What dreams are made of

As my summer comes to what feels like a sudden and disheartening halt, I find myself assessing what exactly I have gotten done over the last 8 weeks. Have I come any closer to making my dreams real? What are my dreams? Has all the time I have devoted to trolling the local papers for open mics, driving around central Florida in search of dimly lit venues, and the ridiculous number of hours I have spent harassing my web-designer, fellow poets, friends, and internet forum buddies about "the national poetry scene," poetry tours, and poetry websites amounted to anything in the grand scheme of things? In my little scheme of things?

This poetry business is something I do because I think it matters. Its part of a grandiose dream I have of changing the world with my art. I try to change the world in other ways too- by teaching, by protesting, by signing petitions, writing irate letters-but it is my art which speaks with the most authentic voice about who I am and what I am about. It is my art, I have been told, which changes people.

Years ago, when I was founding a black arts collective in Washington, Dc, I asked all the women in the group to write a small blurb about why they wrote. We collected the blurbs together to make a flier for one of our early performances. I recall looking over it years later and thinking wow, we were a dramatic bunch, weren't we?

Erica, Janelle, Ellen, Pariss, Deniece, Rochelle, Carla, myself….Every single writer in the group claimed to have some extremely important reason for writing. We were all trying to touch someone, to change someone, to end racism, stop the violence, save women. We were passionate and ambitious and it would be easy for the older, more sedate me to look back in laughter at such dreamy proclamations. Who did we think we were, anyway?

But the truth is that we knew who we were. We had decided to call our collective Daughters of the Dream. We saw ourselves as King’s legacy and we intended to live that dream- as artists, in our writing, with our words. We weren’t confused or self-involved (well maybe a little- we were young after all). We were dreamers.

In a stanza of one of my poems I have written:

What will you make
Of my urban league father
Telling me I can be anything/do anything
Playing me the recording of
Martin Luther King’s
“I have a dream” speech
Over and over and over again
Telling me I AM that dream.

I suppose I still imagine that my generation has an obligation to at least try to walk in the footsteps of our more courageous predecessors.....

Poetic Fakeries, Mixed-race internet hobo-ing

I heard about a happening poetry open-mic in Orlando on Thursdays run by a local spoken word artist I know and headed over there with a friend. The event was held in a vegan cafe full of fliers about world peace, global gardening, organic farming, conflict-free trade, and other important issues. Such a location is guaranteed to draw a progressive crowd. If you write poetry like I do, having a progressive crowd is always a good thing. I was psyched.

But even the best laid plans are easily dashed. Despite my calling ahead TWICE before traveling the 45 minutes to get to this venue, I was not notified that the event had been cancelled until arriving to sign up (promptly, I might add). The not so prompt 10 or 12 of poets who arrived after I did had also not been informed. The guy behind the counter apologized for telling me the gig was a go when it was not but passed the blame onto the event organizer, Willie Lowman (his stage name), who, according to the veganista (vegan barrista?), had called in last minute to cancel the event. I guess we artists don't have a reputation for being flaky for nothing....

I could not help wondering though, flaky poets aside, if I wasn't caught in the middle of a more sinister plot. I have heard of these cafes and bakeries that are just fronts for drug dealers. The sign says bakery, the furniture says bakery, the coffee smell says bakery , the IRS tax return says bakery but nobdy who knows better would go there to buy baked goods. Its called a fakery.

Had I somehow stumbled into a poetic fakery? Were the fancy fliers I had seen strewn about at events around town just props used in a much larger deception? Who was this man with a fake name and why was he trying to lure unsuspecting poets out to small cafes late at night? Had I been bamboozled ? I may never know. At least the vegan food was real... and tasty if overpriced.

When I am not busy taking trips to advertized open mics, I am devoted to my other life as a dedicated internet hobo in search of websites, forums, blogs, and other virtual meeting grounds for mixed people all over the world. What do I mean by mixed, you ask? Other terms sometimes used for people like me include:

mustee,mestiza,half-breed, quadroon, hapa, biracial, triracial,pardo,
moor, haafu, mixed-breed,half-caste, two-tone, Creole, mulatto,
multiracial, doogla, sambo, santantone, mongrel,
metisse, salt-n-pepa,mixed-caste, interracial, yellow, zebra,
multiethnic, castizo,newpeople,breed, Eurasian, moranos, Afroasian,
mutt, chinee, brown baby, mixedblood, light-skinned,rainbow,
highyella, metisse, chameleon, morena
mixedheritage, colored, chinee, wesorts,
lumbee, Afrodeutscher......

the list goes on

We are everywhere and apparently we are now internet savvy. Mixed people of the world unite!!!! You have nothing to lose but your race!

We Are the Women

A poem about survivors

You Look Like My People (3)

A poem about the existence of ties that bind people beyond biology

The Picnic

A poem about racial profiling

Wonder Woman

Purple People

A poem about being proud of who you are