Today was “Pajama Day” at my house. What exactly is “Pajama Day”? Why, I’m glad you asked. It’s a day where I feel so undone and outdone, I stay in my PJs all day and basically shut myself away from all the madness of the world. Give my soul so space where it can rest, relax and recharge. Dip away from the foolishness that we tend to dance with or around on a daily basis. That ish can wear you down AND out.

Examples you say?

Exhibit A: T-shirts on e.B.a.y re: the “I.M.U.S ” incident. I’m not even gonna link it from here. If you can’t find it, send me an email.

Exhibit B: Bumper Stickers on e.B.a.y….

Exhibit C: and yet another tshirt on e.B.a.y….

Exhibit D: Flipping channels yesterday, I stopped at “The.V.i.e.w”. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been a fan but there was all this squawinking going on and I wanted to see what the fuss was. Wellllll….let me tell you. In regards to “the recent incident”, one of the cohost mused aloud, “Why now?” She then went on to postulate that it was because O.b.a.m.a. was running for president and now black people somehow felt more “empowered”. Sweet Jesus part the sky! I know it’s wrong to pray harmful thoughts towards and for someone but you know I was ready to part my lips and ask the Lord to smite them right then and there. See what the ratings would look like after that. Ugh!!

Exhibit E: Last week, I showed up at my old office for two events, one being a retirement party for a friend who was “divorced” about a month after me; the other was a baby shower. Now, I worked there for almost 20 years so, it’s not like people don’t know me or know how I can be. But did somebody not try me? In the lobby of all places? All loud & in a crowd? Said idiot said, “Mmm…I can’t believe they let you back in the building.” I smiled and said in my outside-family-reunion-drunk-uncle-peeing-on-hisself-kids-knocking-over-the -food-before-anybody-ate-a/c-on-the-fritz-in-July” voice, “And yet again I’m dumbfounded at the fact that you of all people remain on ANYONE’S payroll.” I spoke to the two people standing with said idiot as she tried catch the pieces of her face that were hitting the floor. *plink* *plink* Laughing, I turned to walk away but not before reminding her that even on my worst day, I passed her three times…all before 9am. Don’t try me. A friend called me later that day and told me that said idiot said I didn’t like her. I assured my friend that for once, the idiot was indeed correct and that I suggest she not concern herself with it because I didn’t have to. Hell, some days I wake up, look in the mirror and say, “Dang. YOU again.” Move on.

Exhibit F: Ok, folks if you’re going to apologize, you need to understand a few of the rules of engagement. This is standard Apology 101 but, since I know you, I’ll share this with you. The rest? You can pick up in my upcoming bestseller “How to Say I Was Wrong and Not Become Addicted to the Taste of Your Own Foot in Your Mouth” through “Ain’t That Some Ish Press”:

1. Apolgize directly to the person(s) you insulted FIRST. Do not pass go until this step is done. That includes tv interviews, ads in major newspapers, etc.
2. Know your target apology audience. Some folk are more susceptible to bullshyt (me? I’m highly allergic) while others prefer their apology with a side of ’song-and-dance. Or…you could just man (or woman) up and go with the truth, straight no chaser. As the apologizer, it is YOUR job to gauge your audience. After all, we didn’t tell you how to put both feet in your mouth to begin with now did we?
3. Do not assume that your apology will be enough or that it will be accepted immediately…or ever. It shouldn’t be your focus in the first place. As the apologizer, all you can do is apologize SINCERELY and leave whatever expectations you have out of the mix. It’s really not about YOU.
4. If you are a chronic apologizer, know that folks are on to your punk a**. Try a new tactic. Something like, not putting your foot in your mouth to start with. Ya’ll know this apology thing caused me some rough flashback moments. I dated a guy once (if only *sigh*) who was very ‘good’ at apologizing when he was wrong. I gave him props for that cause folks don’t always say “I’m sorry” and/or “I was wrong”. BUT…dude was ALWAYS apologizing so it devalued what he said. He couldn’t grasp the concept of not doing/saying anything that would lead to a frigging apology in the first place. Modifying his behavior has always been a struggle for him even to this day. *Sigh*
5. Don’t cloud this issue with ish like “But Ray-Ray did the same thing last week!”. This isn’t about Ray-Ray ‘nem…not at the moment. Focus on YOU. What YOU said/did. Focus on your reasons for apologizing. Focus on changing YOU. Cause um…sometimes? When you add in other examples, you just compound the issue cause now you gotta take the brunt of the anger not only for yourself but also for Ray-Ray ‘nem. Trust, Ray-Ray ‘nem are on the radar.

Exhibit G: folks who assume stuff about you (I know, I’ve said this before) and then tell you how “surprised” they are when they’re proven wrong. Someone recently told me that they didn’t know how down-to-earth I am or how funny I can be. I’d like to say that it was the first time I’d heard that but, it’s not. Got it all through school. Hard being African-American in a class of 20 students and there are only 1-2 of us. Or sitting in meetings with ‘muckety-mucks’ in corporate America and you’re the only person of color AND sometimes the only female. So now, I was cutting up in those instances because I had a job to do. I know what’s appropriate and when. I’m not that old-school Chrissy doll with the buttons you push to pull a pony-tail (or some cut-up) out of the top of her head. Besides, if you make that assumption based on how I enter a room, how I speak and/or where I sit while I’m in the room but you never approach me to say a word, how would you know? And why would I go out of my way to dispel the foolishness living inside your head? I don’t take ownership of ish that isn’t mine. Unless you’re willing to pay a hefty rental fee to rent said space.

Or the guy who made the assumption that because I wasn’t married, didn’t have any kids and wasn’t living with a man that something must be wrong with me. It was. I was loosing brain cells talking to him. Now don’t get all bent out of shape saying I’m “bashing MEN” - I’m not bashing all men, just him. And honestly, I didn’t even have to do that - he did it on his own. He was knocking my choices, my life and this is the profile that HE gave me of himself: dude was 36, he has 4 kids and another on the way, all with different women, he lives with his mom, grumbles about the lack of good women out here and how women like me have forgotten how to treat a man. He shared that information after having told ME about MYSELF. I cleared up a few things, left him looking dazed and walked away. FAST.

I could go on but why? Sometimes folks, Enough is Enough, too much is funky and ish is truly smelly right about now. So, in an effort to preserve the sactity of “Pajama Day”, I’m done. Enjoy your weekend!

Live DELICIOUSLY!
~ J ~

love language - part I

“pen to skin”

we move

pen to skin

skin to pen

peeling back layer after layer of us

until nothing but the sensuality of pure honesty remains

we move against each other,

tantric gyrations of our own creation

writing each other from the inside out

my words moving slowly across the expanse od you,

stroke after stroke,

fast…slow…slow…fast…a delicious tempo

we move deeper into each other, souls merging

til we explode into an inky color-filled rainbow of ectasy

i write deep into your skin,

pouring all my emotions into the creases in your back

my pen kneading your skin with just the right amount of pressure

as i nudge you, signaling you to turn over

giving me new space to explore

my words drip all over you…top to bottom

liquid love notes like melted candle wax

covering every angle, every inch of you

as you lay yourself bare before me

open…willing…waiting

i pour all i have into you

with all the strength of my emotions

our souls kiss tenderly,

tears mingle with the joy of your taste

my words fill you up

yet leave you hungry for more

and we live in this vulnerable heat

breathing life into each other

finding ourselves oddly weak

yet strengthened by what lives between us…

we…are love

i…am pen…

you…paper

we make something more delicious than love…

we

birth

poetry

Copyright 2007 Jackie Young

Excerpt: Abraham’s Daughter

Father’s Day memories

June 17, 2006

Rashaan,
I am sure you will find it odd to open your mailbox and see my letter tucked in with overdue bills and miscellaneous junk mail. Ironic, no? For my letter can seem like either an overdue bill itself or…junk mail. It has been an exercise in and of itself to write it and a battle to decide whether to actually mail it or not. Being who I am, (I wonder if you remember me accurately?), writing the letter was not really a choice. I had to. For my own sake. The choosing came in deciding whether to mail it or not. So I wrote it. Twelve pages. Layered with remembrance, stifled emotions, angry cursive letters…pain. I trudged to the post office on this rainy day to mail the letter. I had addressed it to you but chose not to include my return address or name. I feared you would see that as a caution sign and toss the letter to the side. Yet, the crotchety lady at the front window insisted that I include that information. In her nasally, annoying voice complete with neck rolling and gum popping, she postulated the inability to return the letter to me should it not make its way to you. I had not the strength to tell her that I never wanted to see this letter again. And so, I added some silly name and address to the letter which seemed to satisfy her.

I write this letter on the eve of Father’s Day. It is 11:16pm. Nine years to the day. I wonder if you remember. I’d been to a cookout earlier that evening while you hung out with your cousin G. The one you took to task for saying to me that I looked so fine, he could sop me up with a biscuit. As many times as I’ve heard that phrase I’ve never known anyone other than you to believe that it had sexual connotations. I hung out with my girlfriend B and her family but my mind was miles away. I had a bit of a secret and was biding my time before confirming what I already knew to be true. I waited until 10:30pm and made my exit from the cookout. I drove to Walmart in complete silence, praying that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. I reasoned that my chances of that happening were slim to none as I’d chosen a Walmart in a distant neighborhood. I shuffled slowly down the appointed aisle, perusing the large number of selections, reading packaging, and finally making my purchase.

I remember trying to hide it among several other miscellaneous purchases - an auto magazine, nasal spray, fuchsia tights, cough syrup. As my purchases were rung up, the young cashier appeared to be very bored, until she came to the kit. Suddenly she became animated and it seemed that her voice could be heard throughout the store. I died of embarrassment multiple times before she finally tossed my purchases in the familiar blue plastic bag and congratulated me. I rushed to the car, tossed my bag haphazardly in the back, and drove home.

At 11:50pm, I walked into the bathroom, opened the pregnancy test and followed the instructions even though I knew. I could’ve sworn that the blue X showed up in the circle before I even unzipped my pants. My suspicions were confirmed. I was pregnant. You were to be a father. At exactly 12:01am, I dialed your number. I could hear the sleep in your voice as I wished you Happy Father’s Day. I felt your smile, heard you say Thank you, tell me how sweet it was that I called you. Your boys weren’t in town yet and you didn’t anticipate speaking to them until later in the day.

You began to lay out your plans for the day, when you’d see them, and I interrupted to tell you again Happy Father’s Day and began to cry softly. I remember you asking, “Baby…are you alright?” I wasn’t. I was pregnant. We were just “friends”. It was Father’s Day. I couldn’t get beyond a tearful series of “Happy Father’s Day” mumblings. It finally dawned on you that this call, these tears were not about you and your boys. It was about us, a mightily fractured us. You would call my name, tell me that it would be okay, try to soothe over the pain and confusion with sugary words. You were ready to dress and drive across town but I did not want that. I needed time to really absorb this news, this change. I assured you that we’d have time to talk later in the day. You were skeptical but gave me that space.

I went to bed with my hand over my stomach, talking to my child, our daughter. Don’t ask me how I knew. I simply did. She told me that her name would be Maya, this child of ours and so, that is how I addressed her from then on.

Morning would find you at my door bearing orange juice, a pregnancy handbook, pickles, and chocolate. I can’t even imagine how strange your purchases must’ve seemed to the cashier. We sat silently, lost in our own respective thoughts. I remember you asking me if I was happy. I said yes. You asked if I was happy that this child was yours. I asked who else’s it could possibly be? I know it wasn’t an answer to your question. But you have to understand that, given you penchant for lacing up your shoes and running away, I was trying to shield myself for what I felt would come eventually even though I carried your legacy in my womb.

The next week brought a trip to an OB/GYN for confirmation. I didn’t want to tell people just yet – everyone says you should wait until you make it through the first trimester. Did you know that I told two of my best friends? I’m sure you suspected it though they would never have let on. I remember Corrine was also pregnant and the thought of our kids growing up together tickled us immensely. We settled into a routine, you and I – somehow trying to piece our relationship together without really calling it that. We began a series of discussions about names, cribs, and whatnot. Day to day, we told ourselves that we were building a family, that WE were truly and finally WE. I remember talking to our baby, Miss Maya Jerre, every day. First thing I did in the morning, last thing I did at night. The doctor said we were two and a half months along. He gave me all kinds of material to read, told me to relax, eat well, exercise…the same things he’d told me before the pregnancy. And so began our trip into parenthood.

It is strange that we somehow thought this child might save us, might bring us together. We thought it, maybe it hoped for it but we never spoke it aloud. I suppose that was too much pressure, even for an angel. The night before I was to cross from first trimester to second, I had a strange dream. I’ve never shared this with you before. Of this I’m sure. I merely tucked it away in my journal. In my dream, I saw our daughter, Miss Maya Jerre, walking along a path full of colorful wildflowers. I called out to her multiple times but she kept walking. She finally turned around, smiled at me and giggled before continuing her journey towards sunshine. I awoke to find tiny drops of blood on my favorite yellow sheets. I showered, dressed, and drove to the doctor’s office though I knew the outcome. Our daughter had decided that she could not stay here. I drove myself home in a stupor.

You called after work and I gave you the news. I couldn’t gauge your response but it didn’t matter. She was gone. You wanted to come over. I said no. You came anyway. I shared the appointment time with you. What I remember most about this is, feeling like I had to convince you to accompany me to the hospital. For me, that spelled the beginning of the end…again. I remember you called your job and gave them some lame excuse, and I wondered why you didn’t simply say that you needed to accompany me to the hospital for outpatient surgery. I remember sitting with my hands over my empty womb as if I could still feel our daughter there.

There weren’t a lot of emotions that morning as we entered the hospital. We were led to a small dressing room where I was asked to disrobe. I remember breaking down in tears at the moment, crumbling to the floor in pain. Wailing. You were so unsure of what to do, what to say. I know my pain was naked, raw, bubbling up and over the surface until I found myself curled up on the floor. You slid off the bench, pulling me into your arms which made me cry even harder. I suppose this wasn’t an uncommon scene for the hospital staff as no one came to check on us or remind us that we had X number of minutes until I needed to be taken into surgery.

Maybe I overdid it with my exposed pain because I remember you bringing me home, trudging to the store to get juice, broth, crackers, and then going home to your own place. I hated you in that moment. I really did. We just lost a child and you were rushing away from me. It never dawned on me until years later that you needed to grieve in your own way. I lay curled deep into my sofa, staring into space, hands once again across my stomach. This is where my memory gets foggy. For years, I told myself that we didn’t have any conversations after that, that we never discussed “trying” again. Maybe it was my way of protecting myself. We were heading nowhere fast, as usual and I didn’t have the strength to fight this downward spiral. I was hurting in new and different ways.

My friend Corinne went on to deliver a healthy son, her second. I remember getting an invite to a baby shower for your cousins Matthew and Jen who had finally adopted a child. Corinne’s son would be more than two years old before I could bear to see him, or to hold him. Corinne understood and never pushed or questioned. I avoided the baby shower for Matt and Jenn. I couldn’t take the pain of watching someone else welcome a baby home coupled with seeing you there. It was too much.

And so, here we are – years away from that loss. Two marriages later, both of them yours. Neither of them involving me. I am astounded by the fact that, as much as you relished fatherhood then, your relationship with your sons has deteriorated to the point that you didn’t even know you were a grandfather until the child was four. And I know you wonder what brought THIS letter on.

I happened to be in the park, just relaxing and unwinding from a long day at work. I saw a father pushing his daughter on the swings. She giggled carefree, begged to go higher which he obliged. Finally climbing down from the swings, she ran crookedly into his open arms, tossed her arms around his neck, and pressed messy kisses all over his face. He scooped her up, twirling her around as she laughed. Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder and said, “Daddy I had fun. I’m ready to go home now.” He kissed her forehead, smiled at me watching them, and said, “OK baby. Let’s go home. I love you Maya.”

I find myself sitting on another bench, wailing. Holding onto my empty stomach. No one’s here to hold me this time.

Always,
~ Tess

¸.•´ .•´¨¨)) Jackie Young -:¦:-
((¸¸.•´ ..•´ the original WRITE-OR-DIE chick… -:¦:-
-:¦:- ((¸¸.•´* Love’s Reparations…www.jackieyoungwrite.com

Can I share a quick story with you?

OK…once upon a time, there was a girl who was looking forward to having lunch with two of her friends. She went to pick them up and they drove to the restaurant - laughing, talking, and enjoying each others’ company.

They parked and went into the restaurant. Conversation flowed. Laughter sat down with them the entire time. They had a great time. Two hours later, they decided it was time to get back to the get back.

The girl searched her purse for car keys. None to be found. She turned the purse upside down, inside out. No keys. Thought aloud they must be IN the car. Not panicking, they walk out to the car, musing aloud how they’d get to their destination if the keys were lost…or locked in the car.

One of the friends ran ahead to see if the keys were in the ignition. They were.

And the car was still running.

The End.

Princess Dominique…maybe she saw “Cakeman”. That’s enough to unnerve any female. Can you say “Da-YUM” with emphasis on the “YUM”? Um…well, that’s what she said, I’m just telling her story.

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How’s this for a review? I didn’t know it had been posted until someone contacted me about helping me promote my book. Check it out! Oh, and for you, I’m dropping your book in the mail tomorrow morning. I promise. It’s just that, the “perfect” inscription eludes me. I’m working on it. For real.

THE RAWSISTAZ™ REVIEWERS BLACK BOOK Reviews
Reviewed: Mar 11, 2007

Love’s Reparations: The Learning Curve Between Heartache and Healing
By Jackie Young
1st Stream Publishing, November 2006
120 Pages, Paperback, $11.95
ISBN: 0978760204
Genre: Poetry

RAW Rating: 4.5

Naked…

Jackie Young’s collection, LOVE’S REPARATIONS is a beautiful, honest, truthful and talent-filled compilation of poetry. The personal pieces are thought-provoking and will resonate long after the last poem is read.

Choosing favorites from this collection is almost impossible because each poem has a beauty of its own. LOVE’S REPARATIONS is divided into three sections: Heartache, Learning Curve and Healing. Each of the poems in the separate sections reflects in earnest the feelings of loving, healing and learning from one’s experiences. “Last Supper” uses metaphors of food to acknowledge a lover’s heartbreak. “Bewildered” is taking a look at one’s self and not recognizing who you are anymore. “Musings” is a beautiful piece about becoming one with your poetry. “Homecoming” is welcoming back love after not embracing it due to heartbreak. “Harvest” is about cultivating love. “Peace” is about finding just that. Finally, “Baby Steps” is learning how to follow in God’s wake by taking little steps at a time until you learn how to walk with the Lord.

LOVE’S REPARATIONS is a metaphorical and lyrical collection that made me smile, cry and most of all reflect. The poems are to be read slowly so you can absorb their meaning and understand their truth. Young’s collection speaks eloquently about the pain of heartbreak, how we can learn from past mistakes and begin to walk the path of healing. Whether the poem was long or short, the strength of its meaning are easily discerned. Young is a very talented poet who is able to use metaphors in a way to capture the emotional depths of each poem. My words cannot adequately reflect my feelings after reading this collection, but I can say poetry lovers and readers alike will be awestruck by this book, it is just that good.

Reviewed by Cashana Seals
—-

Cashana Seals currently resides in Montgomery, Alabama. An avid reader since she was very young, she spends her spare time reading and is the President and Founder of a local book club.

© Copyright 2001-2006
RAWSISTAZ Literary Group™
P.O. Box 1362

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Can you see the smile on my face? Hear me laugh? Wow.
I. Am. Amazed.
I. Am. Humbled.
I. Am. WIRED.
LOL

Enjoy your weekend!

Live DELICIOUSLY!!

*************************************************************
“Got Poetry?”

I do! Welcome to National Poetry Month! I hope that you take some time this month to enjoy some poetry…it does the spirit good. (Yeah, I paraphrased somebody else’s slogan. Poetic license and all that jazz.) Grab some Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes, Amiri Baraka, Pablo Neruda, Sonia Sanchez…or better yet, “Love Lingers” by one of my dearest friends Linda Dominique Grosvenor (www.lindadominiquegrosvenor.com) , or “You Beckon” - a breathtaking collection from my friend Peggy Eldridge Love (www.peggyeldridgelove.com) , or…”Songs in Search of a Voice” by the Prince of Poetry - Marcus Harris (www.marcusharris.net). I’m leaving some folks out I know - please charge it to my head and not my heart. It’s an overcast day here in VA and I’m feeling a bit that way myself (family drama *sigh*). Send prayers….and cyberhugs. And um, keep’em coming. Oh snap, almost forgot - add “Love’s Reparations” to that list of poetry collections. Purchase info can be found on my website www.jackieyoungwrites.com. Know of any other poets/poetry collections? Let a sista know.

Live Deliciously!

~ J ~
The Original Write-or-Die Chick!

Don’t get it twisted!

“If you can’t be the poet, be the poem.”