with painful emotions (such as grief)! We are expected to deal with painful emotions and soldier on. To not do that is doing what ‘white women do’. Here is the origin of the Black Shero mythos. Black women are human–why are we not allowed to be it?
Yet, this fall out of her smoking (and still winning! Don’t forget that part!), the suspension and now the threat of her not being on the United States’ Olympic Track and Field team?
The fact that some Black folk are cheering that she was put off the team–talking about the ‘rules’?
The fact there are even some Black WOMEN who are saying, ‘she should have known better’?
I don’t get this. She had a whole moment of weakness, coped as best as she could, and still performed. This nation loves to support Black women it can predict, that are non-confrontation, who look and do all the right things–then they are crowned respectable. This word creates the dichotomy of respectable vs. ratchet. As much as I love our Forever FLOTUS, she is an example of a Respectable Black Woman (RBW). Any Black woman whom cannot be seen as a RBW, is then (by default) considered a Ratchet Black Women (rBW). One of the worst things to call a Black woman is ‘ratchet’!
Most Black women are taught (myself included!) that if I have a good speaking voice, education, don’t scare White people, educated, pump my own gas, have children with one man, don’t have/enjoy sex, never question the world, know how to be ‘submissive’, cook, keep house, natural nails, and don’t color my hair, etc…then I will be respectable.
Now, that makes you a Handmaiden. I am not a Handmaiden.
We as a culture have to give Black women breathing room, to stop confining us to these extreme dichotomies! Stop limiting Black women to superhuman, mammies or whores! Black women are unique in our experiences, yes, but we are not immune to them! We are entitled to support, love and compassion, empathy, sympathy without having to die to get it.
Please pick up a copy of THOUGHTS IN A PANDEMIC on Amazon. Click here to grab it.
I am the daughter and goddaughter of nurses. I am a writer with a day job as a CNA. I am a mother who is a writer, whose day job was a CNA. My last day as a CNA was May 26, 2021. My last position was at a local hospital, and I started there at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. I can tell you this–I have worked in Level 1 Trauma Hospitals and Medicaid facilities. I can tell you this was something I never would have believed had I not been thought it in these cranberry colored scrubs.
When I started, I thought I wouldn’t survive it. Honestly, I was scared. I had children that needed me, and a marriage that was ending. All I could do was call my mother–whom was as nurse when AIDS hit. I was meticulous about my house cleaning, laundry, and wearing my masks at work and when I left work. I even thought about nursing school again! I even got accepted.
Then, the aches started. The pains were more insistent. There was no staff on my floor. There was management that didn’t care, and I heard management talk about how they ‘were tired of all these protests’ , and ‘I’m tired of hearing about Black Lives Matter.’ Then, my heart flutters started. Again. And the stress of this job was getting to me. Being the supergirl at work was making me tired–and making me ill!
I wasn’t here for my kids, and for the want of money–I was going to try to do nursing again. For them.
My best friend has been trying to get me off the floor for the past 5 years, as of this month, I have been a CNA for 7 years. And through her tenacity, and my education, I started a new gig.
At a desk.
During daylight hours.
And my kids see me when I am awake and aware! In moving into this side of healthcare, I am humbled. I am scared. I am now at a place where I can work on my writing and have a life as well. I can say now, with confidence, I am a retired CNA. I am a retired CNA.
This profession–and it is a profession!–has taught me more than people think it would! I have seen people at their worse, them dying, and at their absolute worst–and still have to care for them. It’s thankless, back-breaking, and we are not paid enough. Not nearly enough. For what it is I want to do, nursing can’t hold that. It cannot, and will not!
I am thankful for the new position. I am thankful for the new opportunities, and I am thankful that the Lord has freed me up in this manner to do what I need, what I must. Besides, I had ‘office hours’ for the hours between 10p-4p anyway! And now? I can have a writing schedule…like normal people.