Mothermetaphor's Weblog

I just LOVE Hue-Man Bookstore. I love what it represents for me as a daughter of Harlem and an author. The warmness and welcoming spirit that envelopes you is not like anything I have every experienced; the feeling is one of inclusion, intellect…family.

“The Little Book Store that Does” has hosted many a celebrity book signing, and last evening they hosted Mrs. NeNe Leakes, of “Real Housewives of Atlanta” fame.

NeNe was a delight to watch as she answered questions and discussed various topics that took place on and off the show. She definitely makes you feel easy with her “around the way girl” conversation. She didn’t engage in the kind of conversation that would suggest her to be a chicken-head or ghetto, but in the sort that makes you think of your “street smart” sister or best friend who utilized her life experience to move her into a lifelong dream deserving of the spotlight.

My desire to be in this industry has allowed my path to cross with plenty a celebrity, and much to the chagrin of this little brown girl, I have had plenty an image shattered by what they were REALLY like. Fortunately, the same can be said for NeNe.

To be frank, I don’t think that NeNe gets a fair break because of how she is portrayed on the show. Being outspoken, of course there would be tons of footage displaying her in a negative light. Nothing could be further from the truth. The fact is she is the girlfriend you hang with after work, the sister who congregates with you in your mother’s house while you’re getting your hair done and eating chicken wings and French fries from the Chinese restaurant. She is the aunt that makes it out of dire situations, despite the circumstances she was born into.

In the back of the book store where readings/signings are held, NeNe sat at the authors table and tore down the invisible wall that exists between most authors and their readers. She spoke of the difficulties surrounding her fame and the reality of the infringement that fame takes on your life. Harlem loved her, and she appeared to love Harlem as both faithfully trudged out in the misty/rainy weather to meet.

I ran in close to 7, having gotten off work at 6pm and traveling in from down town Brooklyn. I knew since last week NeNe was coming and I was going to go home and go to sleep, but the closer the 3 train got to 116th Street, the more anxious I got to attend. I ran through the door, threw down my excess bags and grabbed my camera (I didn’t even get time to take those damned OVER POWERING lashes off, but I didn’t want to miss it). I grabbed a cab and caught NeNe mid-sentence answering a question posed by Harlem Radio. I raised my hands a couple of times and finally got to tell her (author to author) what an inspiration she is. The “no-nonsense, I do it my way” she has that inspires women like me every day.

“You’re a writer?” she asked.

To which I responded yes. She wanted to know if I had a ghost writer and when I told her that I wrote it myself, she curiously inquired about the cost of self-publishing and the subject matter.

Then she applauded me. Right there in the middle of HER signing, she congratulated me on having the courage to write and put out my book. She asked if I was interested in major publishing and I answered that I was but I wasn’t going to wait until someone made the discovery that I am actually talented. I told her it was the NeNe’s Leakes of the world (having their say), the Mo’Nique’s of the world (putting the joke elsewhere but on themselves), the Gabourey Sidibe’s of the world (showing the talent is not limited to a size two), the Velvet D’Amour’s of the world (who walked the Jean Paul Gautier fashion show in a size 28 – proving that beauty comes in all sizes), that women like me can pass the stars and grasp the moon.

Would you know in the middle of HER signing she told me she’d do everything she could to get my book out there? I walked out of Hue-Man feeling like most of us should, accomplished, heard…appreciated. More than any of those things, I know that granted the chance given by the Universe, I walked out with a new sister, new cousin, new confidant, but most importantly…a new friend.

If you haven’t already, check out her new book “Never make the Same Mistake Twice: Lessons on Love & Life Learned the Hard Way” by NeNe Leakes with Denene Millner.
http://www.amazon.com/Never-Make-Same-Mistake-Twice/dp/1439167303

I was only 8 years old when my grandmother would take me down to that wonderland on Horatio Street.  Not a toy store that one would expect an 8 year-old to be enamored by, but to the apartment of the screenwriter, Horton Foote.  We’d take that bus all the way down the long New York Avenue of which I could not remember by name.  I only knew when we’d turn the corner and the street sign would declare that we’d reached the block where writing royalty resided. 

My grandmother was a modest yet regal woman who had acquired the job as the cleaning lady for the NY apartment for the Footes’ when they were visiting from Texas.  This weekly ritual was one that my grandmother and I shared; the soul talk that existed between she and I; she’d bore witness to the affinity I’d developed for those marble note books and the way I’d stay within the lines, playing scrabble with my lexicon and being so hungry for words.  Mr. Foote’s place was always alive with words.  They floated off the air, bounced off the walls; they strengthened the floor boards. 

My favorite room, the one I’d beg to dust was the study.  There in the window were three Oscars, shimmering in the sun.  I’d spend hours in the room dusting them; too excited to eat the motzah ball soup grandma had made, too afraid to use the bathroom because at 8, this was surreal for me and I didn’t want the Oscars to disappear.  It was on my 16th visit that Mr. Foote walked through the door and observed this 8 year old moving this dust cloth across the golden plaque that read: BEST SCREENPLAY, HORTON FOOTE, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD.

“You like that?” he asked scaring me so bad I nearly jumped out of my skin.  I nodded my head slowly, afraid that he’d be angry that I was handling what my young mind deemed to be his prized possession.

“It’s okay.” he said.  Then he smiled at me.  I immediately felt easy.

“You got these for writing?” I asked, excited that words could actually make money.  “Yes,” he answered.  “I’ve been writing for a long time.”  We sat on opposite chairs in the room and I told him I liked writing too.

“Do you, now?” he asked.  I shook my head quickly for the affirmative.  I looked quickly back at the triplets all named Oscar with a certain longing in my belly.

“I want to win one of those.” I said looking longly back at the golden men with their erect posture.  I turned back to see his encouraging smile.

“You can do it.  Just keep writing.”  He spent the next hour in that room telling me how he’d fell in love with writing and it had taken him to Hollywood and back. 

I had was blown away by him; by his adventures in writing.  I had begun leaving little poems and pieces around his apartment.  On days when grandma would have to go, I’d awake before her and be ready for the bus ride, just for the opportunity to leave another poem or letter. 

It was 9 years later when my grandmother had taken ill and unable to take the bus ride anymore.  I had gotten use to my connection with Mr. Foote.  He’d retired to Texas for the most part, his visits to New York had begun to trickle.  Going through my grandmother’s phone book, I found the number and address to my mentor.  I wrote him a letter telling him that I’d be honored to take over for my grandmother, to clean his apartment.  I scribed my contact information and my name and waited for what I was sure would be an enrichening experience.

Two weeks later, I received a phone call from Horton Foote himself.  The kind voice from my childhood floated through the telephone lines. 

“Hello, Renee,” he said kindly. 

“Mr. Foote?” I asked knowing what I was already sure of.

“Yes.” he said “I received your letter.”  

“Good.” I said “I just wanted offer my services to you since grandma is unable-“

“Renee, I think I am going to have to decline.” he said matter-of-factly. “You were never meant to be someone’s domestic.  You’re a writer, remember?”  I got really quiet and reflective on the little girl enraptured by those Oscars that gleamed in the window.  “Keep writing Renee.  You’re a writer.  Now, go bring me your Oscar!”

I was 17 then, and just like when I was 8, his presence, even on the phone returned me to the glory and wonderment of Horatio street.  Renee was back in Wonderland.  Everything I wrote from that moment on was my advancement toward the Oscar with my name on it.  He told me he wanted to hold my Oscar like I held his…

While watching the Oscars tonight, they did a memorial for those who have transitioned.  The air left the room as Horton Foote’s name flashed across the screeen over splashes of TO KILL A MOCKING BIRD, A TRIP TO BOUNTIFUL & ONE FLEW OVER THE COOKOO’S NEST.  It took a moment to breathe.  My eyes filled with tears at the realization that I’d never be able to physically put my Oscar in his hands.  I never got to say goodbye.

Mr. Foote,wherever you are, I am still writing…and I am going to keep that promise, you will get your Oscar with my name on it… 

From the bottom of my heart and with everything that’s within me, thank you for calling me a writer…

After close to 2 years on the air, we are elevating.  I have given classes on air, homework, grant information as well as invaluable critique.  So many of you have developed books, released CDs performed on shows as the confidence within your own work has increased.  Now I’d like the world to know what you’ve been doing.

June 2010, I will release an anthology entitled: “The Language of the Living Room.”  The Book/CD compilation will include the works of poets/spoken words artist that have had any interaction with The Living Room.  All entries should be submitted by 4/30/10 at 12 midnight, EST.  Entries will be notified by 5/15/10 if you have been selected for publication.  There is a $10 entrance fee for up to three poems in written form (should not exceed 20 lines each) and $15 for audio entries (which should be submitted in MP3 format). If you wish to submit for both audio and print, the cost is $25.00.

Both your entries and fees can be paid to: thelivingroomatbtr@yahoo.com.

(Pictures Found off the net)

Dearest Renee:

     It does not matter how many words you wield declaring the end of our union.  You and I both know the truth.  You have been seeing me behind closed doors when no one is around.  I have been whispering in your ear; I have been curling up with you in that fetal position, kissing you into morning.  Your body aches with the desire to clean.  I creep in the clutter, awaiting the feeling you can’t get away from, the hopelessness that whispers “you can’t do this alone” then wraps you back up in the womb of self loathing and shame.

How did you think it was possible?  Leaving behind what we dared to share beyond the world?  I will admit, you had me fooled, with all that empowerment talk about “finding yourself” and “embracing happiness” behind my back, but I guess I should have known better.  Happiness is monogamous.  He doesn’t have a single idea on how to keep more than one woman, so it would only be a matter of time before he would leave you to dress someone in the temporary cloak of “happiness”.

He doesn’t know how to handle you; how to fold himself into the folds of your lonely and cover the holes.  He uses the same words, the same script he has been giving the women in his life for years.  Yes my love, his ordinary love will not ease extraordinary pain.  I know you…better than you have known yourself.  We will always know, always love one another  you can’t escape it, us.

I will always be here, always in the background…the only man who will never leave you…

Depression

tonight
she mourns
the loss of a child
held in the womb
but not yet in her arms
she cries
for the heart that no longer beats
beneath her own
she runs from home
and the uncompromising truth
that in the youth of her pregnancy
her child sleeps before waking
loses breath before taking the first

tonight
the tears are all she has
no affirmations
no positive spin
no blessing
somehow
she has lost her glow
her body knows
and has called Shiva
her belly once high with life
is now low
with morning

this broken woman has been carrying this seed
long beyond knowing
that it no longer grows inside her
she cannot bring herself
to dismember
a member
of her own making
taking down the child
of her purple aqua dreams
ripping the seams
of beautiful
of birth
of beginnings

she prays prayers
hoping they don’t fall upon deaf ears
to hear the infant heart that now sits still
she hopes to feel
the flutters
the kicks
the moving child
and while everything else says no
she cannot seem to let go
funeralize a dead child
stop the rocking of the sleeping fetus

Renée Michele ©September 19, 2008

You are the miracle I have prayed for.  There have been mornings that I awoke with this in my heart and nights when I went to sleep to tears.  How could one wombman be so empty, compromised?  All the things I could do…create, but for over 10 years – I could not create you…

I went through my existence, bitter.  God knows I was bitter until my insides were numb from not being able to taste change…and then, sweet…

You are inside of me…growing, existing…real.  I had grown tired, my insides aging rapidly.  I wonder if you are thinking yet?  Are there thoughts in your mind?  Did you choose me while you were yet in some parallel universe?

I have been afraid to speak to you…  Are you here?  I am anxiously awaiting your arrival…

Love,

Mommy

There is a sorrow of black men

that runs down the spine of me

that intertwines within the heart of me

when you are hurting

working

to find your truth

without me

you’ve been taught to doubt me

and i you

as we love in this place

branding each other

with hot words

metaphors

similes

i like you as

i love you like

i’ve been taught love is

beating you emotionally

and i beat you cause i love you

see me loving you to death?

trying to revive you within your last breath

i have been afraid to look into your eyes

denying you your place

has never been my intent

when you are gone

i roll in your scent until i smell you in my skin

the sin has been

that we have learned to be apart

learned to wear the mask

dance around the truth

we run from the possibility

that we could find God in our connection

this is the sorrow of black men

drowning in incubated tears

i am here my King

we shall not always sow while others reap

you won’t always weep without my arms for comfort

self-medicating while i was dedicating myself to

something

someone

else

there is a sorrow to black men

who feels so far away

today

i proclaim

i love you

i love the me that rest in your eyes

i swim past the tears

go against the tide

until the undercurrent of your ability to love me

sweeps me away

carries me today to an enlightened existence

you aren’t alone anymore

and i hate that i want to love you

and cannot

because maybe you have not un-learned the lesson

how to deny me

hunt for my tears

desensitization

today i miss you

everything you are

and not

i uncover the plot

to obliterate

our future

this interruption of this dance

it must begin with me

because i’ve seen for too long

my hurt

my dismay

translate to my boy child

who’d prefer wild to mild when loving a woman

because mamas are supposed to cry

i have drawn the picture

with the way i have loved you in the past

there is a sorrow of black boys

who become black men

who drown in immaturity

from not being able to cry

i know

you may think it emasculates you

i do know

we’ve been taught to have children & never marry

i carry that pain on my soul

but the harvest has come

we are the ones

our time is now to love

we will not always sow while others reap…