Drummond i ABSTRACT Title of Thesis: MIRROR MADE OF QUARTZ Kassiah Drummond, Master of Fine Arts, 2024 Thesis directed by: Dr. Lillian-Yvonne Bertram Department of English "Mirror Made of Quartz" is a poetic exploration about community divided into four sections that reclaim the displaced emotion of rage with empathy. In the first section "Naming a Better Word for Love", the collection bargains the complexities of expressing love amidst trust and compromise. The next section "(Womb)an", explores how the gift of a name to a daughter, echoes the title of motherhood itself as both are becoming their new roles for the first time. The womb carries legacy, tradition, and trauma. The third section "I Think About Being Black a Lot" dedicates itself to exploring the aspects of the color as an identity by delving into various culturally impactful folklores, redemption for the unsolved history, and new perspectives to the misunderstood. Finally, the title section, "Mirror Made of Quartz," serves as a supportive reflection of myself by commentating on my name, body, and the person I hope to become with tangible optimism. Kassiah Drummond ii MIRROR MADE OF QUARTZ By Kassiah Drummond Thesis submitted to the Faculty of the Graduate School of the University of Maryland, College Park in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts 2024 Advisory Committee: Dr. Lillian-Yvonne Bertram Dr. Joshua Weiner Prof. Rion Scott Kassiah Drummond iii Table of Contents Abstract…………………………………………………………………………………………………….. Title Page…………………………………………………………………………………………………... Table of Contents…………………………………………………………………………………………... I. Naming A Better Word for Love 1. 22 Moons………………………………………………………………………………………..…1 2. Heavy…………………………………………………………………………………………..…..2 3. I Promised to Write a Love Poem………………………………………………………………….3 4. August Se7enth………………………………………………………………………………..…...4 II. (Womb)an 1. No Body………………………………………………………………………..…………………..6 2. What Was It Again? (Secret Recipe)…………………………………………………..…………..8 3. Weep What You Sow………………………………………………………………………..……10 4. Cooking for Men……………………………………………………………………………….....12 5. The Passion Behind the Kiss of Her Teeth……………………………………………………….13 III. I Think About Being Black a Lot 1. When Saints Swim/Who Teaches Angels to Swim?/Have You ever Seen an Angel Swim?.........15 2. Houmas House - 40136 LA – 942, Darrow, LA 70725…………………………………………. 22 3. When Hoteps Mean Well…………………………………………………………………………23 4. Scavenger Hunt…………………………………………………………………………………...24 IV. Mirror Made of Quartz 1. Name: Origin: (1-8)………………………………………………………………………..……..25 a. Intro……………………………………………………………………….………….…..25 b. Kiswahili………………………………………………………………….……….……..26 c. Keziah the Daughter…………………………………………………………………..…28 d. Kessiah for Freedom……………………………………………………….………….…29 e. Kizzy is Seen……………………………………………………………………….….…31 f. Cassia…………………………………………………………………………….………32 g. Keisha……………………………………………………………………………………33 h. Self Portrait………………………………………………………………………………34 2. So You Wanna Drink My Bath Water?..........................................................................................35 3. An Ode for Kimberly Denise Jones……………………………………………...……………….36 4. Beauty Lane………………………………………………………………………...…………….38 Kassiah Drummond Drummond 1 22 Moons In bed, I’ve seen twenty two moons alone Watching the sun fulfill its morning glow But yet, as I count these stars as moonstones I watch night lay her veil through my window I wish your essence in my atmosphere To absorb more than your scent on these sheets I promise my desire is sincere These pillows can’t substitute your heartbeat Hold me tight like the petals in a rose, As warmth is the temperature of you Your snores whisper gentle falsettos And my image of sweet dreams become true With 22 moons, all destined by fate making space, in your arms it's always late. 2 Heavy Heavy \_ Like a leaf that can’t fly Heavy \_ Like a feather with a strong stem Heavy \_ Like a pound of cotton measured in gold Heavy \_ Like a colony of coins in a child's pocket Heavy \_ Like the value of ivory seized from an elephant Heavy \_ Like the memory of your scent on my shoulder Heavy \_ Like a stone flung across the waves of water Heavy \_ Like the frame that makes the picture hard to remove Heavy \_ Like Miss. Simone's voice caught in the width of the wind Heavy \_ Like the knowledge piled in books Heavy \_ Like the raindrop caught on your eyelid Heavy \_ Like the butterscotch aroma diffused from the candle wax Heavy \_ Like honey settled in ginger tea Heavy \_ Like the phlegm in my throat silencing all I rehearsed to say Heavy \_ Like love landing on a receiving heart Heavy \_ Like the belief of a weightless promise Heavy \_ Like stirring the batter after I let it rest for too long Heavy \_ Like everything of you I carry \_ With no hands at all 3 I Promised to Write a Love Poem: You’d help me make a fool of love. Watching cupid drunk on his own milk filling us with opium straight from his bow, creating flaming wicks in our eyes with the aroma of saffron clung to our sweat. We’d have a romance fire would envy, a heat July would mimic, attempting to stroke the pavement competing with our degree. Power Ballads would crack when they reached for our note as we’d bloom like Cherry blossoms who’ve defeated the rain. What would they call us? A couple or a Cupid? Sculpted as a totem for aspiring lovers to worship as God washed his hands after our pairing. Each crease in your lips is paired perfectly to mine memorizing our own alphabet. The heart doesn't have enough space to prosper so it frames our silhouette and carves us a star. You would blow out the sun just to give me the moon and because our days are measured in time, Home is arms filled with you. Where Sundays drain slow, and Monday comes at a price. Had I been born at noon, and buried by midnight, would make 12 hours a beautiful life with you. 4 August Se7enth – a Cento from 7 August Wilson plays Her name sounds like the word “ancestor” She is both the keeper and the transmitter of African-American memory. I done already got too many things to forget about. I may not know everything but I know something I got to play the hand that was dealt to me. You had what you want and I didn’t. That makes you special. You one of them special people who is supposed to have everything just the way they want it I took all my feelings, my wants and needs, my dreams ... and buried them inside you. I take that emptiness and try to fill it up with something. I planted a seed and watched and prayed over it. I planted myself inside you and waited to bloom. the soil was hard and rocky and it wasn’t never gonna bloom. So I killed you in my heart. I buried you. I mourned you. And then I picked up what was left and went on to make life without you. I got a strong memory. I got a long memory. I would lay myself out on that bed and search my body for your fingerprints. He touched me here, and he touched me here, and he touched me here, and he kissed me here, and he gave me here, and he took me here, and he ain’t here, he ain’t here, he ain’t here, quit looking for him cause he ain’t here he’s there! there! there! there! I done found out the harder you try to hold onto them, the easier it is for them to pull them away. Blues is life's way of talking. You don't sing to feel better. You sing 'cause that's a way of understanding life. Just singing quietly to myself some song my mother had taught me Every day that God breathed life into her body she rubbed and cleaned and polished and prayed over it. Their mouths are on fire with song. That water can’t put it out. That song is powerful. It rise up and come across the water. I don't have all the answers . . . sometimes I don't even have the right questions, but I do know it takes two to find them But I held on to you. I held you tighter.. Every part of me I could find to give you. And upstairs in that room ... with the darkness falling in on me ... I gave everything I had to try Everything and everybody got to stand in the light. I done learned that they gonna treat me like I want to be treated no matter how much it hurt them. Power is something. It’s hard to control but it’s hard to stand in the way of it. Had me a man one time who I thought had some love in him. But You never showed me all those places where you were a man. wanted to know where you was bruised at. So I could be a woman for you. So I could touch you there. So I could spread myself all over you and know that I was a woman. but you ain’t never stopped to look at what his foolishness cost your mama. Made a kingdom out of nothing. And had his redemption handed to him. she rubbed on it till her hands bled. 5 What about my life? What about me. I keep my memories alive. I feed them. I got to feed them otherwise they’d eat me up. I’d rather die in truth than to live a lie. That’s what you got to find out. You got to find a way to live in truth. I been doing this a long time. Make his feet say my name on the road But love can only go so far It ain’t even here no more, what you looking for. What you remember. It ain’t even here no more. 6 No Body There was a conversation during conception that gave me my fathers face and my mothers cupid bow lips. Deep in his iris there’s a streak that tears when his eyebrows furrow, and her cheeks clench. Pushing her anger through my sharpened tongue that chipped the teeth he gifted me at birth. These bones that mold my face are remnants of something true. I bargain their life together, exhaling what's left of a forgotten romance. She sees it most clearly - hunched and sighed as she tilts my head back to wash the matted hair that will never let them part. No matter how hard she combs through her unwed fingers, there will always be a struggle with the split ends. There's a beauty in looking like my mother, until it reflects the man who made her beauty bitter. To look like my father makes me a burden. Marked with everything he is, and becoming. I am 8588 days of hosting their conflict, my teeth grinding their grit. The tense lump this leaves in my throat pairs my voice with her octave. The curses meant for him, will deliver clearly through my ear destroying my eardrum to decay. Navigating a broken face requires cementing an alias identity in my head while shoving defense in the crevasses of my lips. To show my love for one another I bottle my laugh because it sounds too much like hers, I instead take long breaths in her honor and hide my expression so I didn't emote his face “You believe things like you mom” he says when I hold a voice to my opinion “You have your fathers nose” she says when she looks me too deeply in the eye. There is truth, she smiled more hoping to birth his boy. There is truth, he knew she was a beautiful woman to make a mother. I am the host of their conflict, the commotion of everyone talking at once - the permanent artifact of a heart they veined together for existence. Each side pumps at opposite speeds when I’m allowed to love one more than the other Making it easy to breathe shallow in their presence. 7 The best of this romance could have been me but if love is conflict, then my creation was a riot. Connected by a batteless war. I gifted them titles, Taught them to mother – to father Opening this hole in my mouth for another voice to appear. Hoping the inheritance of this position would cease before I resigned. There is no body where they don’t exist. 8 What Was It Again? (Secret Recipe) [Grandma Ida] You put the apple sauce in the…… Oh thats right, In the pound cake so it wouldn't dry out the way your worries did when your only son left your house a man. He was belted to your hip by an invisible birthing cord each time you baked. Fixated with apple jelly in cakes as a surprise only he could taste. A window with a cake that paired with a breeze brought everyone who loved your son to your house. But one day walking to Ricky’s shop to sneak a few Playboy magazines, a bright-skin green-eyed girl showed him God was making women who wanted to be seen outside Pahokee and beyond the Okeechobee. Destined for Air, he flew past the lima beans he saw you crop with women who looked like you. Women cautious to pick each sun anointed root because there’s always something lingering beneath it. You told him everything you can reach, doesn’t need to be picked. Away from home, he learned the wind doesn’t rattle beneath the grass and almost got himself bit by something that looked pretty - and UnFlorida like. You prayed for your son to come home untouched, unfed, undead - and learned a sweet tooth was the way to keep him closer to the porch. That pound cake was the only thing he ever stayed faithful to. So you never stopped baking. [Grandma Carolyn] You put the cream of tartar in the…… Oh thats right in the snickerdoodles because it brings out the cinnamon and keeps your two bedroom apartment full of kids you could watch safely. You gave your first love a son, something that would marry the two of you without a ring. A chance to raise the boy you love, into the man you wanted to love you. Once his daddy broke his common law consummation, and left you to become a woman to love herself - your patience was something you’d always be waiting for. The day you mixed that dough, with some cinnamon sugar and found the courage to try something new, was the day your son learned he could bring what he cared for and stuff it into your apartment. All his friends, hungry young men, knew you’d have enough love that could make them feel sweet. Aside from the cement that pulled at their feet. Everyone left one by one over time, but your son, in that two bedroom apartment, crumbs in his bed, is still there today. [Grandma Cherry] You add fresh pimento in the…… Oh thats right in the oxtail because it’s organic. Not in a way that's healthy enough, but because you picked it, and grinded it, and powdered it with nothing but the iron in your hands. You can smell the difference and taste something pure. Her first born and only son had a stomach scared to rumble. It feared the idea of a mother like you hearing her son hungry in her kitchen. That same stomach wailed the first time it flew on a plane, and was left to imitation spices with frozen meat. Your son was supposed to see his father in Westmorland, not a small apartment in Maryland. 1431 miles away and your labor pains came back after 12 years of an empty womb and missing child. For the next 14 years you cooked with loud spices in hopes they’d reach him to know you’d never leave him hungry. To this day, he has a hard time calling you “mummy”, but is proud to say “mummy share me a plate”. 9 [Grandma Gracie] You added salt to the…… Oh thats right to the water because it boiled quicker. Truth has it, you knew how to overcook water because it added heat to the temperature? Or because you liked the way the steamed matched your temper. All 8 of your children knew not to enter the kitchen when you were in there. It only became a mess if you had to throw a wooden spool aimed towards someone's impatience. Any recipe of yours was yours to keep. Any secret you had only belonged to you. Men have been stealing your secrets since they learned they could make you a mother at 12. Forcing you to be a woman in a girl's body, feeding a baby with budding breast and a chest with no love allowed underneath. Your first husband of choice fell in love with your cooking. Fell in love with you and all those babies he helped create. One day, when you were deep in secrets, he said something to you, and you could only share some curses and water with fire. From that day, he let you cook when you wanted, so your secrets weren’t limited, and wouldn’t convince you to poison a man. 10 Weep What You Sow Ida was determined to be a mother once her core had a heartbeat. She prayed for a love to come home, but borders cross more than the body. Their hands are deported from their lovers' womb. Deported from feeling something warm after days of seeding children and counting the ways to see them grow from afar. Departed from raising children who know what a father is, but never lived to see one come back home. She accomplished love by raising the only man to love her back. Silently praying their father would cross the border to see the other half of the love she made. Isalin wanted to be a mother before life gave her 10 years with 3 children. She carried her last daughter in the womb and had a casket snug enough for the two. She sends dreams for her living children to remember her. A way to hold on to all they know of her. Trauma clots memory. Staring in the mirror at a motherless girl is the only way she can see her alive daughter eye to eye. Her children keep an ear to her bible since that’s the closest they can get to their mothers prayers. She rests with her daughter that wouldn’t sleep alone, and kisses the others through memory. There are times when love cannot save pain. Joan was a woman because she was never a daughter. She only knows love through loss. Her mother promised her a sister and gave her an angel instead. The first man to love her tried to mature her teenage mind. Instead he gave her man's gift of a child. Adolescent breast now meant for milk. A motherless child nursing both lover and baby with all a young woman could offer. He taught her that girls were born to be mothers. He taught her girls were meant to be women from the time they were girls. Lonely as she was when she saw her mom was in a box. She refused to leave her children alone after each birth that followed. Her eyes were on each child between pushes, scared they wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye or forget how she gave herself to life. She carried each child to term and still refuses to let go. Gracie was raised to be a wife before a daughter. Learned purity cost more than childhood and was sold to a professional husband. You feel flatter when barefoot, and it's harder to run while pregnant. The sensitivity of a child 11 weighs more when cramps become contractions and there is no help to push. Dreams were illusions that didn’t belong to young women. She wished they didn’t only exist in her mind. Until it became easy to run from love during an empty moon. The first man to court her made her new sheets a sanctuary. She knew he loved her but she’d never let another man that close to her romance. Instead she birthed 7 kids bearing his name. Love was a labor that sat her on her back.. Carolyn believed it was possible to love a man into loving you. She was raised to be a mother before a daughter. She learned what is was to be a mother, through the days her mother couldn't. This was early rehearsal. She collected children with parents who left at sunrise and arrived at dawn. She didn't have time to be anyone’s girlfriend, let alone anyone's mom. Until a Christian enough man said her gap teeth welcoming the sun made him smile. They kissed, had kids, and created a kinship. This was the only thing she could keep after he decided to leave. A life long mother - now a full time parent. She never bothered to seek love outside of the family she created. Committed herself to romance novels because she didn't need to be anyone there. Cher wanted boys and bore 3 daughters. She never wanted daughters. She never wanted to teach them how long it takes for their fathers to come home. That Fridays to Sundays were timed with waiting to see if they washed the heat of perfume off their sweat, and didn't forget to bring home the love they checked at the door. She never wanted to teach them that they could never fully trust. Love feels strongest when you sense new veins in your heart that stream intuition. That it radiates off the way you mother your daughters because you hate the fathers you chose for them. She hated that love felt like anger. That she had to emote herself in order for them to stay home, and want to. Her daughters never saw her Happy. Always waiting. Always battling defeat. In spite, she wanted her daughter to travel beyond their county so accents were just ways men threw words in the air that made their name sound special, and didn’t create such a spell, to become your daughter's cautionary tale. Sometimes the apple doesn't fall…. It is pushed hoping to land on a better word for love. 12 Cooking For Men Purging all his sins from the goat the vinegar lingers on my hands leaving them dried out and crusted from massaging forgiveness into the muscle. This recipe has been passed down from ached palms trained to nourish the body that carries our love What a tough meat to tenderize. A slow preheat for the oil to glaze the pot. Chopping the onions give my tears a reason beyond watching him chew lies to swallow the truth. The garlic coats my fingers with lingering reasons, distracted from frying the curry powder, wondering if it will ever be enough. I inherited these veggies from a dreadful garden and season them with every worn woman’s emotion of the heart measuring endurance and adding meat to the pot so he remembers how devote you were before turning the fire down to stew. A sacrificial meal rationed for emotional sanity. Traditions of feeding men who require so much forgiveness why do we love men who require so much forgiveness? How do you redeem the hardest parts of loving? Stains of the curry can’t be washed without days effort, and the scent of memories remain faded under our fingernails; trailing the tint stained on the heart line of our palms. This meal being a testament of his adversity, and my faith in selflessness. Eleven months of marinating self doubt Three hours of leaving every sorrow under the lid Five seconds listening for his sigh of delight With extra gravy coated on his rice His plate delivered by my hand, my heart always remembers How to forgive the hardest part of loving you. 13 The Passion Behind Kissing Her Teeth she speaks in parables to make sure you’re listening as those who don’t hear, must feel. She kisses her teeth when you’ve upset her and she cyaan boda to check you, She’ll kiss her teeth long and hard to make her spit shoot bullets from loading her barrel. She kisses her teeth as men follow their nose and carry their bellies to her yaad. When she lifts the lid of her Dutch pot heavens scent exposes how love can tenderize oxtail. She kisses her teeth at mothers with daughters and daughters who mother, being magah is not safe in her presence. If she jooks your collarbone twice, fried dumplings will appear at your lips. She kisses her teeth reminding you a hard head, makes for a soft bottom. She will be the first to slap hell on your lip, before passing the aura of her mother through her embrace. She kisses her teeth as sickness cannot spread around her, she will vex at its audacity to challenge her remedies. Vicks emerges from her fingernails, and ginger tea from her milk duds. She kisses her teeth as “Come from mi yaad” means goodnight as she packs one of the two pieces of chicken, she fried for herself in a faded orange tupperware container for you to take home. She can’t stand you around, she can’t stand you away, 14 but she will not rest her head, until she knows you’ve made it home safe. and will kiss her teeth as a whisper “I love you”. 15 A Saint Swims/Who Teaches Angels to Swim?/ Have You Ever Seen an Angel Swim? No hurricane leaves Africa unfed. Never lonely. Never boundless. Never empty. Repassing the wake of displaced water and streams where mortals sun bathed into Gods. All travel - and return to spaces where the residue of vandalism has never cleared. Seeking redemption to destroy all that has exploited the nature of water. Remembering why they advance in directions, many have dispatched from memory. Flooded with the emotions of souls at sea. Following the paths of ships hoping to swallow a safer promise, these waters have created communities from bondage, and remember they should have never been left to wade their glory alone. Some made it to shore. Some became the storm. Others perished in the ocean that became them. Cycling through infinite bodies of water longing to be redeemed and purified. The strength comes from collection. No port is left unmarked; justice is always awakened. Energy fueled by necessary destruction. The spirit weighs heavily to strike each place a body became a saint. All hurricanes know the air of the Southern punishment. Magnolias coating the deadly scent of flooded years. Murky with elegance. Names left for the fog to carry. Ships ported to higher destinations hoping to evade the natural responses of the righteous. The vengeance of lives learning to swim while lost in acres of the ocean. Turmoiled brewed this breath, and the eye sought her destination. Sometimes she is named after the loudest crier, and times after the saddest victim. They name one crying girl Betsy. Separated from her mother at sea, In union, they helped her float to where she could be. 3 Stops: Barbados Miami An unmarked Louisiana cemetery 16 Her…. Depression was historical and the rain was therapy. Thunder was the growing pain of carrying a body home through force. A forced vessel fueled with 145 spirits concerned restitution wasn’t granted to those who made it that far. Hunters alerted others of her presence and breached her course in the wrong direction. Category 2, grew into, 15 hours of wetland and 16ft in tidal water. She emptied through Lake Pontchartrain when they bombed the levees in the direction of her people who had no chance of escape. For a second time. Dark water flooded the family room of 1506 Lamache Rd as a gap tooth girl named Carolyn heard the radio warn her to seek shelter away from home. Her mother felt no fear against strong winds and rain. Told her the storm needed to be heard to calm down and went back to sleep in a shared bed. Carolyn protested the privilege of safety was not guaranteed for people like them. - And then she heard the floodgates blow as though a warning to her ear from God’s mouth. September 6th, 1965 11:46PM She watched as her daddy’s Buick swam with the eels down the road as she hastily stopped a water moccasin from entering the murky room. She saw the shutters expose all that her neighbors had left and heard the church bells ring profusely to warn all of the day of reckoning. They fell silent since there was no savior for the 9th Ward and St. Bernard parish. Devastation, as no one believed a billion dollars could run and bleed so ugly. 75 funerals though the homegoing happened that damp aired night. The water remained poisoned. They waited on the roof. They remained measured in the water so the boat wouldn’t tilt. They held their neck tall enough so the oxygen in the water wasn’t their only option. Those who hadn’t been cleaned since the rain couldn’t get an insurance claim, though it was not their fault for staying in their place. Everyone else had contaminated water pumped out. Everyone else had the Red Cross to pray for them. Everyone else had the insurance to return home after. Everyone else was able to trust they’d live through this. Everyone else had the privilege of safety. A safe haven. A human drama. Racism always has time. Debris is never only catastrophic for material. It weighs on those who lost the little they could protect. The little money they had, to buy the little things that mattered, 17 in the little rooms they shared, with the little memories they were able to enjoy after they were allowed to make it through their day. I ask Carolyn about swimming water today. “I never learned to swim for fun, I still get a sick feeling each September, I remember that water & wain” “My daddy used his boat to get us to my aunt’s house down by the Quarter. The police didn’t believe it was his and forced him out. Everyone watched in awe as he told them he wasn’t leaving his boat. It’s the only waterproof thing he owned. Defeated and determined, he started up the motor and ran the boat into their car. They’ve only read that man could walk on water in the Bible until they saw my daddy run on it.” Death to the levees meant to protect Desecration to the dead who received a second death Damage to the little plots called home Desperation to understand why carry them here Dirge, too familiar a song of wind and sorrow Desolate to all who called learned to love Louisiana Defenestrate to those who called her home Betsy bludgeoned through cement before announcing her uprising. A breath of fresh air for the nameless only famous through death. Many were flushed when they tried to reason with her, Others - and her mother Floated from the ground and became waves back in the ocean. No trip ever carries enough, But trust, Justice is always awakened. Each generation bargains a solace in the water. But there is water that isn’t safe. Something that falls clear but leaves you filthy. Raindrops that destroy and wash your tears because it doesn’t care for your cries. Rivers don’t have permanent edges and Levees don’t spell ends. Katrina wiped the crust of the NOLA’s eyes for the nation to see. They belittled her thirst for justice. Winds of small furies coated in steal strength. Mouth crammed with roofs, buildings, and brick. In the distance, eyes see everything. Rain will never water here the same Taking the sky of the only horizon that replicates faith And hear them ready for war - crying to a God they call the Government to care. Katrina became the woman who addressed the weather, 18 pulsating winds - this was an organized attack. Collecting the prayers that someone saves them Forgetting naming something only gives it life. Legs have to move like tires and urgency like gas running towards dryland and the songs they could carry. Memories can carry more than possession wrapping themselves in pictures, Crockpots, trumpets without cases, And bodies tied to what they knew. While they strengthened possessions with tools and tape. She brewed and boiled in the coldest water assumed. Tying themselves down to the strongest thing they had. Could start in the house, then become skin to tree. “On the roof with sheets I can’t reuse and denim wearing me down and out. The towel water was keeping me cool, but now the water is warm with urine and death. The sun scarring my skin. Thirsty though moisture is everywhere. Hopefully, it can sweat the sugar out of my skin since my insulin ran dry. My baby can’t sleep with a red throat in a starless sky. I’ve heard people scream for help to death. I saw my neighbor die 4 days after the storm. Her husband held her wheelchair on their roof for 4 days straight and the moment his arms fell limp she rolled in that water, and he couldn’t save her with lifeless arms and legs that never learned to swim. She always said she wanted die at home, but not death by the land she called home. Crazy how the storm wasn’t the one that killed her. All this damn water Katrina wants us to soak up with her rude ass. She asked for all this attention and cant do anything with it. I’ve confused help with a camera and aid with robbery. I heard the police fighting people for trying to bring me some expired goods from the store and formula that might coat the taste of this water. My bottom is bruised on this roof. The water created an attic in my house. I thought about climbing that tree out front, but I’m scared the reflection would land me and my baby in this water. Maybe they could name the next one after me if I give myself to the water. Death has to be quicker than waiting for help. The only thing they’re draining is my hope. I can barely afford my rent, so I couldn’t afford to leave, and now I cant afford for one of them buses to save me. Hopefully when this is all over I can make it to JazzLand. I’ve never rode a rollercoaster but this basket has me twirling through the sky. I was able to save myself and everything I had in my arms. It’s hard to ignore things in the sky. They filmed me up there. They filmed me and said, “Look at least they saved one”. Locked in the Superdome. They told them help is coming on this date, but help for black folk always runs late. there’s not enough dry toilet paper there’s not enough water for a clean flush there’s not enough food to share with my grandmother there is not enough medicine to make sure she won’t die there are not enough blankets to tie your thighs 19 …..shelter, faith, church, morgue, home, elite, Superdome. Gave them diseased trailers and flights to spaces white folk didn’t want them. Then when they try to go home the projects were never rebuilt, and there’s no money to go back to where they came from. Overwatered plantations and wetlands. Maybe promise was lined up for a new day. They waited days for a promise larger than the sky, and a belief stronger than the fear of death. They called Katrina’s name before God hoping she’d spare some mercy Praying their heaven could be more than a hurricane They surrendered to the water and New Orleans The 70% of water supported by bone has now drowned. Katrina was there to care as symbol of government failure. Homes unraveled to the core she taste the turmoil and left them with something to sulk hurting in public instead of crying in fear God pointing them out of paradise scaring the sun from coming up to comfort the moon. Katrina was a bad bitch the worst of the worst bitches A Blood Dazzler Seeking to prove her glory That she can take as many lives with her And still, no one would care for those who survived. So Bad, She procreated in 5 days and left the city deadly for longer. So Bad, She wasn’t even supposed to flood, but the levees blushed at her blow and crumbled for her entrance. So Bad, Bush wouldn’t even come down and look at his reflection in her water. So Bad, She cost the most destruction and stayed until she got paid. So Bad, She congregated 1800 followers, not including the ones who died while already at peace. So Bad, she robbed Rita of her shine because she wasn’t that bitch Katrina fluid in starvation and noise. 20 Rappers praise her for the effects she had on the city They’ve never seen a woman drenched like that before “Wetter than Katrina, shoutout New Orleans” “Girls get wetter than Katrina” “I'm talkin' wet like Katrina (New Orleans)” “Hurricane shawty, pussy on Katrina” None of them asked for the empathy of a 10-year-old Maryland girl with a Grandmother named Carolyn who survived a storm, and trusted her city could never do it again. She learned Tha Carter III from front to back and couldn’t shake the concern of : “They try to tell me keep my eyes open My whole city underwater, some people still floating” Why? Are? They? Still? Floating? Her voice is a rasp from clouded air that sings Waiting under a clouded sun muting her cries New Orleans: the city that care forgot - the BIG EASY where they eat to live and live to eat where rhythm is created from steps and rumps that bounce harbor chaos and call it music how long will she be celebrated and forgotten? decorated with art that can collapse? beads that break? floats that cover potholes? spills of liquor disguised as a rain puddle? canals of water everywhere and destruction the backdrop? The only repair was the city belonged to them. Doing the best they can with what they got. The calm after the storm is such an ironic beauty. A feeling of turmoil is done and over. While visiting Lamache, there is a broken wire fence supported by the roots and vines that protect nothing but uncut grass, primrose, and white daisies growing where I assume was the family room. What beautiful weeds to pick as a centerpiece. This is my family’s land reduced to a plot. This is my family’s land. This was the house they were allowed to be sad in. This was the corner that let the best breeze in to share air throughout the house. The roof was rained on before it became a wet drum. Chairs that creaked a song just for them. Floors that caressed prayers and faith of knees at their bedside. That tree surviving in the backyard is the only thing standing strong and keeping us together. Watered by storms and nurtured by neglect. This plot knows my family and grows just enough hoping someone will return. https://genius.com/13363987/Lil-baby-freestyle/Wetter-than-katrina-shoutout-new-orleans https://genius.com/4068250/Flo-rida-gdfr/Girls-get-wetter-than-katrina https://genius.com/11532502/Drake-sacrifices/My-diamonds-wet-it-cost-me-money-im-talkin-wet-like-its-runnin-sink-im-talkin-wet-like-katrina-new-orleans-im-talkin-wet-like-dasani-huh 21 Hurricanes follow patterns - a trauma bond - a route of dissonance saving those from forgotten care. Searching for solace water never forgets. These winds know Louisiana by name 400 years of hoping those who crossed the Atlantic Were no longer enslaved But there were too many for heaven not to be infinite When Angels swim, they breathe in the Baptism hoping to float in purity. Weightless with no destination knowing they weathered the storm. Tenderly placed on the upturned palm of God. Stretched wings wading in the water trusting it will carry them home. Willow reefs as Halos and the sun swelling their aura. Brushing against all who crossed their path, and those who touched the bottom with the soles of their feet. Cautious not to bother their swim, the communion pretends as though they are sleep. They swam long enough for the water to turn warm. Souls pressed in the winds, and searching for a stream to heaven. This water, ain't no paradise. Only Angels can swim in dark murky water. Wading…. and waiting for their glory. 22 Houmas House - 40136 LA – 942, Darrow, LA 70725 Muhammed tells me he enjoyed his first road trip from Maryland to Louisiana since he moved to the states from Iran. His face lights up detailing the breathtaking scenery of Tennessee, and adding the purity of hearing his favorite country music live. He tells me no other genre tells stories with lyrical beauty. Arriving in Baton Rouge for the wedding, he is amazed by 12,000 acres of land filled with exquisite weeping willow leaves that silently sing through the southern breeze. Lost in the tranquility of the garden the shadow fog directs him to the river filled with a somber solace. The admiration of the interior led to conversations complimenting the luxurious atmosphere of the venue. Eyes fixated on the preserved antiques in the polished antebellum mansion. The Grand Estate reflects opulence and wealth he has never seen in the South. With a mouthful of exceeded expectations he says: The house was so big! The owner bought it for 1 million dollars. It was so big and beautiful, it had so much land for people! It was so big! So breathtaking and beautiful like the country songs! It was so big I took pictures! What’s the name of the house? The Mansion? I ask The Big House was a preservation of antebellum traditions, and a celebratory ground for keeping the enslaved silenced. Stomping recklessly on unmarked tombstones disturbing the peace that hasn’t been granted. They got drunk at the open bar spilling drinks that were not libations for the nameless ancestral ghost. They ate a buffet without the consideration of offerings for forgiveness, but to preserve the beauty of the Big House and to bury the history of its servants. The largest plantation in Louisiana is remembered for being big and beautiful by celebrating the extinction of black bodies preserved as “ghost”. I hope the ancestors frighten you beyond the rumors of campfire tales, with the hope those who summoned them make it out the woods that night. Exaggerating the Trails of Terror as though running towards safety is nothing more than a guaranteed game. I hope the cottage floors creak at night, and you keep your eyes shut hoping you were the only one who heard the door open. The sweet scent of sugar canes will be stained by the stench of exposed iron that blooms through the indigo. Your grand meals lack fruition from the pastoral grounds and have been burned to bitter crops. Muhammed means well in his story of the wedding at the Big House. His ignorance was genuine bliss. He experienced live country music. Stepped on rural southern land. Viewed the grandness of historic architecture. Houmas House kept his image of southern history clean. While I ponder about the grimness. 23 When Hoteps Mean Well (On an incredibly slim occasion) Their kingdom is barbwired with the endurance of coiled hair. Labor contributed by the hands of her son so her palms remain queen like. Cocoa trees shade every inch of this tower to fuel their skin. Within this conscious community, the King does not want the fabric of his family to be destroyed or integrated with anything other - than pure dynasty. He’s seen our nose demolished and believes the angle of its curve points towards the stars. The children are not raised with the lies of false Gods but instead reflections of their ancestral legion of Legends. There is no investment in the children's distractions of societies propaganda, but instead overstanding the skill to activate their entire brain. Financial gain can only be accomplished through spiritual wealth. The son will have an adolescent advantage of intelligence. Knowledge of self is health! Carrying the blood of resilience. The sun and melanin has endured worse than any disease. Self hate comes at a delay. Breaking the mental chain of shame, and pain, and blame. He will never assimilate, for outsiders will never know the rhetoric from the misplaced diaspora. Taught through reflection of family. In his pursuit for a spouse he should seek the beauty of deity Nefertiti and lead. Raised to be a protective man and make an honest woman. Destined to raised proud Black children in Afrika America. Their minds are polished by the laws of Ma’at under the Eye of Rah. They will always be free - Slavery is only a state of mind. Commitment to discipline in definition of what it is to be black without having to share with anyone other than the disciples that look like you. Humbled in the duty it is to be black. They wear onyx - dress in noir. Upholding great tradition, Red funnels through their lineage - knowing the real root of green - and black is the primary color they see. Outside of this Kingdom, is the prison of other peoples opinion. 24 Scavenger Hunt We were the pirates of Castle Blvd, Who only came out the first of the month. At daybreak, A wave of children would unleash down the grassy hill. Our anchor was set on the shore stop, And the street possessions were now ours to explore. Items were scattered like seashells on the ground, And our eagerness ran through articles that were not ours. We would use a mattress as our ship, And our flag was marked with shoe prints on its surface. Finding our treasure in the drawers of tipped dressers, While collecting necklaces as proof we were there. We would see clothes that looked familiar, And pacifiers without a mouth to console. Shattered glasses that were once held in cupboards, Next to skillets that held ends meet. These treasures would appear without a source, And some items were never reclaimed. I assumed the captain couldn’t afford to hold them all, Or they didn’t have the muscle to take it all back. Maybe they knew the pirates got to them, Or pride afforded them new materials. We never took anything home, In case they came back. But everyone in Castle Blvd knew, the best time was at night, when everyone’s eyes were detached, the pirates went back to their habitats, though my memory has it photographed. 25 Name: Kassiah, Cassia, Keziah, Kessiah, Kizzy, Keisha Origin: Swahili, Hebrew History: Proverb, Folklore, Biblical, Nickname, Translation Legacy: (Profound) You will learn Kiswahili the moment you pronounce Kassiah My name tingles like cinnamon dust with the excitement of the aroma My Orisha whispered letters into a seed Soaked it in anointing oil, took my mother's hand, and told her the gift to name me My tree is not hollow Weighed in gold and ivory Offering freedom from the barriers of a European tongue This tree has been watered by the blood of legacy, bark embedded on skin that has met trees, and leaves that gave air to the last breath When you think of the Messiah think of me And provide an offering for each mispronunciation 500 shekels of myrrh and fragrant cane It swells with the memory of the nameless Before its nectar coating parts from your lips, Rappers never said my name in songs for it was too intense My name is a spell. Flavored with spice gospel to the hopeless, Poetry given as sight guidance to an open promise, And tension released from the forgotten. 26 Kiswahili There is a spell of 7 letters Beginning with history and defying compromise Chanting each letter The tongue is purified against digestible alphabets K: Kuishi (Live) A: Asili (Nature) S: Sauti (Sound & Voice) S: Shukuru (Grateful) I: Injili (Gospel) A: Asante (Thank You) H: Hadithi (Story) My job is to provide comfort Clouds you won't drop through Nothing could deny the mother of your home - your heaven - the heavens Even the darkest side of the sun will always surround you with light where arms radiate auras And love has no beginning nor end Home is the body you know - and I am who you find in each life Bliss in the palm of heritage Undressing my name is to love it before its meaning My language is my mercy and heaven is where mercy is laid on me Names cannot be translated - they are transformed I am the spell I am the message My name is no myth I Am A “Mother of the Heavens” Weighing purpose in the temperature of mist Carrying the bodies for souls to fly Misremembering their lives before https://lughayangu.com/swahili/kujituma 27 I fulfill the anointing of why Guiding their hands Welcoming them all back home A holy reintroduction From the meaning unknown “Speak my name and I shall live forever” Carrying a legacy A name with duty and honor Kassiah is another word for mother 28 Keziah the Daughter Keziah (Hebrew: ְהעָיצִק Qəṣī'ā; Greek: Κασία, Kasia; also Ketziah) is a woman in the Hebrew Bible. She was the second of the three daughters born to Job after his sufferings (Job 42:14). Her elder sister was Jemima and her younger sister Keren-Happuch. Cassia is an essential oil that was an ingredient in anointing oil as described in Exodus 30:22–25 and in Psalms 45:7–9. Besides being used on people, the Bible tells us anointing oil was also used in making clothing fragrant. In Ezekiel 27:18–19 we learn that Cassia oil was also used in trade. Praise God! The cinnamon has embarked off the tree It rolls scents and luxury Grown in anointment with a Holy blessing of praise Jesus said “it is finished” And Job’s spirit raised A proper praise! My daughter's name! Jesus has protected me from thy enemy Attacks of suffering are no longer aimed my way My Lord and Savior has redeemed me Keziah! A title full of inheritance A name fulfilled with Gods relevance With no other beauty around to compare Keziah was a beautiful harvest The bloomed fragrance universally rare Upon her birth Wise men swooned and carried gifts Aloe, Myrrh, and incenses As sacraments of worship The nature of Job’s appreciation Would be remembered as a hymn He blessed her name with purpose Keziah’s name born without sin. 29 Kessiah for Freedom Kessiah Bowley was one of many young African-American slaves to flee Dorchester County near the middle of the 19th century. However, she has the distinction of being the benefactor of Harriett Tubman's first documented rescue. Kessiah Bowley's mother Linah was Harriett Tubman's sister. During an auction, Kessiah's husband somehow managed to secure the highest bid without being identified. By the time Dorchester County officials realized what had happened, the three slaves had been secreted to a nearby safehouse before moving to Canada. Occupying a body Residing in ancestry When did I return within this space? I didn't offer myself as sacrifice Yet this name returned through me My body can never part from its identity A fight for a new kingdom emerging I am the story I tell Something beautiful chose me A bondage Carrying the letters of a different language I am the bark breaking free Of this land of harvest we run on Running into the borders of identity until a mouth opened to name the next beauty Feeding nations of hungry mouths who will never see the ground again Is to relearn wounds and trust the monarchs will guide you each life Stuck in mistranslation There is no truth in my name without me There are lives I’ve lived and will never know But I do know, This won't be the last I sit on the auction block staring in the eyes of my beloved Hopeful and weary, Stern and unmoving John is sharing the gaze of those fixated on what only my husband should see Focused on the offers my body can provide without a care to learn my name Slavery is a hell I will not mother into a heaven The devil knows that land all to well for me to sacrifice the holiness of self Exodus is the movement of people And I will guide who I can to a heaven on earth 30 Patience for emancipation is seldom in my view And John saw the same vision They started at $100 The highest bidder offered $150 They raised me to think I was worth $200 The next bidder said I was $220 The auctioneer said my load was worth $250 And my husband offered $500. I saw them cut their eyes and spit tobacco too close to his shoes But our gaze never broke through feared inside. SOLD! I - a mother - worth money of captivity Yet challenged to be a free wife John, Harriet, and I hid for 4 hours Until it became 6 days And 2 months worth of living with this tense fear Canada didn’t view me It was the first in my life I could go unnoticed But I held onto my promise All 7 of my children were born in my heaven 31 Kizzy is Seen Kizzy Moore [1790-1861], also known as Kizzy Reynolds, was a slave, and the first ever African- American born in the Kinte dynasty. She is the first-born child of Kunta Kinte and Belle Reynolds. In "Roots" Kizzy is described as a Mandinka name meaning "stay put," though it does not appear to be used as such. Kizzy is the nickname of Keziah. They passed her name to lighten the load A tongue filled with knowledge that can't be communicated through any other language With the will power of the deities before her And the endurance that allowed her father to hold his name Kizzy knew to stay put did not mean to stay enslaved To stay put was to grip her mind about the history that remained 32 Cassia from Latin, denoting from the wild cinnamon, via Greek from Hebrew qĕṣī‘āh . The name Cassia is a girl's name of Greek, Latin origin meaning "cinnamon" A folklore says “a man wanting a blessing selfishly chopped a Cassia tree without providing an offering. To learn patience he was instructed to nurture what he had took from and watch it grow” Throats croak and choke From the banishment under the denim moon For all too soon, offending spirits by chopping the magical cinnamon tree That fuels and feeds Conceptions through speeches and deeds Anointment for the hopelessness needs At a speed only a God could machine To all amazement and the speed it grows And glows, and regenerates with peaches for longevity and personal growth Impossible to deter Churning its own bark, Fragrance was released Controlling the narrative of its mark Plum’s bloom blossoms, for its honorable life A gourd of pomegranates to symbolize Each star for pronunciation that’s right But the croaks that choke the throat, From offense of denying its origin, Plant a seed Allowing the tree to breathe, And in return you will be anointed 33 Keisha Urban Dictation African name diverged from the name Keziah that has been used to stereotype the appearance and actions of black women who are perceived in an unfavorable fashion. Keisha’s new meaning is “favoritable” in addition to all who have come before her. This is how Urban Dictionary defines her name. • She doesn't know who she is because she never knew where she was going • Everyone presumes her name but never its origin A Keisha, is a (woman) who is loyal. She is (protecting) and (full of nourishment). She is (worthy) and (gorgeous) she makes friends easily and intends to keep them. She has a (purposeful) heart and she (shares it with love). She helps whoever needs it. She is (burdened with perception, but is never) depressed (with from identity) but never shows it. She is really shy but when you meet her (it will be full with greetings of suns you've never met). She's (passionate when she's at her) best. She is one of those people that try really hard to make you laugh or smile (to share her joy). She (holds you) through thick and thin. She is classy (with elegance). She is (fruitful in many places). Just know that she is great and you can trust (who she is from who she was). She respects whoever respects her. She is (welcoming to all who take the time to meet her). She has (volume in her) heart and (physique). A (determined mind that labors for love carrying beauty) inside and out. Often (duplicated and transformed, but rooted in the origin of her being. Keisha is the prototype of translation. A popularity to keep her name breathing.) 34 Self-Portrait of Kassiah I am a walking epic. I taught Venus the art of making love. I strum hymns with the sun rays through my window. I curve arrows around the sun. I am the knowledge seeds that fell from the apple tree. I consume wisdom whole like an avocado’s womb. I bear rose petals at my own feet. I am the creases in a child’s smile. I soak up love as the juice of a mango seed. I am Jet's beauty of the century. I am a black woman reborn from the womb destined her tomb. I am the seed Oshun washed over with assurance of purpose. My temper is molasses and honey racing to diffuse in water. Where you see rain, I see amber sap relieving from the trees. My voice is the gospel, and I will give you the guiding spirit. My grammar has been platinum coated. The shooting star you wish upon was named after me. The water I drink flows straight from the Nile. The arch in my heels heightens my aura. My Mother gifted me a holiday for my birthday, and I have furnished the world with beauty. My hips spread from Jamaica to Angola so my platform will never be dismantled. My sweat glistens diamonds from the mine buried in my roots. 35 So You Wanna Drink My Bath Water? Traced straight from the Iguazu waterfall purified over selenite and quartz A Clawfoot Tub made of gold enclosed by candles and white roses Heated with the perfect summer rain Will you grab the fullest cumulus cloud and ring its water? Or Gently place nacreous collected as bubbles Lathered with a turmeric roll Glazed in halo honey This was consecrated for me. Streaming the clearest hue Of rich blue - from the river Kasai Bearing the fertile waters of Yemaya. Soaked and saunaed Will you scrub me? Steeped in green tea or restored with Ethiopian coffee beans. Divine waters have filtered every scar And chosen me anointed. I’ve seen my hair reflect a wave then coil the seeds of mandarins squeezed freshly for me. Stepping out, the humidity rises and a cloud will emerge from the mist of my skin. The water from my feet soils a garden that blooms jasmine As a rainbow bows to gift me an aura And the sun set herself ablaze for a lover like me. Amber sap lathers the moisture while the glistening dances on my reflection mirroring the silhouette I adorn. Once complete, I’ll pour it in a gourd and Serve to you in a chalice You may bottle this fragrant “Divinity” Seal it as a lubricant for your desires Carve a cork for wine Call it Holy, - call it potion Save it as haven for when your river runs dry A remedy for your medicine Build a Well that fountains me. Are you noble enough to try? 36 An Ode for Kimberly Denise Jones “Lil Kim” Pt.1 Hair spindled couture for you Nose framed at the center of beauty Siren eyes alluring your demand With the pout of lyrics dripping off your lips A 5’1 petite monument made of platinum Becoming Hip-Hops Eiffel Tower The Headmistress for Bad Bitches Debuted shining 24 karats Gifting her court the confidence of curiosity And challenging the preposterously That she couldn’t speak on sex honorably Never been a cheap chick Never preferred love quick With baguettes and stone sets Being Billboard-bound was never secret Everyone applied pressure forcing you to become lighter Men were dull of finding your beauty Convincing a diamond she needed polish to shine Her truth - muted by the media Though her body language didn’t require academia Your eyes wore too many colors for us to see Through your nose, you learned to breathe and bleed Your lux - no longer exotic Hoes born blonde and foreign Though you remained Brooklyn’s finest No question- All your lyrics were a confession Giving all men a chance Staying loyal in your stance Despite the dismissal The Queen Bee title was official To be a Diamond Hustler Cluster Queen Bitch - Supreme Bitch The Female Don Dada La Bella Mafia A poet full of assonance Nothing in your life should be dismissed from your experience. 37 Questions for Lil Kim Do you feel dismissed? How do male fans make you feel? How do female fans make you feel? Do you feel hard to love? Do you remember yourself before it became hard to love? Who said, “I love you” and meant it? Who did you tell “I love you” and mean it? How did you weigh this pressure behind the scenes? How do you weigh this pressure in front of the scenes? Is your neck still sore from weighing the crown? Is your neck still sore? Do you hate the men? Do you hate the women? Did you control love? Were you controlled in love? Are the glasses from the bright lights? Are the glasses from the last fight? Who showed you what abuse looked like? What mirror showed you what abuse looked like? Why has no one asked about your surgery? Why has no one asked why you got surgery? Have you been loyal to yourself? Are you committed to yourself? `Are there emotions you’ve dismissed? 38 Beauty Lane I. I first saw Mona Lisa on a pack of synthetic hair, Searching through Eden’s colorful garden of beads, and bubbles that popped and knocked my temples. The barrette flowers would blossom at the ends of my twist, and my hair would flourish. A damped bristled brush revealed every secret hidden beneath my forehead, behind my ear, and underneath my eye lids. It built neck muscles and resilience. Teaching me that beauty resides in the style I am determined for. The box of treasures was a chemical conjure full of hair spells, There was power in the scent of grease infused rubber bands. I believed every product was made just for me. Blue magic for promised longevity, and pink lotion guaranteed silky hair. II. It was here I attended my first art exhibit, Presented by the collection of wigs I saw my tribe of aunties wear, and never thought to question the quality or color because of how they wore it. I saw bright colors on dark n lovely skin, That looked like me. My mom always bought straight Indian hair that lied to the world, But told outsiders “I got Indian in my family”. Christina drew a crescent needle threw her straight backs, But her sisters knew the truth laid at her roots. I heard stories behind the power of a new hairstyle, and the tribulations that came with maintenance. I heard the myth about how a new style can charm a new man, Or how or big chop means a woman is going through it. From there, I learned it’s better to compliment a bad hairstyle in public, and discuss it in private, for confidence comes in the wig cap. III. It was my first jewelry store, My first expression of beauty. Necklaces turned my neck green before I wore them, Earrings that infected my ears was apart of the 2 for 1 deal. The first time I bought a biracial Brazilian weave for 70% off, I got what I asked for. I explored every bandana color 39 from the time it laid and tore my edges But left an aura on my forehead. I used my wide toothed comb to wrap my hair, So, it would hold it through the night when I wore it straight. I always ended my prayer with hope my wrap wouldn’t come off at night. I’ve tried mesh wraps, sleep caps, wrap scarfs all to keep me safe from the dark, and the first time I used a bonnet I knew superpowers existed. IV. My emergency room for a hair crisis, That will save my edges before they become victim to my night, I once laughed at the rollers in my aunt’s hair, until I picked up my own, and learned how it was a convenient workout for the arms, and easy take out in the morning. I’ve created disappearing acts of scrunchies endless, As my fingers always bob for pins. Naturally I am a 1B, but I will loc my hair with a 4, because my aunties, mom, cousins, and sisters, encourage me to explore the world of identity. I am the girl who goes to the store with her hair half done because she needs more packs of hair The expression of my box braids, let me know I recreate myself at my choosing. As the sensational of the wind on my scalp, Will be soothing. I am in bondage with my braids and the sister who showed me the mystique of finger techniques and what it meant to play with fire. I hold the hair in my right hand, Prepared for the crook in my neck, As my mother trained me when I first started.