Ordinary

I am a daughter of God. I am a daughter of God that knows her worth. I am a daughter of God that knows what lies between her legs is a precious gift that, nigga, you can't just take.

I am mother Africa, the giver of all life. I am a black Queen. Call me by my name. The east, the west, the north and the south all come from my core. I decided to finally exhale and the Earth was created. All children are my children. 

You think you know who I am. You've painted me quite nicely in your writings of the black Black History. You've made me your queen. Your precious jewel to be protected but only theoretically. You still haven't learned to protect me but you will chant, march and protest for the idea of me, your idea of me.

You think you know who I am. You know nothing but who you want me to be.

Do you know me? 

I am a black girl reject. I am an outcast. I am not a precious jewel. I am a mind. I am a body. I can't say that I'm a spirit because I don't know what the fuck that means. I am a girl. I am not a daughter of God. 

I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am not a queen. I do not sit on a throne. I was born in the suburbs, feeling ordinary as fuck, probably because I was ordinary as fuck. And as much as I hated the feeling of mediocrity, my goodness, how I long for such privilege now, the privilege to not have to be more than just me.

If my skin were white, would you let me be?

My black is beautiful and I wear it with pride but I have no desire to be your queen. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of theoretical, blanketed ideals that will never truly consider me, only my assigned race and sex. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. I am not in the business of finding a husband while cursing my ex for not seeing the majesty in the rise and fall of my ethereal, African bosom from which all life has come. No, sir. I have two kids and don't want more. 

I am no daughter of God.

Who is God?

What is God?

Is the idea of God the fabric that holds our community together? Are we really that fragile?

Is God the paradigm that keeps women safe under lock and key, longing to be free but fearful of what that freedom actually looks like...to herself...and more importantly to you because god forbid the black master disagrees?

Is the almighty creator the creator of this pressure to be pure? To be powerful? To be mother of the whole fucking Earth? Or is that just reactionary pride fighting against years of oppressive lies?

Do we still believe that sexual suppression is a woman's only ticket to validation? To love? I mean, god damn, can a nigga get her clit sucked without a tainting of her name?

Oh no, I am no daughter of God. 

I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. 

I only have two kids and I don't want more. The Earth was not birthed by my womb alone. 

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown. I am not your black ho, please remove the disdain. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's blessing. You cannot paint me as a housewife or a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class or sex. Discrimination is for the birds. 

And with that I am ordinary.

I am ordinary.

And I will fight for my right to remain ordinary, ordinarily me. 

Spoken Word: Part III

Correction, to that, there was absolutely nothing to say. 

I looked down into the eyes of the man I knew would be mine and mustered every drop of confidence I possessed as a sea of knowing suddenly washed over me. I gave Kevin Lowe a peek of devilish grin, stood in front of him and pulled him up to stand on his feet and meet me toe to toe, eye to eye. 

I wouldn't let him buy me a drink. We didn't have time.

Throwing inhibitions to the wind, I tossed my arms around him and kissed his perfectly waiting lips. 

Yep.

One kiss was all I needed to know he was the one.

We ignored the roaring crowd around us. I may have heard Trina "whoop whoop whooping" like Arsenio Hall but I couldn't be entirely sure.

This didn't make any kind of sense but I was smart enough to not question. 

I kissed the man I knew would be mine, giving him every part of myself in that moment, receiving every inch he gave in return.

Every inch.

Every inch?

It hit me. We had to leave. We had to leave, NOW.

Instinctively, he read my mind. Kevin Lowe tore his lips away from mine and I cursed the air that took their place.

Without a word he marched towards the door, his grip still firmly wrapped around my hand.

I looked back only momentarily to grab my purse and mouth, "holy shit!" to a bug-eyed Trina and we were on our way.

We stepped out into the cold air and were all over each other once again. We passionately kissed to his car, annoyingly separated, climbed in the vehicle then made out some more.

The shit was bananas.

Somehow we made it to his place without causing a five-car pile up on the way. I refused to keep my hands to myself. He refused to stop me.

Under any other circumstances, I would have inspected his apartment, checked out how a potential boo lived. Did he own a vacuum? Were the dishes done? Was there a dog? Tonight there was no time for any of that shit.

We banged. 

We banged right there in front of the door. 

We banged on the kitchen table.

We banged on the couch.

We banged on the treadmill! He had a treadmill. 

We banged in bed until the sun started to rise. UNTIL THE SUN STARTED TO RISE.

We finally slept for a few hours, something I've never done comfortably after an initial encounter, then woke up starving. 

This nigga fed me some left over brisket and mashed potatoes and put some cream on my rug burn. Apparently we banged on the carpet too. 

Fifteen hours after I first laid eyes on him, Kevin Lowe dressed me in one of his white cotton t-shirts, looked deep into my eyes and asked, "So, what is your name?"

"Mrs. Lowe," I informed him as if he didn't already know. 

Spoken Word: Part II

"Good Evening, I'm Kevin Lowe."

One sentence and I don't know how the microphone in front of him didn't melt right there and then. Lord knows, every pair of panties in the place did. 

He continued as the crowd attempted to regain composure.

"I came in here tonight with the intention to recite my piece In The Rain---"

Three women down front exploded in cheer.

"Yes, daddy, in the rain, give it to me in the rain!" one pleaded. 

"In the rain!" another cried in orgasmic agreement.

Kevin Lowe flashed them a perfectly pristine, white smile.

"I'm sorry, ladies. I truly do apologize but my mind is preoccupied. You see, I didn't think this would happen to me ever again but, I think I just fell in love."

His eyes were glued to my own as we both blocked out the gasps engulfing us. 

"I've never been one to believe in love at first sight and I promise you this was not my intention but will you permit me the space to speak freely?"

The audience clapped and snapped and nodded in allowance. 

He looked around the room, made eye contact with more than just one, more than just me.

"Like I said, I never believed in love at first sight. Love at first sight was a fairy tale, a legend for teenagers and sad singles, a myth that traps you. Because if you've ever been in love, like I have, you would know that love is patient. Love is time. Love is a choice. Love is dedication. You see, I'm a man. I'm a grown man and these are things I know. I am not bamboozled on the fourteenth of February yet know how to participate in the act of loving a women with all of my self, three hundred and sixty five days a year. I know how to cherish that love, preserve it, mold it, water it, finesse it and above all else, never forsake it. I'm a man. I'm a grown man and these are the things I know. Love does not come over night. Love takes time.

But when I say I think I just fell in love please believe that it is true. One look was all it took but best believe I stole two. She caught me by complete surprise as lovers often do. Her hair swept up, her face hidden, her body turned away. I couldn't see her eyes but my heart sensed her soul was here to stay. 

I hate to sound corny. I hate to sound cliche. But when she finally turned and faced me, she took my breath away. 

Could one woman possess such absolute beauty?

My mind began to race.

I saw her in a home we shared. I saw her climbing into bed next to me, on top of me, me inside of her. I heard her moan and I felt her grab my hand. I saw myself take that hand and guide her in our dance. I saw our children. Three in all. One had my eyes, another her smile, the baby, a precious little girl, replicating her mother's kind soul. 

I took one look at the curve of her hips, the joy in her smile and the light in her eyes and my future became clear. 

This wasn't my choice, y'all. Like I said, I never believed in love at first sight."

Kevin Lowe freed the microphone from its stand, walked off the stage and made his way towards the crowd. He continued to ration out eye contact among the room of starving women, desperate for a taste. He walked to the left and right, made his way through his admirers. Made his way towards me.

"Now, I don't know if it was love at first sight for her. She didn't notice me when I first saw her."

The crowd scoffed in disbelief.

"It's alright though. I enjoyed that moment on my own. That moment of total peace and clarity. That moment of falling in love. Would she love me back? I had no idea. In that moment it didn't matter to me. She didn't need to. I would just be grateful for that space and time. I felt no fear, no nerves. I just looked at her and thanked God for letting me know what irrational love felt like.

I was thankful for the wave of nonsensical certainty that tingled in my toes, snaked up my legs, pulsed through my groin and melted in my heart. If she didn't feel the same, if all I ever had was that one moment of true and ridiculous love, well, I could die a happy man, a man who'd experienced something most never knew existed. If I live the rest of my life with the simple memory of her in that dress and that smile, well, shit, what else is there, right?

But you know what, y'all? I'm a greedy mother fucker. I can't even lie. So before I leave here tonight, before I hand over this mic, there's something I just have to know---"

Kevin Lowe stood directly in front of me. I tried to steady my quivering legs to no avail, praying the dozens of eyes on me didn't notice. 

He lowered his body down to bended knee, took my left hand with his right and steadied the microphone in front of parted lips.

There was only one unified gasp this time, an audible expression on behalf of my speechless self. 

"To the woman who stopped me in my tracks and left me breathless before I even learned her name," he continued, "May I buy you a drink?"

To that, I only had one thing to say. 

Spoken Word: Part I

"I think about death all the time.

I think about death all the time.

I would jump.

On a gorgeous, clear sky, sunny, hot day in the city. I would make love to the ledge with my eyes, my last love, before stepping onto its weak embrace. I would smell the air, feel the sun, hear the bustle of the city I love, call myself crazy, tell myself no, don't.

I would repeat this cycle again and again.

I would block out anyone who called out to me.

I would feel the hot metal press into my thighs as I sat there. I would let go with one hand, let it float through the air. I would smell the concrete, the grit and grime, even from up there.

The heat would remind me of first days of school, basking in the sun, waiting for the bright, yellow bus.

I would distract myself on purpose. I would repeat the mental cycle.

And then as if by accident my other hand would let go, joining the first. My heart would instantly drop, the first feelings of regret rushing in. As if it weren't my choice, as if someone pushed me, my body would lunge forward."

"Bitch, what the hell did you get me into?" I leaned over and asked Trina accusingly.

When she suggested we hit up Spoken Word Night at Mango Cafe, I didn't think I'd be sitting here, contemplating whether or not I needed to call the Suicide Hotline on this Negro's behalf. 

"Girl, I don't even know. Maggie at work said this place was crawling with fine, sophisticated brothas on Thursday nights."

"Yeah, well I have a feeling Maggie lied to you. So far we've seen a wanna-be Maxwell who just can't sing. I don't know why he was even singing at a spoken word night in the first place. And this dude who clearly needs to call on Jesus or his momma or goddamn, the hospital. I don't think we'll be seeing any Darius Lovehalls tonight."

"Bitch, why you gotta be so negative?"

I just gave her a look, letting her know that I knew that she knew damn well why I was being so negative.

She got the hint.

"Let me get us two more drinks. You just keep your fine little self here and try to smile."

I flipped her off lovingly and watched her walk away.

Trina wore a skintight, floral print, mini dress with six inch purple pumps. If it weren't for her two-a-day workouts, she'd look a hot mess but her body was perfect and she was far from afraid to show it off. She could throw on anything and look flawless. I wished I had her courage. Hell, I wished I had the body that came with that confidence. Don't get me wrong, I kept it tight. My weightlifting three times a week was enough to keep me in a comfortable size six. Just don't expect me to enter any of the fitness competitions my best friend did twice a year. 

Surveying the room, I clearly realized I didn't care what I looked like at the moment. I'd met Trina here right after leaving the office so my hair was still swept up in a bun, black-rim, hipster glasses adorned the bridge of my nose and my modest yet sleek black heels matched my tailored black blazer and cream-colored dress. My outfit was the perfect mix of "sexy librarian" and "go the fuck away". Perfect for this evening.

Mango Cafe was dimly lit and intimate. There were about fifty people in the room, cozily gathered in front of a simple, black stage. The decor was Moroccan inspired with colorful throw pillows casually tossed on each love seat that matched the same tile patterns on the walls. The cafe would actually be perfect for a romantic night despite the fact that there was absolutely no talent in the room. 

"Don't look now," Trina whispered loudly, interrupting my exasperated exhale. 

"Okay," I said while impetuously starting to scan the room.

"Nigress, I said, 'Don't look!'"

"Calm yourself! What exactly is it that I'm not looking at?"

We huddled our heads together as Trina began in an actual whisper.

"At the bar, nine o'clock, the finest man you've ever seen in your life. I tried to lean in, show him the cleavage. He wasn't having it. No ring and my gaydar didn't go off so, fuck him for dissing me but still, we officially have our eye candy for the night."

Our heads parted as we sat back in our seats simultaneously as if some imaginary sports coach yelled, "Break".

I sipped my vodka tonic and looked to my right, away from the bar. Letting my eyes linger on that side of the room for a bit, I slowly swiveled my head towards the left, hoping Trina wouldn't disappoint. We didn't usually have the same type in men so my hopes weren't too high. 

Three more seconds of swiveling and our eyes found each other's. My brain screamed, "Bitch, keep swiveling!" But, I could not look away. 

He exposed an enchanting smile while I licked an uncontrollable grin off of my lips. I took another sip of my drink. 

"Mmhmm, I told you," Trina said, surreptitiously surveying my surveillance. 

"God damn," I released.

"Mmhmm," she repeated. 

In a place like this, I expected brothers to be well-dressed but quirky with full-beards, glasses and clad in dashikis while they stepped to the mic and "dropped some knowledge" on their "simple-minded" audience. I expected educated pretentiousness dripping from every pore. This was spoken word, after all. The skinny brotha with a Ph.D. was exactly my type so I could take a little arrogance as long as it came with brains the size of Russia. 

"My type" was exactly NOT what I saw over at the bar. My mind would usually protest but the sudden moistness between my legs informed me that my body argued otherwise. 

His skin was the deepest, smoothest, richest looking chocolate. Hair cut close to his head, his waves tapered neatly off into that jaw-dropping dark sea of skin. While he did indeed have a beard, it was short, not protruding further than the skin on his face, well maintained and sexy as hell. He wore a suit that I could instantly tell was tailored specifically for his body and a five hundred dollar watch. The same one my boss sported when his boss was in town. 

Jesus help me. 

"Well?" Trina asked.

"Well, what?"

"You gonna sit there and pretend you're not undressing him with your eyes or are you going to go over there and say something?"

"Girl, please. You know that is not my style. If he's interested, he can come to me. You know the deal."

"Mmhmm, I know you're bougie as all hell."

"Bingo."

I finished my drink and contemplated getting another. I could use some more liquid aide to get through the rest of these "performers" if they were going to be anything like the crazies that already spoke. I didn't want to walk over to the bar though. I didn't want Mr. Perfect thinking I was anything more than physically thirsty. 

"Hope you're ready," Trina said slyly through the corner of her mouth.

"Ready for what?"

"He's coming," she informed without ever parting her teeth. 

Shit. Why the hell didn't I go home and change first? Why was I still wearing these dorky glasses? Should I quickly do the slow motion, shampoo commercial, take off my glasses and release my hair move? No. Too obvious. Shit. What do I do? Sip your drink and relax. Fuck, it's already done. Fuuuuuck. Breathe, bitch, just breathe.

He took a roundabout way and was now directly behind us. I could feel him. I could smell him and Lord Jesus, did he smell good. Maybe he was trying to sneak up behind me? Maybe he planned to confidently whisper some sweet nothing in my ear. I wouldn't jump. I'd be ready. I could feel him.

I waited. 

I waited.

I waited.

And nothing. 

Damn, maybe he was gay. 

The ice in my glass had to absorb my frustration as I demolished a piece between my teeth. This night was back to being a bust.

The host returned to the stage, pulled his wack ass fedora lower over his eyes and massaged the microphone stand. It was quite uncomfortable.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in his worst Barry White impression, "Please welcome to the stage, a man that needs no introduction, a man we all know and love, our featured artist of the night, Mr. Kevin Lowe."

The crowd erupted for a man that clearly did require an introduction because I had no idea who Kevin Lowe was.

"Excuse me," I heard from behind.

Trina's head whipped around simultaneously with my own. 

Holy shit.

Clean cut, Mr. CEO was a well-known, well-loved artist? Could have fooled me. 

He walked between our chairs, closer than needed. He definitely could have gone around. He looked over his shoulder as he approached the stage, unapologetic and comfortable, he rested his gaze on mine and licked his lips.

"Holy shit," Trina released, again through unparted teeth.

I tried to keep my cool as Kevin Lowe finally turned and took the stage.

Now this I had to hear.