11
S
aturday morning.
Six-thirty a.m.
I’m in the kitchen.
Apron on.
Hair pulled back.
Hands and face covered in flour.
Watching a homemade buttermilk pancake-making crash course on YouTube, for the third
time
.
I’ve been up since the crack of dawn trying to figure out how to make these stupid pancakes for Daddy.
And I only have—I glance up at the clock—another hour and a half before Daddy comes down for his morning coffee. He usually sleeps in late—until eight—on weekends.
Anyway, I’m scrambling.
And there’s probably more baking powder and baking soda and sugar and salt all over the counters than in the bowl.
Dry ingredients in one bowl.
Wet ingredients in another.
The recipe says it makes six six-inch pancakes.
I keep cracking eggs and getting the shell pieces into the bowl. So I have to keep trying until I get it right. So far, I’ve gone through six eggs because I keep pouring them down the sink and starting over.
Oh, no!
I’m supposed to separate the egg yolks from the egg whites.
The YouTube host says adding the egg whites later makes the pancakes light and airy.
Umm.
Is that same as being light and fluffy?
God, this is awful.
Cooking is surely not going to ever land me a husband. Then again, if I’m fortunate enough, I’ll marry a man who loves to cook.
Or eat out.
Or, maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, I’ll hire a cook.
Yeah. I like the sound of that even better.
Who needs to cook when you have a cook?
Exactly.
Not me.
But in the meantime, I need to get these pancakes made.
Wait. I know what I need.
Music.
Walking over and turning on the kitchen’s stereo, I start humming Bob Marley’s “One Love” as his voice seeps through the speakers.
By the time Kem finishes singing, “You’re on My Mind,” I finally get it right. The egg cracking, that is. Now I’m mixing the wet ingredients in with the dry ingredients. I whisk, being sure to leave some lumps in the batter.
I forget why.
I just do.
Now comes the moment of reckoning.
Pouring the batter onto the girdle. I mean griddle.
The griddle’s hot. Greased. And ready.
I scoop a half-cup of batter out and pour it onto the griddle, then watch it bubble.
Oh, wait.
Blueberries.
I race to the refrigerator and pull out fresh blueberries bought from the farmer’s market, then quickly rinse them, but I’m not fast enough.
Something’s burning.
Oh no!
My pancake is smoking.
And now the smoke alarm starts going off.
I open the windows and slide open the glass door that leads out to the deck, then glance over my shoulder to make sure Daddy isn’t coming into the kitchen holding a fire extinguisher in his hand.
I look up at the clock. It’s five minutes to seven, and I still don’t have the grits—which I don’t know how to make—cooked. Not one egg is scrambled and the turkey bacon is sitting in the sink, soaking in water.
Bacon is supposed to be washed, right?
I take in the kitchen. It looks like a war zone.
Oh boy, Ms. Katie’s going to have a fit when she sees this mess. She’s our part-time housekeeper. But I can’t think about that right now. I have to get Daddy’s breakfast done. A deal’s a deal.
Right?
Right.
I dump blueberries into the batter and stir.
Then try again.
And again.
And again.
Until I finally get it all done.
Seven fifty-eight on the dot!
Whew!
I’m exhausted.
I never knew cooking was so much work. But I’ve survived my first kitchen experience. And I’m pleased—okay, okay,
half
pleased—with my results.
Fresh coffee brewed.
Grits done.
Eggs scrambled.
Bacon cooked.
I’ve really outdone myself.
I set everything on a serving tray, covering Daddy’s plate with a silver cover. Then I make my way up the stairs.
“Rise and shine!” I sing, opening his door and walking across the threshold.
Daddy is coming out of his bathroom, drying his hands with a hand towel, when he sees me. “Good morning, Butterfly.” He walks over and kisses me on the cheek. “What’s this?”
“Breakfast,” I say gleefully.
“Aww,” he says, grinning. “You didn’t forget.”
“Nope. Now get in bed so I can serve you.”
He rubs his hands together, smiling in anticipation.
“I made your coffee just how you like it. Dark.” Well, it looks more like mud, but that’s okay. It’s nothing a little—okay, a lot—of cream can’t fix.
“You’re spoiling me already,” Daddy says, climbing onto his king-size bed. He props two pillows in back of him.
“Hope you enjoy,” I say, my smile widening.
He looks at me. Really looks. Then points. “What’s all this?”
I glance down at the apron he’d given me to wear. It’s covered in caked-up batter and egg yolks.
I giggle. “Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks.” I thrust his tray in front of him. “Here, eat up.”
Daddy doesn’t lift the cover from his plate right away. He lifts his mug, and takes a slow sip of his coffee. He makes a face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, Butterfly. It’s a bit strong; that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s fine,” he says. “Let’s see if you’re going to be the next
Top Chef
.”
He lifts the cover and blinks. Then he narrows his gaze down at his plate. “Umm, sweetheart?”
“Yes?”
He takes his fork and sticks it into his grits. “Um. What’s this?”
“Grits,” I say proudly. “With cheese.” Okay, they’re a bit lumpy. Well, a lot lumpy. But they’re real cheesy, the way he likes them.
His fork points at his eggs. “And this?”
I giggle. “Daddy, stop. They’re eggs. Scrambled hard.” Okay, okay, they’re looking kind of crazy. But I get an A for effort. Don’t I?
“I see,” he says. “And these I’m guessing are blueberry pancakes.”
“Right again, Daddy.” They sure are, even if they do look like little round hockey pucks.
He picks up a piece of bacon. “And . . . ?”
“That’s turkey bacon.” Okay, okay, okay... the bacon is rubbery. How was I supposed to know you don’t soak it in water?
“This was a really sweet gesture, Butterfly. But . . .”
Uh-oh.
Here comes the ax.
“What? You don’t like what I’ve cooked?”
“Well, sweetheart,” he says, clearly choosing his words carefully, “let’s just say you won’t be winning any cooking awards any time soon.”
And with that I am laughing.
And so is he.
12
I
am on the open mic list, waiting my turn.
Poets talk and laugh and prepare to peel back layers of who they are.
Pour open their hearts and souls up on one single stage.
The energy is high.
But I am eerily calm.
Anyone who knows me knows I live and breathe poetry. It is the key to my soul. It lives inside of me. Sometimes I think it’s more real than my own existence.
More real than the air I breathe.
So it’s no wonder that I am floating from the energy in the room tonight.
The Poetry Barn is flooded with positivity.
And it’s one of my favorite places.
Not only do I love the atmosphere, the décor is so chic. The Barn—which looks nothing like a barn in the traditional sense, but more like an upscale lounge—has sleek white leather sofas and large square white leather coffee table ottomans that double as tables or extra seats. There’s also a glass DJ booth in the back. And a bar that serves all nonalcoholic beverages, named after some of the world’s greatest poets.
I sweep my eyes around the space, my gaze landing on the Wall of Poets—black-and-white framed photographs of many of the great African-American poets, past and present, that line the wall.
Audre Lorde.
Nikki Giovanni.
Gwendolyn Brooks.
Maya Angelou.
Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Countee Cullen.
Sonia Sanchez.
Langston Hughes.
Alice Walker.
James Weldon Johnson.
This place is filled with the souls of poets.
I smile when my eyes lock on the black-and-white framed image of Phillis Wheatley.
“Who is the first African-American poet... ?”
The emcee calls up the next spoken word artist, one of the regulars: Legacy. He’s like twenty-one, twenty-two, I think, but he has a presence of someone with much more life experience.
He’s a little under six foot, the color of fudge chocolate with a rich, deep voice.
And from Brooklyn, New York.
I love when he steps up to the mic.
He always delivers his pieces with so much intensity.
A staccato filled with passion and vulnerability.
And sometimes anger.
I watch as he moves through the crowd toward the stage.
Crystal leans in and says, “He is sooo cute. I mean really
cuuuuute
.”
That he is. “And he’s too old.”
She sucks her teeth. “Dang. I can still look.”
“Uh-huh. And lust,” I tease.
She feigns insult. “Who,
moi
?”
“Yes. You.”
“I beg your pardon.” She laughs. “I don’t lust. I admire.”
“Oh, that’s what you call drooling at the mouth? Admiration? Oh, okay. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have to hand you a napkin.”
She gives me a dismissive wave. “What. Ever.”
I smile, shaking my head.
Every other week Crystal has a new crush on a poet. She isn’t a poet; however, she enjoys the art. But I think she enjoys coming just so she can look at the male poets who grace the stage—the cute ones, that is—more than anything else.
Legacy takes the stage.
The room falls silent before he opens his mouth.
He stands there, looking out into the crowd at no one in particular, I don’t think, since it’s his MO just before he gives the mic his signature one-hand caress.
His jeans hang low on his waist, the waistband of his American Eagles showing.
He motions with his hand for the DJ.
And then...
The lights dim, the spotlight going from a bright white light to a reddish glow.
“Peace and blessings,” he says, coolly, into the mic.
“Blessings and peace,” the crowd says in unison.
“I’ma just get right into it. I was called the
N
-word the other night . . .”
The room grumbles in disgust.
A few grunt their dismay.
Others want to know what he did.
I shift in my seat.
Lean forward.
Wanting to know, too.
“I’m not gonna lie. It had me tight. I wanted to crack his jaw . . .”
“I know that’s right,” someone says.
“But instead of using my fists, I chose to put it on paper. Chose to filter my erupting anger into something much greater, much more meaningful than his ignorance.
“This piece tonight, ‘The Black Man I Am,’ is my response to being called the
N
-word.” He clears his voice, then begins, allowing words to flow from his lips like molten lava as he bares his soul.
When he finishes, he says, “May we have a moment of silence for all those before us who have shed tears and spilled blood and died so that we may see a better day.” He bows his head.
A hushed silence sweeps over the room.
Everyone bows his or her head, including me. But I do not close my eyes. I keep them on him. Legacy.
The prince of poetry.
After several moments, his voice slices into the quiet. “Thank you.”
And then comes the clicking of tongues, and the snapping of fingers, and a thunderous roar of applause. People stand and clap and shout.
I smile, swept up in the energy.
And then it’s my turn.
The emcee calls out for me, and I get up from my seat, making my way up to the stage.
“Yeah, Nia,” I hear Crystal call out.
Someone else whistles.
I grab for the microphone. Then I say, “Hello. This piece is inspired by Legacy. And to all the forefathers and foremothers.” I close my eyes. And begin...
Stolen from the Motherland
Dragged on slave ships
Deafened by the sounds
Of the Kings and Queens
Who cried
And died
At the bottom of the sea
Shackled
Whipped
Across the back
Dragged by the feet
Hung from a tree
Robbed of a native tongue
That belonged to me
Bought and sold
Like property
Became enslaved
Families torn apart
Women raped
Men burned
And beaten
Babies snatched
From the arms
Of wailing mothers
Whose milk still drips
And wombs still ache
And bleed
From your misdeeds
Forbidden to speak
So I spoke in codes
To the beat of drums
And looked toward the sun
And the moon
And the stars
To guide me
Toward a freedom
You tried to keep from me
Spit on
Stepped on
Hosed down
Bit by dogs
Jim Crow laws
Burning crosses
Segregation
Degradation
Plagued by the horrors
Of a past
Fueled by hate
And bitterness
Because of the color of my skin
Still I rise
Despite your sins
From
Imhotep
Hatshepsut
Nerfertiti
Akhenaton
Makeda
And
Cleopatra
To
Aesop
Cetewayo
Bambata
Menelik
Chaka
And now Obama
We have been mighty warriors
Since the beginning of time
Fighting for a cause
Behind the cold glances
I know you want to be like me
But will never be me
Imitate my swagger
Bite off my dances
Profit from my lyrics
Yet
You fear me
That’s why...
Despite my emancipation
You still try
To keep me on a plantation
Chained
To discrimination
Humiliation
Substandard education
And
Incarceration
You think labeling me
Hostile
Dangerous
Endangered
Keeping me behind
Concrete walls
And
Razor wire
Will prevent me
From becoming who I’m destined to be
You try to inject me
And infect me
With your drugs
And diseases
And pour guns into my community
In order to commit
Homicide
Suicide
Another form of genocide
Behind the smiling
You disguise your contempt
Through racial profiling
And media lying
But your sick
Twisted ploy
Will never get the best of me
There’s nothing you can do to me
That hasn’t already been done to me
You can’t hurt me
Can’t break me
Will never destroy me
I’m a survivor
I rise
I rise
“You better talk about it,” someone shouts out.
“Go ’head, li’l sister. You spitting nothing but the truth!”
I continue . . .
And despite your lies
And distortions
Of who I am
I rejoice
In celebration
Of a rich history
You’ve tried to hide from me
For I am the descendant
Of great achievers
And believers
Founders of civilization
Who have paved the way
Great men
And women
Who have shed tears
And sweat
And blood
To build this nation
And give birth
To a new generation
Of
Leaders who rest
On a solid foundation
So in spite of
Everything you’ve done to me
I will continue to stand
With my head held high
And rise
And rise
And rise . . .