Echo

Life is not free

So quickly can it be taken from me. No reimbursement or early disconnection fees

From the cell towers I hear the echo in the streets. White vans and stained seats

I wonder what he was thinking When his spirit finished sinking

To oblivion

Just a text before it was done

What can I do to lay with the sun

Never look directly into the light

until you’re ready to fight. It shines in front of closed eyes

fear keeps them shut to their purpose.

Many of us who face the plight we call life.

We need fresh air…walk outside to try and breathe but see…

Out there I can still hear the echos in the streets

The vibrations in my sleep. I can still see the white van and stained seat.

Pierced a hole in my soul. No hopes of ever being whole

again.

Pierced a hole in my soul. I hope I am made whole

again.

Lord please forgive my sins for I am angry.

I envy them all when they’re still able to crawl and cry into daddy’s shirt, play dress up in mommy’s skirt. Sit in daddy’s game day chair. No worries cuz he always there.

He and I were a great pair.

Were.

So open and closed, but close .I shared my very soul. It filled me with such comfort. Encouraged me to keep pushing through strong winds and shady kin.

Keep steps to success discreet and strike when they are sleeping on me.

The echo through the streets, and upon a clean seat

Sat a picture of me, in the hands of the one finally at peace.

In my dreams the light cradles me slow. Speaks of being free, but dangles the keys out in front of me.

Daddy can I go?

Daddy, let go.

Please let me go.

Let go.

Let go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To my People

To my people, I am sorry.

I speak to those of all heritage. Not just to black or white, but to ALL.

I want to apologize for confusing you with my internal conflicts, the complex I didn’t realize existed until about a year ago in an exchange with an elderly customer.

“Excuse me ma’am,” the woman said at the top of her lungs.  Assuming she had poor hearing, I inched closer to her to reply, “Yes ma’am what’s going on?” “Well I was looking for your manager,” she said. “Okay which one in particular?”

“You know, the colored one.”

Pause.

I stared into her eyes of no remorse or even awareness that, for one, no one says that anymore, and, two, it’s not okay. I stood there in awe before I, “….you know, colored, like you. ”

Oh, she was really serious. Alright. “You mean black? If so, there are quite a few of us here.” Heart racing, blood boiling, I walked quickly over to the nearest phone to access the loud speaker and beckoned this lovely lady to follow.

“COLORED MANAGERS TO DRESSES PLEASE. COLORED MANAGERS TO DRESSES.”

I glared at her. She smiled in approval. Surely, the store manager rushes over, burning a hole in my face with her disbelief. “Yes, this woman was looking for the colored manager.”

Pause.

Alright so I didn’t actually get to announce that. I only got to say: “[Name] to dresses please.” I had the pleasure of enduring her questions about us coloreds: my hair, why I was so skinny, why my hair wasn’t straightened like the majority of the girls in the vicinity. Anyway, I called my dad immediately after work to tell him about the ordeal. He chuckled at my story.

“Baby girl, Is this the first time you’ve heard that? She was old huh? That’s just how it is, don’t let it get to you.”

It was then, I realized my silence. I was made so very aware of my skin in that moment. It wasn’t the first time I heard something like that from an elderly majority. I had an impeccable ability to pretend that it meant nothing to me.

All this time I have said nothing.

I grew up in a fairly diverse area. I knew I was unique and I embraced it. I was blessed to be around people of all shades. At the end of my 5th grade year at Epps Island Elementary. I had to move to the south side to Dowling Middle School, where I experience a giant culture shock. Suddenly, I became “that skinny light-skinned girl with good hair”. I was too skinny, too smart, and to proper. This made people uncomfortable and I didn’t understand why. I struggled to find a balance and abandoned my true self to fit in with those in my culture, even still I was not good enough.

For this I am sorry.

My people, I am not the friend who grants you racism immunity. “I have a black friend….” I will not flatten my fro to avoid scaring you. I will no longer hide my frustration with the justice system. I told myself Sandra Bland was a coincidence. Eric Garner was a coincidence…countless others were all coincidences. I have told you that it was nonsense. I should have corrected you when you said,”but you’re not really black.” For that, I am sorry. Obama’s presidency has not suppressed or ended racism, but has, in fact, magnified it. Trump has given people permission to hobble out of their racist closets to speak hateful thoughts and call people “sensitive” for having a problem with it.

Black jokes are not funny anymore.

There are bad apples out there in every color, but they don’t all need a hashtag. My people, you can’t be offended because a hashtag was not made for you. #Blacklivesmatter because they actually don’t matter to many, but this in no way diminishes your value. My people, no one is personally attacking you. I am simply asking you to take responsibility. Use your privilege to stand up to your racist uncles or aunties. Be kind. Be selfless. Be attentive.

To my people. White jokes aren’t funny anymore. You don’t have to tear down one to lift up another. We have a duty, a responsibility to inform our people, all people, the ways of the world. We have a responsibility to improve our image to those who doubt us. Success speaks louder than disorganized protests and riots. I have sat, silent, in fear of being rejected again, by my people. For that, I am sorry. Change begins within. Do not oppress or limit yourself; society does a great job of that.

For the record…I don’t “talk white”, I speak English.

To my people , I love you all. None of us are perfect. No one is attacking you personally, I am only asking you to take responsibility. Uplift our women, our men, our baby girls and boys. Enlighten the parents who segregate  and embrace prejudice mindset. Spread the love.

There is a uniqueness in every culture. It’s a beautiful thing when you can accept that.

-Fly

HONOR Alton Sterling and Philando Castile June 2016

“We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr 

March On Washington For Jobs And Freedom

Leaders of March on Washington for Jobs & Freedom marching w. signs (R-L) Rabbi Joachim Prinz, unident., Eugene Carson Blake, Martin Luther King, Floyd McKissick, Matthew Ahmann & John Lewis. (Photo by Robert W. Kelley/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images)

http://www.nationalservice.gov/mlkday

Feel free to reach out with suggestions, tips, and/or love!

IG: kafee1867 | Email: kafee1867@gmail.com | Twitter:@kiz_nichole | Facebook: kizzie.frank

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Great Divide

The Great Divide.

Students…take a seat and

Let us partake in…words

How do we define peace/ when our

Levels of stress can only be relieved with our skin caressed in sweat

When does the struggle subside?

You see, the truth lies in the lies in the eyes of politicians and the dispositions of society to oppress

We dehydrate in the fire, forced to drink our tears to survive

Most hide behind the lines of the Great Divide

Take it back to the purple, black, and white folk

Words of folklore derived from our purple black and white ancestors. The Great Divide

So how do we define peace? Who really, is the ally?

Through rhythms, rhymes and haikus; Shakespeare sonnets and melodies

All granted by the hands of God himself, to bridge the gap. The Great Divide

Music as art, art as war, war as a hindrance to all innocence

Art as music, as war must commence in our struggle to stop the struggle

To achieve the peace

Break it into pieces, call it …words.

Use it to paint tapestries that lick the stature of the Mona Lisa. Resting point

At the Great Divide

Words as art, art as music trickle down from the top of the cranium, and kick off the tips of a pen onto

A rhythmic canvass, like morning dew in the sweetest meadows of Greece. Peace. In the Great Divide

In the mind of an artist, of a dreamer, there is such word as retire

Retire to the prison

Prisoners within walls of fire, that is, the walls of the edge of our desires

When we find ourselves between these rocks and other hard places, we search for embraces only to

find empty spaces

Ironically, we can find peace behind its own definition which so happens to be

The lack of hesitation as a single nation, under God

That is, HE who is the motivation, up high where stress is no threat

Up high is the direction to aim. To the other side of the middle of the Great Divide

Just when the struggle to battle the struggle subsides, consistency has a tendency to die

Common passersby call it cries, we call it…words. So we continue to drink our tears to survive

Walk through the wastelands left by man.

Art as music, music as war, and war as a challenge

Music as war as art as poetry. Call it…words

-Fly

After thought: What are some things you can take from this poem? How do you think the fight for social/racial/gender equality is going? Are you a soldier in that fight?

Feel free to reach out with suggestions, tips, and/or love!

IG: kafee1867 | Email: kafee1867@gmail.com | Twitter:@kiz_nichole | Facebook: kizzie.frank

Inspired by:

itdoesntmatter

It’s just another day…right?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY!!!

You would have been 50 today. Creative. Wise. Powerful and extremely loving to the lives of many. Most of whom you didn’t know you have touched. Exactly 4 months ago today around this same time 3:47 p.m, I was still in denial about you taking your last breath.

But today…oh but today, I miss you like crazzzzzzzzzzyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy and I have accepted your absence. When August first rolled around, I was writing everyone’s birthday on my calendar and wrote yours first. Since then, I have been thinking of way I could honor your memory. I thought of creating some sad ritual that I would do on all of your birthdays, but the day has actually come and I think I…we all should rejoice.

model

His model car looks something like this. Actual photo coming soon.

Last year, I gave you a kit for a model red corvette for your birthday. You hand crafted that tiny car with your stubby fingers a day after. I’m so proud of that thing. (once I get a hold of it I will post the picture here) So I figured…why not attempt to build one of those cars myself? Maybe not this year but it’s a thought!

(click here to witness Dad being a goofball)

You always told us that birthdays, holidays, and pay days are still just days. There is some truth to that because the world keeps going no matter what we may be celebrating, but Faja…I partially disagree. You were born today! Without your birth I obviously wouldn’t be here; the world would not have been graced by your presence. And even when you disagreed with me about subjects such as that, you always made sure to uplift and encourage me; you always found a way to make your baby girl laugh. I hope that one day my children will love and cherish me as much as I do you.

You taught me to value myself. You taught me how to love a man and how I should be loved. From you, I learned to keep pushing and how to “Fake it till you make it”. You were so real. You never sugar coated anything for anyone. You never changed yourself for anyone. You were 100% you, and taught me to not be ashamed of being 100% me. Thank you dad. You have been the driving force in my life. Thank you for hanging on as long as you did.

Today, I will celebrate your life. Within me, you will live forever. I love you daddy! Peace out.

-Fly (your baby girl)

Daddy!

Dad’s first ever selfie.

Feel free to reach out with suggestions, tips, and/or love!

IG: kafee1867 | Email: kafee1867@gmail.com | Twitter:@kiz_nichole | Facebook: kizzie.frank