For My Father

My father asked me to write something lighter.

I could not help but think of sunsets and rose petals,

But even petals

deserve metals for how well        they wilt

Dried and crunched by my lazy step,

I wish to tread lighter,


tall grass and cat tails

the wind whistling through the cellulose of living things

And rain tapping the nature           that never lived           to begin with,

Smooth Jazz rocks, and fruity pebbles        inanimate

The gravel wedges          between the rubber crannies

on the gum bottoms of my shoes

On each stepping stone,

I wish to tread lighter


the shady side of trees,

moss only capable of growth

because of the lack of light

hiding from sunsets that melt mud,

The Slip and slide of swamps and the bites of alligator teeth.

The teeth crack under my pressure,

Dropped, then buried in the heaviness of my foot print

Barefoot, dirty and bruised,

I tread as light as I can.



Mass Incarceration of Words Left Unwritten

The Bleeding of my pen   is    routine

The black of my book and the white of its page     contrast     clean

and when my pen begins to  lean

to the side       I get to scribblin’ on the fly


pardon me, pen, but is your ink gasoline?

i must know, cause if I write any faster

not only will the veins in my hand  surely die

but I’ll lose control of my pen of who I am the master


my college rule might spontaneously combust

from the rubbing of lines plastered

both ageless and page-less, the sheets went from alabaster

to my burned book, turned to neon grey dust

me an arson and my heart hardened

the ash glowing from the  friction and fictional friendship between pen and pape,

This fear is why my words though great,

Always struggle to find escape


phrase and diction,

stranger than fiction

as if my words are weaned,

meant to be left at the crime scene, or a doorstep like

breastfed babies

My words die daily

they are the evidence–forgotten, lost

and slipped through buttered fingers

My word have been tossed to the back of the bus,

My words have been rejected and told “you can’t sit with us”.

My words have been marginalized into pure annotations, given no space to

grace pages

only boarders

having been put in places that I can’t call spacious

too small of surfaces

But too often I get these urges        to write

Sources to cite,

and forces to fight including my own strong will and rage

Because my words

recieved no wages for the work of description and definition

when I write them on my pages they are burdens

I pick up the sheets,

and the words rip right through, tearing the pressed-thin trees with their weight,

fluttering to the floor,

which is why I try to remember to write in cursive,

thinking maybe the softness of each curve could spring peace

or the delicacy of disguise could bring release

from the comments held captive in my mind as a jar

Cause what i have to say has been behind bars

Convicted and conflicted and told not to take charge.

But too bad my words can be as free as I am based on how I feel,

And words can fill the void when nothing else can heal

I don’t mind writing in the margins every now and then,

but if i’m ever gonna be free I’m gonna have to use my pen,

because having the gift, and sitting on my hands ain’t nothing but a sin

mass incarceration, locked up in the pen

Penitentiary, my words (confined) could find cells endlessly,

but I’m trying to remember that the pen ain’t my enemy,

My words aren’t just accessory and my expression isn’t a choice.

My words may just be written but they still echo like a voice

Ringing through the trees, potential paper

Vibrations gracing their bark,

and I’m reminded of my duty,


Pens leave permanent marks

and words can leave permanent scars.

One phrase can unleash a beast,

Which is why I’m so careful with the words I free.






Wrapped up in Racism and Discrimination

“I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background”

-Zora Neale Hurston

Trigger Warning: Racism, Verbal Abuse/ Harassment

On Friday April 21, 2017, I experienced an event that made me reframe myself as an black attendee of a predominantly white institution. I had to redefine myself, because on this day at approximately 1:30 pm I parked in the Hearnes Center Parking Lot and I was verbally harassed on the basis of my blackness and my expression of my culture. I was wearing my headscarf  as I usually do, but it was ignorantly mistaken for a religious scarf. I was assigned to park in the Hearnes Center at the beginning of the semester and that is where my permit applies. All semester I have felt relatively safe parking here, but after the incident of being called out of my name and antagonized I haven’t felt the same. On this particular day, the Hearnes Center had been the location of pedestrian parking for families and individuals attending the Futures Farmers of America event held in the athletics building. The following incident, therefore,  was not involving attendees of the University of Missouri, rather common folk visiting the University, a residence of the Columbia community I suppose.

I’ve been at this University for 3 years and I’ve never experienced racism so blatantly. I was gathering my things out of the backseat of my car and I overhear 2 white men with slight accents. I hear their country accent from 2 cars away and turn to see them peering through their tinted windows slightly rolled down. I feel them staring at my appearance and suddenly a terrible feeling develops in my stomach.

I had my hair wrapped in a beautiful bright blue head scarf. The edges of my hair were smoothed and laid down and I had felt very confident about my appearance before I left the house, but what they say to me next, formed me into a spectacle to them because they try to engage me, “What are you Jewish with that piece of cloth on your head?” They laugh to themselves. I don’t respond. I keep my eyes down. I have work on campus at the student center and I’m supposed to be catching the next bus.

They talk to each other about me “What is she–a sand nigger!” The two burst into laughter making a show of me for passengers in the back of the van.

“These niggers are terrorist!” I hear one of them say.

Urban Dictionary defines “sand n*ggers” : a person of Middle Eastern descent due to the various desert regions there. Usually meant in a disparaging and demeaning way.

This racial slur is derogatory for multiple reasons that I honestly shouldn’t even have to explain.

I closed the door to my car and walked behind the van the two men were in.

I took out my phone and photographed their license plate. There were younger voices coming from the back of the van that giggled while I was being  antagonized. But while I stood there, phone in hand, a hush fell over the van and the people were intimidated by my boldness.

Obviously I had been misidentified as muslim, jewish, and then middle eastern. I’m black and obviously black but they got it wrong. If they wanted to say anything derogatory nigg*r would have been just fine. It’s almost as if the two men couldn’t help but show their hate for multiple minorities through using a token element of my cultural identity–the head scarf– as an entry way to tear me down. I’ve written a blog post on about headscarf previously. It can be found here *Wrapped Life: Why I Wear Headscarves * if you’re wondering my reasons for wearing a head scarf, although my motives do not impact the harmfulness of these people’s actions.

I’ve been deeply saddened by the islamophobic and anti-black words said to me and the most unsettling fact is that I’m not even muslim, but because of the ignorance and lack of cultural awareness these white men attributed my headwear as exclusive to only Middle Eastern women. Mind you, the head scarf I was wearing didn’t look anything comparable to a hijab, a burka, or gele. It was tied into a low bun, instead. The word “sand nigger” both erased  my identity as a black woman by making me into a foreigner; while also making a spectacle of my blackness through the usage of the word “nigger”.

These people obviously had little to no cultural awareness and they lacked knowledge of my intellect and underestimated my ability because I did some research and the license plate literally says Fayette School District Car 3. So whoever thought that was okay to try to demean me in the presence of children, within the context of a school sponsored trip picked on the wrong ni…

While I didn’t report this to the police because of a deep sense of distrust that I have because of prior and reoccurring racially motivated incidents on my campus, I did take action by reporting this event to a great majority of my peers as well as by filing a report with the Title IX Office under Civil Rights with the University. My aim is to inform and educate at this point.

Racism is not new, but the revamped cousin of racism is xenophobia based on foreign-ness. Black people speak english, eat American food, were born here, yet because of our skin color will never be able to assimilate to White America. However, foreigners can in some ways blend in by shedding their distinct cultural customs and capitalize off their greater proximity to whiteness than blacks have. As a black woman who experienced hate speech freshly a few days ago, I considered trying to assimilate by stopping my donning of my scarves, even if they were truly beautiful. All of my friends I talked to, told me not to change on account of someone else’s ignorance, and I agree. I shouldn’t change. I shouldn’t assimilate. I should continue on and wear my headscarves even more proudly as a symbol of my heritage and my pride in my identity.

While I’d like to sulk about this recent event, I’m oddly calm because I know that this event serves as an opportunity to shape me into a stronger and redefined woman. As a black woman, I’ve made it my part-time hustle to transact pain into something more beautiful than the dirt and grime of the inspiring incident. You can expect me to cope through writing a poem about this. You can expect me to continue to stand in solidarity with foreigners, immigrants, as well as Muslims and Jews who are undergoing persecution on account of their spiritual identities.

I pray that because I didn’t respond, because I bridled my tongue my actions speak louder than the message I preach with my keyboard, that Love always wins. The racism I encountered on the 21st of April cannot break me and can only solidify the strength and power with in me. I win and the haters lose. I am fabulous and not defined by those who not only cannot beat me, but who cannot join me. They were small town farmers who likely aren’t educated on social issues or even current events. These individuals didn’t even know what a hijab was, so how can I attach anything they say to my spirit? How can I let them weigh me down? How are they relevant to me? An educated soon to be graduating Senior at the University Majoring in English? Where do these common folk compare to me?

I was very troubled at the time of the incident simply because of the pure ignorance and hate. I was angry because I knew that the expectation was for me to walk away. I regret the fact that oppressed individuals always are tasked to not act, but really all this could be avoided if racists just minded their business. But in retrospect, walking away was my only valid option because these ignorant people literally aren’t worth my time and energy. I couldn’t let negativity drain me. I won because I saved my energy and conserved my energy to do something more positive and constructive than physical violence. Physical violence is destructive but educating and exposure are constructive.

I plan to share this story with as many people as possible to raise awareness about islamophobia, anti-blackness, and anti-semitism at large, but especially, where they find themselves on the University of Missouri’s campus.

Understand that racism still exists and is alive and well, but only because black people still exist. Black people are still here, after years of dehumanization, colonization, ethnic cleansing, gentrification, the war on drugs, the prison industrial complex and mass incarceration. We Still Lit even after these violences that have and still do threaten our lives. So while I was called a nigger because of my appearance, I was only antagonized because I’m a ni**a that’s still here, and I’m sure those two white individuals could NOT stand the thought of me not even acknowledging their presence. They couldn’t stand the thought of me, an educated black woman, attending a higher educational institution. Living good and eating better.

They probably were just bitter that I have access to knowledge and hosts of resources , more than they do.

Or maybe they were just upset that I had the nerve to be black and embrace it at the same time by covering my hair and proudly expressing the african tradition of headdress.


They can’t kill us.

Not even with their words.

I think I did the right thing.









The Noodle that Needed Softening

You are the boiling brass pot of water

She is the noodle that needed to soften

You went easy on me, but after I let down no walls

You had to try harder and that’s why intimacy scares her because it always pushes her farther

Than her feet are willing to carry such weight

and the anxiety traps one in more often

And while I wield the power to unlock the gate

I feel locked inside my emotions

I fear that if I pour all this passion into your cupped hand the majority of me will splash right onto the marble floors

Not to mention the spill feeling like a casual accident but will you at least try to hold onto me?

Will you try to hold onto me by my sides not my lid

after you’ve done such slick and slippery work of grasping my layers and biting back at my bruised places

can you see past the image of this secure strong woman

who is only so resolutely withstanding breakage because she disallows the smallest tinge of fragile care

can you see through the transparence of strength  in exchange for her vulnerabilities in need of repair

that which breaks resets to passion anew through her honest and forgiving prayer

She is not so strong as to not flood cities when outpoured

For the same strength that drives men away

Was a love they at first adored

The same strength that drives out fear

was an intimidation rest assured

While she is the noodle that needed to soften

She would like to say that she possesses the kind of softness that you do not feel with your hands

her wispy softness comes in whispered conversation

in footsteps treading lightly to sneak out of broken homes

in woodpecker taps on  doors left ajar just to warn the inhabitant of your entrance

in the thunder barely audible

sourced at a storm whose rain you never want to feel drip down your face the way tears do

her softness is the tear that has ever violently ripped down your cheek, but never made a sound,

you never made a sound, in the same kind of hard, quite fortitude we all love to feign

Except she doesn’t pretend, at least not anymore,

because all the tears were dress rehearsals till she finally learned her lines

In the act, she concluded her pain was divine

And she doesn’t have to play unaffected when pain is applied

She made pain her stronghold

And overcoming, her hobby in her free time





I have no sexual shame. And I will not apologize for it!

Arms Akimbo

The girls I see that seem to have it all together

Are the same girls that have one frail, naïve hand on their hip

In an akimbo position that I know so well

With the other hand swinging back and forth as they speak

Private conversation pulling me in like a pendulum

So carefree momentarily that I am captivated when I try to keep up with many long limbs with my squinty eyes

And how fast they speak

“She was like and he was like” they repeat during one of those paramount stories

That seem only trivial to those who pass by

It is music to my ears, melodiously intrinsic

What is often not understood is often not well liked

But these same girls are little versions of me

Walking silhouettes of what they dream to be

And when they look in the mirror, they see

A hollow shell waiting to be filled with something

Anything at all

So they seem to have it all together but I tapped each one of them and I heard an echo

Much like the echo I hear when I tap a sweet ripe watermelon at the fresh market

And what a struggle life will be for them

If they continue to walk around hallow

What a perilous task it is to be themselves

So as I see these girls’ arms akimbo

Some hands on the right hip

Some hands on the left I smile

I hope that they will discover what gives them a sure satisfaction

That sweet contentment of the moment, this very moment

Far Far before I did

I hope that they will discover what it means to be beautiful

How to formulate a confident styling grace

How to make a beautiful face that does not harshly scrutinize

With eyes that do not glint in confusion at him

With lips that do not curl up at her

Far Far before I did

Wrapped Life: Why I Wear Headscarves

Warm and tightly stitched, soft to the touch, the fabric hangs high over my head as the strength in my arms supports its flimsy structure. I lift the scarf stretching it lengthwise and positioning the center on my forehead leaving my baby hairs exposed. My 9 month old locs are now tucked under the colorful and beautifully textured material. Unless you’ve seen me prior to meeting me in my headscarf you don’t know what my hair looks like under its protective layer. What kinks and coils you may find under such a piece of art and artifact, the world may never know.

Under this wrap doesn’t just lay the history of Aunt Jemimas and countless creole cooks of the south and nursing nannies of the North. I don the “hard working black woman who protects her hair from dirt and grime” wrap. I don the “my hair ain’t been done or fixed up in a minute” wrap. I don the “natural hair is tons of work” head wrap. Under this wrap lies the secret of what my crown looks like. The curves of my coils and the spirit of my outer beauty is concealed behind the tapestry wrapped around the physical holder of my brain and my thoughts. When I cover my hair, I wrap away the beauty and the struggle.

Without getting too deep I find it comforting taking on this covert disguise. I find it comforting to have individuals look at my face and not develop an idea of who I am based on my locs, which have so much energy and vibrancy, my locs which do not smell, my tangled strands which I nurture like a well rooted plant. I massage a combination of organic oils into my roots for strength, thickness, and overall wellness. I take the best care of my hair in the best way I know how, for my hair is magic. Is it any wonder I every now and then must cover it, and hide it away and close it off from scrutiny and too much attention. Must my hair always be a topic of conversation? A heavily integrated discourse regarding black culture?

A head wrap is not just a fashion statement. A head wrap is a political statement which removes me from the mouth of those who have so much commentary on what the standard of beauty is and what it should be. I express my inner beauty by wearing my headscarf. I hide my outer beauty through covering my organically formed locs.

Wrapped life till I die.