Tango: Part IV

Excerpt from Tango

She had the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen; big and round with the perfect shade of brown. Her smile reminded me of my great aunt Lea’s baking. Whenever my brother and I would fight over the last homemade oatmeal raisin cookie, she would open the oven just in time to pull out a fresh batch and place them on the stove top.

“Uh-uh” She would intervene without looking up.

“Now you boys know I don’t like all that fighting carrying on around here.” She would say with that exact same smile as she waddled across the kitchen floor towards us.

Her white apron, blotch stained of cookie batter, draped across her yellow skirt. A fairly aged petite woman, with big hips and narrow shoulders, she looked more like my grandmother than my great aunt. Her breasts were fairly large for her size, and her eyeglasses rested upon them dangling from a silver chain passed down from my great grandmother. Placing her eyeglasses unto her face, she kissed our foreheads and sent us off to wash up for supper. The aroma never did stop once we hit the top of the stairs. It filtered through the house like pollen blowing across the fields of Missouri’s grasslands. Even inside the bathroom, it smelt as though she had mixed the batter right inside the room.

I chuckled.

“Your office is upstairs; the last door on the left.” She explained. “They’re still putting down carpet and moving in furniture, so for now, you can use the conference room down the hall. I apologize; we’ve gotten a little bit behind schedule.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I know how things can get sometimes…I…didn’t get your name?” I asked, leaning against the receptionist desk.

“Cynthia. I’m usually behind that door over there.” She said motioning behind her with her head.

“Jhamela, our receptionist, will be in tomorrow.”

The door stood right in the middle of a wall, behind the receptionist desk. A brass plate embedded on the door read: Cynthia James, M.S.W, Program Coordinator. One hallway on either side framed her office like a photo snapshot. In front, a workstation stood about twenty feet away from the entry into the facility, and was very much the receptionist area. The workstation front casing displayed t-shirts, coffee mugs, and magazines in which the organization’s logo, mission statement, and pictures were printed.

“I don’t blame her. With weather like this, I’d love to be some place warm.”

“True.”

“So, I guess you’re the person I come to if I need anything?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

She chuckles.

“You have an assistant, Stephon; he handles all of your requests and if appropriate, sends them to me. He’ll be in tomorrow. He’s flying in from San Francisco.”

Bakarri coughs. She sees him standing with arms folded looking up at the flat screen above her office door.

“Bakarri! You’re just going to stand there and not speak?”

“Aww Ms. James. It ain’t even like dat. I got caught up in the football game. You know how it is; and, you was talk’n to Siddell…”

“Siddell?”

“My bad, Mr. McClendon.”

“Boy…”

“I told him it’s okay to call me by my first name.” I interrupted.

“Okay…” She contracts her upper body and slightly bows her head. Her lips part making a stretched oval shape and her left eyebrow slightly rises as she sarcastically turns her head and grabs a sheet of paper off the printer.

“…as long as you’re okay with it, I suppose its fine. He already thinks he’s grown.” She cut her eyes towards Bakarri; thin as a razor blade but wide enough to show her playfulness.

“I am grown.” Bakarri defense himself.

“Chile please!”

“You always say dat…” He slightly bumps me in my right shoulder.

“Hi Ms. James, how yo’ day going?”

“Fine…now.” she leans over the desk and hugs him.

“I see you’re still taking care of yourself.”

“Ah-huh! You know, ah-huh, I do what I gotta do when I gotta do it. Ya’ feel me?” He nudges me in my right shoulder again.

“Appearance is everythang! Never know who might see you, gotta be ready at all times. I mean, look at you Ms. James, you know all about dat.”

“So is that a compliment?”

“Fo’sho!”

She laughs.

“I just don’t understand these young men these days. What happen to the old fashion: Excuse me miss, I like your outfit, it looks really nice on you.”

“Nawl, dat’s lame. Nobody says nuh’n like dat no moe’. You gotta be different, ya’ know, smooth.”

Cynthia and I both laugh.

“You said the conference room right? Which way do I go?” I asked before Bakarri could continue on.

“It’s down this right hall, the last door on the left.”

“Alright… It was nice meeting you Cynthia.”

“You too; if there is anything you need before tomorrow, just email me...Oh, I almost forgot; your laptop.”

She places a black leather messenger bag on top of the desk.

“It came in this morning. Also, I put an index card in there with your login and temporary password. You can change it once you’ve logged in.”

“Great, I’ll definitely email you if I need anything.”

“Alright then, well have a great day”

“You too”

“See you Ms. James” Bakarri yells back.

The weight of the bag caught me off guard as I grabbed it from the desk. It seemed like I was carrying two bricks or a slab of cement. What the hell kind of laptop was in here is all I wanted to know.

Blackened

Inspired and based off 4 Women by Nina Simone

-My skin is rough

-My knees are worn

-My back is tough and

-My legs are strong.

-Strong enough to stand on my own,

-Even when I might be alone.

-What do they call me?

-My name is Grandpa.

-Grandpa

-My skin is tough

-My eyes are wide

-Pressured by two worlds,

-I scream inside.

-My intellect got the best of me this time,

-More baggage and more lies.

-What do they call me?

-My name is Emmanuel

-Emmanuel

-My skin is smooth

-My heart is pierced

-A soul is reborn inside me

-This time with fear

-Whose little boy am I?

-DL men or men who are Bi.

-What do they call me?

-My name is Jay D

-Jay D

-My skin is torn

-My manner is bold

-I’ll waste any nigga that cross me,

-I’m just that cold.

-I trust no one but me,

-Nigga’s always out to get me,

-What do they call me?

-My name is DaeDae

MSBC

*Spoken Word piece*

I started off by writing down a question.

Then it dawn on me, what for, it is not like the question would be read, let alone answered.

They say the best way to hide anything from a Black Man is to write it up.

It seems as though the BLACK of a man, has been replaced with the SACK of the man.

Eroticized through the BODY of a BLACK MAN; LACKING, but recognized as a THING.

This THING: Adonis of a sexual creature with an infused muscle that makes many of us sing: My, My, My, My My, My, My, you sure look good tonight.

MSBC broadcasts his ass as though this BLACK is the delicacy of our prime.

Time will soon tell that this BLACK MAN is definitely nothing but his BODY over his mind.

For you see if a brotha would step to the mic and say:

In no way does the edification of my manifestation declares my lack of cognitive processes to interpret the eloquence of a monologue such as this in which I state to you.

Hmph, perplexed in comprehension already, I can read it through many of you. Then NOT take off my shirt, revealing my upper body but button up my shirt, fix my tie, pull up my pants, straighten out my Armani blazer and dust off my Prada boots.

Instantaneously word bubbles congest your minds and you start to put YOUR two to two together, aha! You then arrive to the conclusion that this fine, black, brotha, who takes pride in his appearance, and looks good to the eye, and talks with such articulation that sends many of you, waves crashing down your spine, making a pool of water reciprocate in-between your thighs or your fatty.

Girl what did he just say? My point exactly

You see it wasn’t until I insinuated sex that I caught your FULL attention. My SACK that is, caught YOUR attention.

There is no point for me to finish what I was going to say,

Because you pumped your breaks and came to a screeching halt when I mentioned Armani and Prada, you just knew I was GAY.

Yet, if a brotha would step to the mic and say:

Don’t get it twisted yo, my sex game is on point but a nigga know how to be on some conversating type shit. Why you think I’m talking to you- tryna get ta know you. Muscles flexing as I walk closer towards you, with my jeans sagging and my tims and just like that, I became a hershey’s kiss melting in your mouth. I grin then lick my lips as seductive as my brotha LL would and grab my sack and say “So wassup?”  The ocean has flooded your backsides sinking deep into my cosmos pull you’re lynched-hanging onto my every word.

This BLACK MAN has definitely taken over your mind; my body has suffocated your thoughts of clarity to assess the veracity of MSBC, and you just pushed your way to the front of the line to tug at my infused muscle that lay sleeping underneath its cotton tent. My words didn’t ring through, yet my very essence captivated you, and it is my body you would rather have than my mind.

Now I got you all on the edge of your seats, chill out my peoples, I’m just trying to untie- the knots that have strangled us-cutting off circulation, paralyzing our limbs from realizing our TRUE BEAUTY this time.

BLACK is beautiful that ain’t no lie, but the BLACK and BEAUTY I’m talking about comes from the character that demands attention as soon as I walk in a room. Attention of worthiness, exceptionalness, defiance, strength- the ability to make tension fall like melting butter on top of homemade biscuits- humbling ourselves as we pay homage to the GREAT BLACKS, men & women who have laid- the foundation on which we stand today.

SO FUCK MSBC, let’s get back to maintaining our roots- it don’t matter what you like my manz, you’re my brotha so you’re alright in my book. Hey my manz pull your pants up; don’t talk to the lady like that, this is the proper way of courting, pruning. Hey you need some help? Let me grab that for you, nice job my manz, keep doing what you doing, stay positive and never stay content; nourishment. Oh, and one more thing, from one brotha to anotha, I just wanna say that I love ya before I forget.

You know the good thing about all of what I’ve just said, is that I’ve never once made claims that wasn’t already in your heads. I’m just making you realize, that united we stand, and divided we fall. And I’m sure as hell getting muthafuckin tired of us dying the hell off.

I was so hesitant to say these words to you, but it seems as though we’ve enjoyed, as BROWN says, being manipudiped and screwed. But I’m here to tell you not this BLACK, FINE, STRONG, BROTHA you see. Oops did these words intimidate your ego or masculinity? If so, you’ve made my point precisely. Yet, I challenge you to get on my level and join me- educating- society, BLACK, BROTHAS, hand and hand with the backbones of our BLACK SISTAS continuing on the legacy that has been passed down to us, showcasing our BLACKNESS our UNITY our BEAUTY.

So what was this question I had written down, but was too hesitant to ask?

I really wanted to know if the intelligence, standards, and leadership abilities, are the recommendable characteristics of Historically Black Sororities and Fraternities, or does the SACK continue to dominate individualized identities posing as the real criteria of my fellow black admittees?

I fear it is the end of that latter, which makes me shake my head and say; are these really the principles of the forefathers and mothers of which these brotherhoods and sisterhoods uphold, or have they too been strangled at the roots suffocated by M.ainstream S.ociety B.roadcrasting C.odes.