Feeling Flashy

Circa 1933

They met at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas on the first day of Air Force basic training. Two 18-yr-old girls, with so little in common, at first glance at least. Becky, a white girl from Catherine, Alabama, and Starla Posey, a black girl from the mid-west, by way of Selma, Alabama, a mere 37 miles away, but she didn’t mention that, she never did. Maybe, because she loved claiming to be a big city girl from the Chi, or maybe it was the blanket of discomfort that dropped over her family like a blanket, any time the South was mentioned.

Despite that small omission, they became fast friends, sisters from another mother, they would tell anyone who would listen. Even the drill sergeants grew so accustomed to seeing them together, that when Becky received news of her father’s tragic death back in Catherine, they brought Starla along to break the news. When Becky had to leave basic training the night before graduation to be there for her daddy’s funeral, Starla asked, and was granted leave to go be by her new sister’s side.

For many years after the day that she stepped into the double-wide trailer, where her friend had been born and raised, Starla played the what if game in her head. But no matter how many scenarios she tried on, she always ended up back at, the picture. Every second of that memory unfolding in her head like a movie on an old fashioned movie projector.

The heat, so hot you could smell it. The dust in the front yard seeming to coat her tongue, the sound of the screen door slamming behind them as they stepped inside the add-on porch. And then, the old man, sitting in a tattered pair of grayish boxing shorts, too thin to cover much, his back bent into a hump, skin falling around him in loose folds. Every part of him looking as if it was well on the path from this world into the next. Except his eyes. She had nightmares about his eyes, dull and uninterested until they fell on her face. Then flooding with a sharp ferociousness, the unexpectedness of it, taking her breath away, causing her to stumble over her own feet.

Even as Becky crossed the short distance from the door to where he sat, wrapping him tenderly in her arms, calling him Pop Pop, the name from her childhood, he stared at Starla, drool starting to pool at the corners of his lips as his mouth began to work, though no words would come. It was when Starla took a step towards him, holding out her hand in greeting, that he screamed. A deep rumble that started in his chest and seemed to get caught in his throat, like a wounded bear caught in a trap.

Starla had stumbled backwards, slamming into the door as Becky leapt up in surprise. A woman, slightly younger but far sturdier than the man rushed into the room her eyes jumping from his face, to where Starla stood flattened against the door. A younger man, followed behind her, and without hesitation lifted the old man from the chair and carried him out of the room, leaving the echo of his guttural screams ringing in Starla ears.

The woman asked, and Starla told her, her name, explaining how it had been passed down for generations in her family. The woman hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, merely nodded as if she had known all along, before turning and disappearing back down the hall, Becky, following closely behind, leaving Starla sitting alone in the stifling living room on the edge of the plastic covered couch.

Curiosity killed the cat. That’s what her granny used to say. What everybody’s granny said. But as she reached for the heavy old leather photo album sitting on the coffee table right at her fingertips, that was the last thing on Starla’s mind. In fact, the only thing she was thinking about was the old man’s face, twisted in a mask of rage and hate, as they carried away. She had begun to wonder if she should go back to the hotel in Selma to give Becky time alone to be with her family, when she flipped to the last picture in the book.  

The scene was of a picnic. Kids played; food was spread out on the ground on blankets. One little boy stared directly in the camera his snaggle-toothed smile full of mischief. Behind him a crowd had gathered, forming a circle around a tree, their backs, mostly to the camera.

Starla blinked, cold seeming to form in the pit of her stomach, spreading throughout her entire body until her body began to shiver and goosebumps covered her flesh. Starla leaned in, barely breathing as her mind made sense of what she was seeing. Beside the picture someone had written words, she could barely read through the tears gathering in her eyes, Starla Point, circa 1933.  

Fumbling inside her purse she pulled out her phone, and opened the hidden folder, bringing up the single picture. A picnic scene, kids playing, food spread out on the ground on blankets, the snaggle-toothed boy grinning into the camera. 

Behind the boy’s head, the crowd surrounded the tree, their eyes trained on the black man swinging from a rope tied to one of the tree’s thick limbs, blood running from deep gashes cut into his face like tears, his mouth stretched wide in his death scream.

Swiping away the tears streaming down her own face, Starla read the words written on the picture.

Starla Point, circa 1933. Thomas Posey

           

Living My Best Life

Living My Best Life?

I was sitting at my desk plowing through a never-ending pile of paperwork, important to the people it concerned, for sure, but for me it was just another day of mindless drudgery. Today of all days my mind was anywhere but the continually growing pile that seemed to replenish itself as soon as I shuffled one piece away.

 After a week, where bombs were sent all across America, bent on terrifying or harming leaders of our democracy, A madman filled with hate killing 2 innocent people in a grocery store parking lot, the murder of 11 people killed by a mass murderer, simply because of their faith, a plane crash, yet another school shooting, and then as a sweet little bonus, finding out Geraldo Rivera has been living in my neighborhood for years, unknown to me, and obviously, quite a few of my neighbors, this week has been mind-boggling difficult.

Then, as I so often do during the day, I checked Twitter and saw a tweet from @ladyknoxly announcing that her website was live. She writes a blog about eczema and allergies, with a focus on what must be the cutest baby in the entire world, https://t.co/4gMUEX5qhB Well, I may not be a baby, but I am allergic to pretty much everything, and it’s an easy read, so I kinda love it.

But, today it got me thinking about life, my life specifically, and whether I was "living my best life," as Lil Duval and Snoop Dog say. As I looked around at my cluttered desk of other people’s lives, I knew the answer was, not only was I absolutely not living anywhere near my best life, but I didn’t even know what that would look like, with the exception of being a world famous writer of novel and screen.

But, until I get there, what does MY everyday best life mean? I’m not sure I know that. But, I intend to find out. There are 64 days until January 1, 2019. And since all journeys need a destination, I intend to use these next 64 days to find out what Angela’s best life is.

I invite you to grab your favorite journal and come along. Share your findings, vent, or just ride along, and see what we find. Hopefully, when the sun rises on 2019, I’ll at least have found the coordinates to find where X marks the spot to my best life. Here’s to Living Your Best Life.

I Quit

I quit. I know your friends, mentors, and pretty much every post on the internet, tells you, "never give up." It's practically tattooed onto our brains. But for many of us writers, scratching our way out of our computers into the great wide world, there's probably not a day that goes by that we don't think that very thing, "I quit."
 I quit the late nights looking for the perfect words to describe the night sky that aren't a cliché. I quit the scouring of articles and websites to find the perfect agent match. I quit the gut-wrenching, soul-crushing rejection letters and the never-ending dream of seeing my name on a book, placed oh so reverently on the endcap of a Barnes & Noble bookstore.
I've been thinking about it for a while now, every since the end of the last season of Project Runway. Confused? I bet. Let me explain.
You see, unlike a lot of writers, and smart people in general, I have not turned my back on TV. I love it, especially reality shows, preferably reality competition shows. It's the hope, the dreaming, the aspiring that draws me in. You know the story, a singer, a chef, or a dancer, shows up with nothing more than good old-fashioned gumption and belief in themselves, and vanquish thousands of other less worthy contestants to make all of their dreams come true. It's downright inspiring.
Well, last season of Project Runway, there was a contestant by the name of Kentaro Kameyama, a beautiful soul with a flair for the dramatic and an eye for the unique. All through the show the remarks from the judges ranged from dismissive to outright confusion, but his gift was undeniable and so he kept clawing his way up until he was in the final three.
I think most fans of the show probably thought he didn't stand a chance of actually winning, he certainly didn't, so he quit. He quit competing against the other designers, and quit designing to the judges feedback, and made the clothes that were in his heart. When  it was all said and done, he was the winner of Project Runway, season 16.
Ever since I watched Kentaro let go, or quit. I've been thinking about what it means to be successful. Must I have a high-powered agent to share my words with the world? If I'm not the black Stephen King, does that mean my stories have no value? What about traditional publishing? If I never sign that contract with a big agency, never sell a book to Grand Central or Kensington, or any publishing house, have I failed as a writer? I think not.
So, I quit. I quit competing against the voices of other writers, and quit writing to the feedback of so many judges to write the stories from my own heart. And just maybe, in time, I will be the winner of my own season.

Writing While Black

This past weekend was Bouchercon, a world mystery convention for lovers and writers of mystery and crime fiction. During the convention, the Anthony award, one of the most prestigious awards presented in the world of mystery writers, was awarded to Kellye Garrett for her first novel, Hollywood Homicide. While the book was every bit as exciting and fun to read as many critics, bloggers, and everyday lovers of mystery have said. It was her speech that has many people talking and my head spinning. 
During her speech Kellye Garrett quoted this fact taken Frankie's List on the Sister's in Crime website. https://www.sistersincrime.org/page/FrankiesList
There are less than 200 people who are traditionally-published and not straight and white. Just 81 black writers, 22 Latinx writers, 9 Native-Americans writers, 19 Asian American/Asian writers, in the mystery genre. Just let that sink in, less than 200.
As an aspiring black writer of thrillers, that stat was a stone in my heart. To be honest it made me question the viability of me continuing my pursuit of traditional publishing. But, it also gave me hope. It said, maybe, just maybe, the doors of publishing are squeaking open, just a hair. It also gave me hope that times really are changing.
Once upon a time, any writer who had any hope of having a career in writing had to find an agent, extraordinarily hard to do with everything in your favor. Next to impossible when most agencies don't have even one black agent, which is more than a skin color issue.
Love of story along with knowing how to sell the story is among the top reasons an agent gives as to why they choose a manuscript and offer representation to a writer. Any bookworm will tell you, the reason we fall in love with a story is because of our ability to relate to the characters and their experiences. So with agencies filled with a majority of white women, who may not be familiar or comfortable with the world of the non-white writer, what's a non-white writer with writer's dreams to do? So many things. Don't quit!
That is the number 1 piece of advice offered by NY Times Bestsellers, agents, and aspiring writers, alike. Go anywhere on the internet and you'll here the tale of J.K. Rowling who submitted to countless agents, none of them brilliant enough to see her gift, until she laid the biggest of golden eggs, and now the literary world bows at her feet.
You may even know a writer or two who have made it through those magical doors of agented, published writer. They'll tell you their own stories of despair and nearly chucking it all in for their couches and tales of what could have been, but instead chose to push on until that magical day came when they found, the One, and got the Offer, and lived happily ever after,
But if your skin is not white, and your story is not seen as universal, you may need a little more than persistence, you may feel like you need a miracle and wine, lots of wine. In between your tears and sips of vino, make sure you keep writing, and building your writing family.
Join or form a writer's group. Make sure it's as diverse as the writing you want to share. Go to writer's conferences, especially when you're feeling at the end of your rope. If it's a good one, like Killer Nashville, held every year in Nashville on the 3rd week of August, you'll come home crackling with inspiration, desperate to try again, and with a whole new group of writing family that will push you and remind you that you are great, even if the industry hasn't discovered it yet. Keep learning, and reading, and most of all writing.
And if you get to the point where you're willing to take another route, know that self-publishing is more popular than ever before. There are writers who have found amazing success in self-publishing and so can you.
As publishing is fighting to add more diversity, and authors like Kellye Garrett are kicking in the door. We black writers of all genres need to be bold and make sure our stories are being told, until when asked, anyone can name as many writers of color as not. After all, there is plenty of room for all of us.

The Gift

The Gift

             She sat, with her widow open, so that the warmth of the early fall day could enter and chase away the stale dreariness that had settled over the last few grey rainy days, watching the cars blow by, the squirrels and the pigeons gossiping, and carousing in the sun-drenched park across the street.

            This was her world now, all 800 square feet of it, this and the window. The boy appeared from around the corner khaki pants, and white polo shirt, a book bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, the sun seeming to beam right from his smile, surrounding him like a halo. He didn’t look up as he passed her window, he was too focused on getting to where he was getting too, but still, the energy flowing around him, like his own force field, made her smile, even as she envied how fast and far his legs could carry him without the slightest complaint.

She had long forgotten the last time she could boast of standing without a steadying arm and every one of her muscles, from head to toe, joining together in indignant protest. This boy with his skin, the same dark brown of her coffee and eyes as bright and shiny as the new minted pennies she used to love as a girl, was a long way from that.

            Every weekday in September, he flew by her window, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, hurrying home, she supposed. Always, that brilliant smile, sometimes singing softly, sometimes, throwing a casual wave in her direction, those times always made her smile.

            She first noticed the change in October, well before Halloween. Not much at first,  just a slowing in his step, the smile not as bright, the book bag that had once hung from his shoulder with such ease, seeming to drag him down.

            In November the weather changed hardly at all, but the boy changed. He no longer rushed past her window in a burst of energy on winged feet. Now, he trudged along, head down, so lost in his own world that he didn’t notice her anymore. Instead of rushing home, he sat alone in the park, sometimes a book open in front of him, but often staring into space. The pigeons and the squirrels grew used to his company and no longer scattered, going about their own lives as if he were merely a new species of tree.

            She would always remember that it was a Monday, when she told the story later to anyone who cared to hear it. All day the news had talked about the 1^st winter storm barreling towards the city. Wind shook the window and tossed about branches. Outside her window it looked closer to 8pm than 4, but the boy came. His head bent, his skinny body bundled into a thick winter coat, hat pulled down around his ears.

He sat and opened the book, barely moving as she watched. Then, in a movement so sudden, it reminded the squirrels of his presence, he picked up the book and threw it. Afterwards, he stood staring at the book, lying on the frozen ground, but did not go to retrieve it. Instead he sank back down onto the bench, buried his face in his arms and cried.

            She wanted to go to him. She tried, made it all the way to the door, but her hands wouldn’t let her turn the locks. She couldn’t let in a world that she knew held so much evil, but she couldn’t turn away, so she stood staring at the door, her own tears falling down her face. When she turned back to the window, he was gone, but the book lay there still.

            The woman sat at the window and watched day turn to night. No one came. She paced the floor returning to window to look at the book over and over.  When the bells of St. Mary’s Church rang in midnight, with the moon high in the sky, she tore open the door fighting against the screams in her head telling her to go back, she burst into a world that she had turned her back on so long ago, raced across the street, snatched the frozen book from the ground and ran as fast as her old lady legs could carry her back to safety.

            That night, she slept with the book cradled in her arms, like the baby girl she had long since lost, her tears washing away the ice from the frozen cover. In the morning she arose, opened her closet, and dressed in the uniform that so many children would have recognized, black skirt, white shirt, black kitten heel shoes, black blazer. She scraped her hair into a tight bun, ate a quick breakfast of toast and coffee and 1 boiled egg then took her seat at the window and waited.

            The boy arrived as he always did, his head spinning around, bending over looking for the book. When his search was through, he fell back onto the bench his hands buried in his pocket, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low.

            “Young man,” she yelled, her voice far sharper than she intended.

            He didn’t move at first, so she yelled across to him again. This time he raised his head and looked at her.

            She raised the book to the window, watching as his eyes brightened and just a hint of the smile she so missed appeared. She waved to him as he ran across the street.

            She opened the door, and he stepped inside. His strong brown fingers were careful when he took her delicate pale hand in his and introduced himself properly. They had cocoa and he told her about his failure to grasp math and the heartbreak it caused his mother. She opened the book and watched hope creep into his eyes as she interpreted what had been foreign to him.

            Years of cocoa and smores, baby brothers, girlfriends, celebrations, and frustration, rushed past as quickly as sand in an hour glass. His worst enemy became his best friend.  And now she stood at the door again. The package, delivered by courier in one hand, a golden apple, inscribed with words she could not read through her tears, the beautiful invitation, in the other. 

            College graduation, a time to spread your wings and fly fearlessly into the world. Downstairs a car horn blew for her. She pressed her lips against the shiny gold apple, turned the locks, and stepped outside into the golden June sunshine.

           

Until I Answer

Until I Answer

The morning started like most bad days start. I overslept, which meant that Simon overslept too, because at 14-years-old, he still managed to only wake up, after I stuck my head in his room and screamed like a rampaging drill sergeant.  Now we both bumbled around the too small apartment snapping at each other for every small offense, until we were finally able to make it out the door. As soon as the car door shut and I slammed the car into reverse, still hoping to catch the 7:38 train, which would still make me late, but might allow me to slide in by 8:30 without too many people noticing, Simon yelled, “wait, I forgot to feed Bonkers.”

“GOD BLESS AMERICA!” I cried, a term I had adapted when he was a baby to avoid ruining his virgin ears with cursing, that had never gone away. “She had no food left in her dish?” I asked, all hopes of making my train draining as fast as the rain I could drumming against the roof.

“No,” Simon said.

“Hurry up,” I said, trying to calm down as I threw the car back in park, knowing that word didn’t exist in this child’s vocabulary.

Ten unbearable minutes later, when Simon strolled back to the car, I peeled out the garage like I was in a drag race, for no reason, since my train was long gone.

“I’ll have to drop you at Avalon today, because I’m already late and can’t afford to miss the next train,” I said glancing at clock. “Will you be okay walking the rest of the way in the rain?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said, his tone, screaming leave me alone, as he crammed his earbuds into his ear.

I intended to talk to him about a test. I wanted to remind him to be careful coming home. I started to remind him, not to lose his lunch bag or key, but I was still annoyed and knew the grunts I could pull from a sulky still half sleep teenaged boy would not lift my mood in any way, so I turned on the radio and drove the few short blocks in silence, him listening to whatever he called music, me listening to celebrity gossip. By the time, I pulled into a parking spot at the train stop, Simon had dozed off, and I had mellowed out.

I poked him in the chest. He jumped like I had dashed him in the face with cold water. I laughed as he struggled to untangle himself from his earbud cord, shooting me a dirty look as I grinned back at him.

“Bye,” he mumbled, barely looking at me as he reached for the door handle.

 “Do you want the umbrella?” I asked.

“No, it’s just rain,” he said pulling the hoodie up over his head.

“Fine, have a nice day.” I said, my flash of good humor disappearing with his grumpiness.

 “You too,” he grunted.

As I watched him walk away, hoodie pulled up, head bent against the rain, my heart stuttered. Where had the time gone? Tears stung my eyes as an image of him at aged 5, clinging to my hand as we waited for the big kid’s bus leapt into my head, a skinny little kid missing his 2 front teeth. He was still skinny, but tall now, taller than me. It wouldn’t be long before those shoestring arms started to gain muscle. Wouldn’t be long, before the girl’s started coming around. Just yesterday he had mentioned the same little girls name three times in the same day, how long before he admitted that he had his first crush.

As I turned, to get out the car, I noticed his glasses left on the seat, and shook my head.

On the train, I burrowed into my purse then my book bag searching for my phone, and came up empty. For just a second, I considered bolting from the train to go back home and get my phone, sure that if I didn’t have it, disaster would strike. But, I just didn’t have the energy to fight against this day any longer and it was only 8:00am.

As soon as I stepped into my office, the phones started ringing and never stopped. In between the phones and more walk-in customers than I had seen in a while, I didn’t have coffee until 10:00am.

I was sitting at my desk combing through a case file, when my head exploded with a pain so fierce I had to lean forward and hold onto my desk to stop myself from throwing up. I laid there, with my face pressed against the warm wood of my desk, tears inexplicably falling from my eyes. It was 11:00am.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled into my boss’s office to tell her I had to leave.

“Go. You look like death,” she said, waving me away. “Oh, they done killed another black boy.”

“God. Where, this time?”

“Right here. The news just broke. I believe it’s in your neck of the woods actually.”

“Shit. I got to go before I throw up on your desk,” I said, barely able to see as I stumbled away.

The train ride home was torture. Every step closer, I felt worse and worse, until I wanted to scream. I must have looked like a drunk as I drove home from the train stop, and prayed that I wouldn’t be stopped. I saw the police cars, 3 of them, with their lights going, no sirens parked in front of my building. I turned my head away, going around the back into the underground garage.

As I walked from my car through the garage, clutching Simon’s glasses my sweaty hands, my legs shook so badly, I didn’t think I could make it. I heard voices in the front foyer and the click of handheld radio, but I didn’t look their way as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, desperate to be inside, safe.

As, I closed the door behind me, someone called my name, but I slammed the door close.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. Simon had forgotten to turn on the air, I thought. Bonkers meowed at me. As I sunk into the chair, she leapt into my lap and nestled, like she did when I was sick. My phone lay on the table. It buzzed as I looked at it and the name Mom popped up on the screen. I didn’t answer. When it stopped I could see I had missed 50 calls and my message tab said I had 100 new messages.

The knock on the door was firm, but not loud. Three quick raps. I didn’t move. A few moments later, it came again. Tears ran down my cheeks, falling off the bottom of my chin, wetting Bonkers fur, but for once she didn’t move.

Someone called my name, a woman, but I couldn’t hear what she said, I wouldn’t.

The apartment was empty, deserted, lifeless, but until I answered, he could still be alive. 

No Black Children in America

I was wrapping up my day today, when this article from the local news popped up on my Facebook page. The headline took my breath away: RTA pursues criminal charges against student who forgot free bus pass.

Just in case you're not from here, let me explain. The Cleveland Public School System and some suburban school districts do not provide transportation to children in high school. To address the lack of school transportation many districts provide either free or reduced bus passes for students.

New high-schoolers are typically 14 to 15-years-old. For many of them this is their first time using public transportation alone. It's a big responsibility that can be scary for both the student and the parents, many of whom are forced into this situation, because of work schedules and not having someone to take their child back and forth to school.

I have one of these new high-schoolers, he's 14-years-old and typically never travels alone. I am fortunate to live on the train line that runs in a straight line between our house and the school, only 6 short stops away. Further, because of some work flexibility, I'm able to drop my child off at school in the morning, but he is on his own getting home safely.

Now I don't know about your child, but my 14-year-old has the attention span of a gnat. He forgets his house key so often, I have a sign posted on the inside of the door reminding him to take it. He still manages to forget it every now and again. He forgets to turn in his homework, and to complete his chores. Hell, he can forget something I ask of him between the short walk from the front door to his room. It's annoying, but should he face criminal charges because of it? Sounds stupid, huh? Probably, because it is, but the rules for our children (black children) are a little different than for white children.

Our children are not given the freedom to be just kids, because too often they are just not recognized as children by people in authority. It's why there was no national integrated unified outcry against the murders of 12-year-old Tamir Rice, or 15-year-old Trayvon Martin, or even 18-year-old Mike Brown. This inability to see our kids as children, the same way in which we see a white child, is killing them, literally. The idea that you could criminalize a behavior common to most kids that age and put a child in the criminal system for a bus pass, that if paid for out of pocket, would cost less than $1.75, is shocking, to say the least.

RTA's defense is they have 130 cases of improper use of student bus passes. This justifies treating a child like a criminal? How much did RTA make in profit last year? How many people ride the train each day? I do, and more than 130 others in 1 trip up and back downtown.

The idea that the only way for RTA to defend itself against a child who has lost or forgotten, his paid for by the school system bus pass, is to participate in this pipeline of black folk from the schoolhouse to the jailhouse, is despicable.

There is no dispute that this child is a student, and that he was riding the bus during school hours. Therefore, even without the actual ticket, RTA has already been paid, so what exactly was his crime? RTA sent 1 letter to this child’s parents trying to collect $25 for a ticket that had already been purchased by the school district, again, why? The idea that so little value is placed on our children's lives and their futures is incomprehensible.  

According to the story, the child's record would be expunged if he completes a program for first time offenders. "First Time Offender," that statement makes my head spin. This child is not an OFFENDER. HE IS A CHILD!

RTA states it developed this policy in conjunction with, the NAACP (huh, so did you know you were going to be targeting black folk?) and the ACLU. I wonder if the NAACP knows that you charged 45 children with a criminal offense, given 45 children a criminal record, put 45 children in the criminal justice system, for the cost of one letter and a $1.75 fare. RTA should be ashamed, and we all should be outraged.

The overcharging, over sentencing, and eagerness to place black people in the criminal justice system is this country's worst kept dirty little secret. Excessive incarceration destroys our families, robs us of our right to vote, which steals our voices leaving us powerless, makes us unemployable, leaving us little option, except to return to crime, which returns us to jail or an early grave. It starts with these kinds of sneaky foul little policies that go unnoticed until someone decides to stand up.

This 14-year-old's mother decided to fight. I hope we all stand with her, or it could be your child next.

http://www.wkyc.com/news/local/cleveland/rta-pursues-criminal-charges-to-teen-who-forgot-free-bus-pass/455775234