Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Like the Dark-Haired Girl in Blue

Clearing the Space

by Phillip Lopate

I am clearing the space for a lover
to enter my life, I am clearing off a big space.
Today when I went bicycling I saw
on the grass one lover pair after another.
They were lying on each other, like rugs, or fur coats,
and all you could see was the shag of a redhead
or the lips a boy pressed down on a girl
while their lips held chastely still.

I walked my bicycle past them, thinking
for a moment of every lover I had ever enjoyed,
and when none of them made my heart sink
and when I experienced no pain,
then I knew I was free of them
and that I was clearing a new space
as big as my life, as big as the pasture
the lovers were linked on.

I am preparing a space for the loved one,
I know what she looks like already.
She looks like the dark-haired girl in blue
I only saw for a second, before her Spanish lover
smothered her.
Then, when I circled back on my bike, she was on top.
But I rode on, because my time will come
and meanwhile I'm preparing a space,
I am cutting the grass, for the loved one to walk on;
I am cleaning my heart, making my thoughts
unrancorous,
learning to be patient.
And if it should prove not to be in the end
a woman, not to be a human lover entering
after all, but something fuller and sadder, like the
world,
like God, I will only say, I suspected it all along.

Monday Mix Tapes: Revisiting Miss Thang & Moesha

I have to admit, it was with more than a little glee that I discovered today that Monica and Brandy have a new single.

Don't even try to pretend you didn't immediately think of "The Boy is Mine" video. Just don't even.

But before we get to this new song, I think we need to talk about some things. Like my love of Brandy and Monica, particularly from the years of approximately 1994 through 2000. Yeah, I was young—we don't need to get into specifics, do we?—but so were they! I loved them.

First, I met Brandy:

I had to share the album cover, because I loved it so wholeheartedly. I wanted nothing more than to be this hip. The hat! The boots! The attitude!

Sure, my brother Jay kept talking about how she looked like a goldfish, but I didn't care. He made fun of just about everything I liked at around this point in our lives, so I took his snarky comments as confirmation of her awesomeness. Besides, who cared? She was singing this:



Soon after, Miss Thang entered my life. Who didn't love "Don't Take it Personal (Just One of Dem Days)" in 1995?



I will admit, Brandy might have had a slightly bigger space in my adolescent heart than Monica. But I think we all know why, right?

Mo to the E to the ...



Now, as it happens, my love for Monica and Brandy has changed over the years. I haven't bought or listened to any of their recent albums (the last Brandy album I got was Full Moon, if that tells you anything). However, I may or may not have occasionally watched "Brandy & Ray J: A Family Business" on my days off the summer I moved back in with my dad. I found it hilarious. Leave me alone.

Oddly enough, I randomly listened to "Miss Thang" in its entirety as I was getting ready to go out on Friday night, and I still loved every minute of it. I mean, "Before You Walk Out of My Life"? "Why I Love You So Much?" There was a reason Monica was the youngest artist to have two consecutive Billboard chart-topping hits.

So it's probably also time we listen to this Monica hit:



That said, I wasn't quite sure what to expect with the new Monica and Brandy duet. Over at NPR (I'm keeping up with Monica and Brandy via NPR now? Good lord), Frannie Kelley writes of the song:

Brandy and Monica, who, like Usher, have been making R&B hits since they were teenagers in the late 1990s, team up for a rematch of "The Boy Is Mine." Here they're on the same side and they're a little more grown up. The accoutrement certainly is; the styling on the video, from the gowns to the vehicles, is luxe. Maybe so luxe it distracts from the chesty alto Brandy's working and the perfectly calibrated runs Monica lays down.

I definitely agree about "the chesty alto Brandy's working and the perfectly calibrated runs Monica lays down" and sure, the video is "luxe," even if I did keep thinking, when the hell is Mekhi Phifer gonna show up?

But, um. We need to talk about a few things. Watch and listen, will you?



LOG OFF YOUR FACEBOOK! CLOSE THAT MACBOOK! THAT SHIT BELONGS TO ME!

Well, I now know what makes me laugh harder than listening to Ray-J talk. Every time "log off your Facebook" or "that Macbook" was mentioned, I busted out laughing in my cubicle.

Even so, I still like the song. I really do. I can't help it. My 14-year-old self would disown me if I didn't. But if you think this song (or video) will ever top this, you must be trippin.

Tilt Your Head Back and Laugh

It was the best kind of Sunday in Chicago. Sunny, clear skies, and for the first time all year, warm enough to step outside without a coat.

The people-watching on Sundays in Logan Square is almost never a disappointment, but it's even better on an almost-spring day like this one. Today, on my way to the coffee shop, I watched a young couple cross the street, his arm across her shoulders, and her hand reaching up, their fingers intertwined. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and she tilted her head back and laughed. He grinned.

It was a tilt your head back and laugh kind of day. It was a good day to take a walk.

From the Red Line at Rush Hour

This evening as I left the office, it was still light outside. I noticed this first on Monday, with a bit of shock—the sun is shining! Holy crap. Along with the sun, it’s been so windy I feel at times during my walk that I’m actually getting carried across the street, but it’s not a cold wind, so I’ll take it. When the wind is whipping my hair all over my face, the sun is glistening off the river and the buildings, and this song is playing on my iPod, it all feels quite romantic and wonderful, my little walk to the train. That is, until I catch a glimpse of myself in a window’s reflection and see the state of my bangs. Yeesh. But, whatever: All in the sake of my love affair with the city.

It’s amazing the way a little sunlight at the end of the day changes everything—from the look of the buildings to the people walking on the streets. Although at this point in the winter I just feel fed up and long for spring with such fierceness it’s as if spring was something I experienced in another lifetime, I do love the way Chicagoans hustle up and down the streets when it’s bitterly cold and windy out—it’s like we’re all fighting the same war. And then, the sun shines again, the temperatures rise, and it’s like everyone just lost his or her virginity. We abstained all winter, and damn it, now we are getting LAID. (Yeah! The weather as a metaphor for sex! It happened. Deal with it.)

I was feeling this general warmth for my city as I crossed over to State Street and passed the news station and the beautiful Chicago Theatre. Protesters were outside, holding up signs. One woman held up a sign: “End the WAR ON WOMEN!” I beamed at her. She stared back at me, expressionless.

I was still smiling as I started bouncing down the stairs to the Red line. I must not have had Youth Lagoon playing too loudly, though, because I could hear the man hobbling down the stairs next to me muttering under his breath: “All you motherfuckers. You never fucking listen to me! I’m talking. All you motherfuckers.”

When I made it safely down the platform, I could hear a woman singing. She had quite possibly, and I swear I do not exaggerate, the most beautiful voice I have ever heard singing live. Live, from the Red line at rush hour.

I didn’t even pause my iPod. I just pulled the earbuds out and listened. I stopped directly across from her to watch as she sang. She was singing some gospel song, what, I don’t know, but she was certainly taking us all to church. Except for the fact that no one seemed to be paying attention.

For a moment, I considered digging through my bag to see if I had a couple bucks. But that didn’t seem good enough. So I just watched and listened. The woman looked back at me, and even though she had on heavy fake eyelashes, I could see her eyes smiling back at me. I grinned at her, and she kept on singing. She finished right as I could hear my train barreling through the tunnel. “Thank you,” she said, to no one in particular. I clapped. It was a sad little sound. But she smiled back at me, and I felt like she'd given me a gift—it was as good as the feeling I get on the way to work, when I say “Morning” to the man on the milk crate and he returns my greeting.

I placed my earbuds back in my ears and stepped on the train. The person in front of me started to head left toward some empty seats, then said, “Ugh!” and turned back around. One of the seats was covered in vomit. I found a vomit-free seat and pulled my book out of my bag. When I looked up a few minutes later, a woman had sat down on the seat closest to the mess. I saw her look over at it for only a second, and then without skipping a beat, went right back to writing her text.

At rush hour in Chicago, we only really see the things we want to notice.

It's Women's History Month! Let's Party. Er, Read.

Today marks the start of Women's History Month! Who's ready to party? I know THIS guy is:

what a dick!

Just kidding! We all know Rush Limbaugh hates women. We also should know he's a raging lunatic undeserving of our time. And as such, I promise never, ever, to put his ugly mug on this blog again.

Now, back to the important stuff: Women's History Month. 

[via feministing]

So, how to celebrate it? History is so borrrrring, after all. Hmm. Lucky for you, I have an idea.

READ! (A Book. Written By a Woman.)

I personally like to celebrate my geekiness things such as this with some great reading. I recently started Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, and seeing as how it makes my bag weigh approximately 50 pounds, I imagine I'll be reading it for much of the month. Now, if you don't really feel like committing to a 640-page book at the moment, maybe don't read that one. But I've been staring at it for the last year as it sat on my bookshelf, so now is the time for me.

Can't think of anything you'd like to read? Never fret, my dears. I have some suggestions:

For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, by Ntozake Shange
This book was the inspiration behind the title of my blog. 'So what?' You say. 'I saw the Tyler Perry movie.' I say, WOOF! He ruined it. Read the choreopoem instead. Here's one reason why.

I Am No One You Know, by Joyce Carol Oates
One of my all-time favorite short story collections, by one of my all-time favorite writers. Her story "The Girl With The Blackened Eye" will haunt you for days.

Emma, by Jane Austen
A classic! And then after you read it, you can watch the movie. And then watch Clueless. You're welcome.

Mighty Be Our Powers, by Leymah Gbowee
A moving memoir about the Liberian Civil War, and how Gbowee led an army of women to help bring her nation peace. This woman's strength and courage will blow your mind.

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling
Because you're going to need a good laugh after reading that memoir.

I have plenty more suggestions I will gleefully talk about at exhausting length, so if these aren't doing it for you, tell me and I'll promptly give you five more ideas. That's right. FIVE.

And ladies, if the 'War on Women' is bringing you down, just remember to always say:

Happy reading! (I hope.)

Have Some Wine!

Some nights are for getting fired up about asinine writings on the Interwebs, and some nights are for drinking wine and halfheartedly watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop on ABC family while really, I'm playing around with a mustache cam and laughing hysterically to myself.

That's right. All of these things are happening.

I am a grown ass woman. 

Don't even tell me you don't find this funny, you guys.

HELLO.

Look, it was either this, or I was going to write more weird poetry about my feelings. And frankly, I am just not in the mood to be that serious, or 'stache-less. Besides, remember that time I posted a picture of myself in my BIKE HELMET? There wasn't even any wine involved then!

Now there's really nothing left to do but share an excerpt from one of the greatest literary inventions of all time. (Hint: If you picture me reading this aloud with this 'stache --------------->>>>>>>>>>>>
I promise it's funnier.) And it must be destiny that this happens! There was just a commercial for the movie adaptation right as I was typing! On ABC Family! I really am watching ABC family. holy crap, maybe I should not blog after drinking Jam Jar.


Whatever, it's happening.


From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, "A Mad Tea Party": 

`Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. `I don't see any wine,' she remarked.

`There isn't any,' said the March Hare.

`Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily.

`It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said the March Hare.

Say what you mean and mean what you say,
love,
Alison(composes) and my stache cam

Back Off Mama Bear: Why Slate's Rant Against the Berenstain Bears Was More Than Just Untimely

Tonight, I learned that Jan Berenstain, co-creator, writer, and illustrator of the bestselling children's books, the Berenstain Bears, passed away several days ago. Her husband and partner in the series, Stan, died in 2005. Together, the two wrote more than 300 books, which have sold 200 million copies and inspired an animated television series and more than 20 television movies.

Within minutes of reading Ms. Berenstain's obituary, I saw the following headline on Slate's website: Berenstain Bores.


I then made the mistake of reading the article.

First, may I just say: Shame on you, Slate! On the same day the NYT posted Jan Berenstain's obituary, you chose to run an article entitled 'Berenstain Bores'?

This title alone is offensive—because while the author of the piece, Hanna Rosin, and her editor(s), who most likely actually wrote the title, are obviously entitled to believe that the Berenstains', and or their fictional characters, the Berenstain Bears, are boring, the fact of the matter is, the timing of this opinion piece is inappropriate. Not only is it inappropriate, it is downright tacky and disrespectful. The woman just died. She happens to be the co-creator of a beloved children's book series. Tell me, what about her offends you so deeply that a rant about her books seems necessary right now?

Well, let's see, shall we? The article now begins with an update and "apology" from the author:

UPDATE, Feb. 28, 2012: I have been roundly (and deservedly) chastised in e-mails and elsewhere by Slate readers for my use of “good riddance” in connection with this kind woman’s death. I admit, I was not really thinking of her as a person with actual feelings and a family, just an abstraction who happened to write these books. Apologies. Next time I will be more humane. --Hanna

I hadn't even read the article yet, and I found this "apology" utterly ridiculous—"I was not really thinking of her as a person with actual feelings and a family," the apology goes. Um, what did you think, that Jan Berenstain was ACTUALLY a cartoon bear? Of course she was a person with actual feelings! Yes, next time you should be more humane, and your editors should use better judgement as well. Because if they did, this opening would never have been published:

The world today brings news that Jan Berenstain, co-author with her husband Stan of the 45 years and running Berenstain Bears series for children, has passed on to a better world. As any right-thinking mother will agree, good riddance.

Good riddance? Even if by "good riddance," Hanna Rosin was addressing Ms. Berenstain's books, the way these sentences are structured, it reads quite clearly as if she is saying "good riddance" to Berenstain herself. Just read it again if you don't believe me. But, okay: She's talking about the books. Hmm. Are the more than 300 books already published going to magically disappear because both authors are now deceased?

What a revelation! I can't believe this!

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?!

KURT VONNEGUT IS STILL ALIVE?! SYLVIA PLATH NEVER KILLED HERSELF! [Insert the name of all the countless other deceased authors whose publications are still on bookshelves.]

All right, I'm sorry. I take it back. I'm being a little childish now, aren't I? Maybe I should remember my manners. Oh wait, I have just the book:

This is just one of many Berenstain Bears books that my mother read to my brother and me when we were growing up. But according to Ms. Rosin, any "right-thinking mother" would agree that this is just awful bedtime reading for kids. Teaching manners at the dinner table, what a bore!

Here are some of the author's issues with the polka-dot wearing matriarch of the bear family, the beloved Mama Bear:

There, in the big treehouse down a sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country is Mama Bear, known only ever as Mama Bear, wearing the same blue polka-dotted muumuu and housecap in every single book, inside the house and on the very rare occasions when she leaves it. (What’s her problem? Is there no Target in Bear Country? Is she too busy to change? Is she clinically depressed?) Mama Bear’s only pleasures in life seem to come from being the Tracy Flick of domesticity, making up charts for good behavior and politeness, encouraging her children to use pretentious British affections such as 'terribly sorry' and 'lovely, my dear.'

Perhaps I might be equally appalled by Mama Bear being only known as such if all the other family members weren't similarly named. Papa Bear. Sister Bear. Brother Bear. But if only Bear Country had a Target, maybe Mama Bear could have had some time to herself to find a name! Berenstains! You fools!

Then there's the matter of her always "wearing the same blue polka-dotted muumuu and housecap in every single book"—so what? I don't recall Papa Bear ever changing out of his overalls, either. Sister Bear wore the pink overalls, Brother Bear wore the red shirt... seriously, what's the issue? Is it because it was a muumuu? Because of the housecap? The polka dots? I mean hell, I don't like polka dots much myself, but yeesh.

Look, I don't want to fight about this.

So let's just get to your real issue with Mama Bear, shall we? It's not just those silly polka dots. The article goes on to say:

I have loved many a midcentury book starring the retrograde housewife. Most great Dr. Seuss books were written around the same time. The Frances books are some of my favorites, and Mother in that book never changes out of her apron. And I can read Richard Scarry all day. But usually you need humor to soften the blow. Stan and Jan, sadly, were allergic to humor. This is the only thing I hold against Theodor Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss. He was the one who apparently approved the Berenstain Bears books and yet he never pushed them to write one funny line. Papa Bear for example, is a bumbling oaf. The usual plotline in the books involves Papa trying to fix some problem but screwing it up, so that Mama has to swoop in and save the day. In defter hands, Papa could have been a prototype Homer Simpson. But in these book he just bangs on the table and shouts things like 'pinheaded fiddlebrain!'

What bothers me most is the implication that Mama Bear isn't a good role model, or is somehow lacking because her "only pleasures in life seem to come from ... making up charts for good behavior and politeness, encouraging her children to use pretentious British affections." Maybe Mama Bear's great pleasures in life do stem from encouraging her children, but I don't think it was ever about "pretentious British affections"—as I remember it, from some of my first memories as a reader, and some of my favorite childhood memories with my mother, Mama Bear taught the cubs:

To clean up after themselves and take care of their belongings. 

To appreciate what they have and to understand the importance of a family budget.

The importance of a healthy diet and exercise. 

Why it's always better to be honest (oh wait, that 'bumbling oaf' Papa Bear stepped up his game and helped teach this lesson!)

I'm not familiar with the particular book that this author is most annoyed by,  The Birds and the Bees and the Berenstain Bears, but whatever. That same mother who read these books to me and helped instill my lifelong love of reading also sat me down and had a frank talk about "the birds and the bees," so I might suggest you simply ditch the children's books for that conversation if you're looking to be candid.

So back off Mama Bear, her polka dots, and the fact that she is a stay-at-home mom. She might "only" be a housewife, but so was my housecoat-wearing Grandma Hamm, and she was a badass. My mother was a teacher, and I think she, along with about 200 million other readers of these books, enjoyed every minute with Mama Bear and the rest of the Bear clan.

Rest in peace, Jan Berenstain.