Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved
Writing The Mee Street Chronicles has been something like making scrambled eggs. I had to break the eggs into the bowl (remember people, places and things), beat the eggs up with milk and seasoning (put the memories in story telling form), then dump the whole thing in a skillet (get the stories organized and edited to publish in a book). I didn’t know how the whole concoction would turn out. Would my storytelling turn out to be a brown-edged, overcooked mess? (My eggs often are.) A runny, undercooked goo? (I have trouble trying to scramble “soft” rather than “hard.”) Or would it be a fluffy, tasty treat? I didn’t know, couldn’t know unless I tried. Unless I took the risk. Made the jump. Broke the eggs and scrambled them.
I grew up a dreamer, and I had imagined, back when I was a kid, that my life would go like the ending of a fairy tale: That I’d live “happily ever after.” That it would all be so perfect. No need to break eggs. No need to take risks. The future was, I thought, an unclouded, golden horizon waiting to serve me up all my dreams. But it didn’t go that way. Nobody’s life does.
I found out that life mostly serves you up raw eggs, and it’s up to you to choose how you’ll eat them. Raw or cooked. If you go with raw, you just suck it up and slurp it down, I suppose. If you go with cooked, though, you can choose an omelet, poached, sunny side up, over easy, or scrambled. You make the choices. And what you choose becomes the story of what you’ve done (or are doing) with your life. I didn’t know, when I was growing up, that I really could choose. I didn’t know that my choices didn’t have to match up with what you deemed as acceptable and desirable. I didn’t know that I didn’t have to fall in line and choose what you wanted me to choose. So I spent a lot of time people-pleasing rather than living my life.
I do wish I hadn’t done that. But…. no sense in crying over spilt milk or mistakes long ago made. No sense in it because that very spilt milk—those mistakes and my people-pleasing choices—that’s what I put into my scrambled eggs to make my stories. Actually, its seasoning made the stories in Mee Street tastier, I think. Gave them an extra kick.
You tell me what you think. Go to www.amazon.com and order The Mee Street Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life; after you read the stories, log on to Amazon and write a Customer Review if you’ve a mind to.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Adventures of a Maverick Author 2: The Plot Thickens
Copyright 2007 – All Rights Reserved
The other day, I read a story excerpt from “Woman Dreams: Going Against the Grain” which appears in Part I of “The Mee Street Chronicles.” I’ve gotten so I read that story first off because people always ask me THE QUESTION—When did you know you were a Lesbian? “Woman Dreams” answers that question though I find that some still feel the need to ask even after I’ve read it. Maybe they just don’t believe what they hear.
Questions and Answers is my favorite part now. Because I never know what people will ask me. That keeps me on my toes. I watch myself bobbing and weaving like Muhammed Ali did in the ring to keep from getting pounded by the punches thrown by Joe Frazier.
My audience is part of a college where the student body pulls no punches. These folk are street savvy challengers. Typically, after they’ve heard my story excerpt, they’re amazed at my shameLESS, straightforward audacity in stepping out of the closet and into the light. Typically, they’re chafing at the bit to expose me with their questions. As a phony? A wimp? A repentant sinner looking for redemption at their hands? Who knows? What I do know is that these college students are definitely a Joe Frazier audience—big fisted and willing to knock you silly if you’re not ready for the punches they throw.
This time as I finish, close my book, and step away from the podium signaling that I don’t use it as a shield between me and my audience, I point to the first person I see with a raised hand.
“Who would you say is responsible for your being …uh…same sex attracted, as you call it?” The question was from a woman of color.
“God,” I said without pause. I was stone serious and I wanted them to know it. Stone serious, but not hostile. “God made me. God is responsible. I was born this way.”
She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face.
We were off and running. I figured they’d be going in the same direction as the last class of students I’d presented for a couple of weeks ago. There’d been some sharks in that class. And they’d been hungry. But they didn’t get a bite of me because my answers wouldn’t allow them to get their teeth into my behind.
More hands shot up. I nodded at a young man, Black, sitting near the front. He said, “We can assume that God considers you an abomination, right? So….”
I cut him off at the pass. “No,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t know assume that God considers me that.” I moved closer to where he was sitting. “If I were an abomination I don’t think I’d be standing here. Why would God create an abomination and let it walk around? If I’m an abomination, I’d be dead. Don’t you think?”
He simply looked at me, confounded.
I glanced again at the forest of hands lifted. I pointed to another woman. “Was it hard coming out back then? I mean, as opposed to right now.”
“Well, I didn’t come out back when I was a kid. As for now, you need to know it’s always hard to come out,” I said. “Always. You don’t know what might happen because homophobia and heterosexism is everywhere. It ain’t gone by a long shot. We’re killing our world with hate and bigotry. That can change if we talk to each other. Like now.”
The woman gave me a tentative smile. Some other heads in the room were nodding at what I’d said.
The confounded guy raised his hand again for another go. “After you die and when you stand before God, what’re you going to say about the choice you made to be a Lesbian?”
Several students turned around to glare at him. I noted their reaction. That was something new and interesting.
“First of all,” I began, “it’s not a choice. Why would anybody choose to be stigmatized and hated? Read “Predators” in Part Two of my book for more on that. And as for the afterlife issue, I won’t get drawn into a discussion about religious beliefs because that’s not what my book is about. Suffice to say, my beliefs are not yours.” I paused to see if he was getting it before I went on. “Besides, I’m not here to persuade you about anything; I’m here to share my life experiences with you.”
He was a dog with a bone. And he didn’t know how to let go. “But the Christian Bible says you’re wrong—”
A Black woman sitting in front of him cut him off and barked: “You can’t push your beliefs off on somebody else!”
From the back of the room, another Black woman hollered: “You can’t judge her! Don’t judge her!”
That surprised me. Before I could respond, the professor intervened. He reminded his class that college is about learning new things and expanding your base of knowledge. That open-mindedness is the hallmark of an educated person. That it’s part of a college’s mission to show people that broad diversity exists in the universe regardless of whether we fear it or disapprove. And he reminded the Black students that none of us would be in a classroom three hundred years ago because teaching slaves and free Blacks was generally outlawed and disapproved of.
I listened, surprised at what had happened: That the students had jumped in to defend me although it was clear that I could take care of myself, and that the professor had stepped in. He never had before. But I think he was a bit put-off by the narrow-minded reactions that he’d heard in the past several days from some faculty and students about my open, guilt-free sexual identity—a journey narrated in the stories of my book.
Just when you think that homophobia and heterosexism is taking over every heart and mind, blitzing through the land at terrifying speed like Hitler’s Lightening War, blasting away all hope for respect and good will among all people—just when you give up on that, something appears on the horizon that rescues hope and gives water to its roots: Unforeseeable, unpredictable incidents.
Those are the kinds of things I love in a story. Yeah, it’s the end of Act Two and the beginning of Act Three; everything looks grimmer than grim because the Evil Empire is winning. And that’s when the unforeseeable happens, bringing you a ray of hope, all warm and shiny, enough so you can smear it all over your face. Enough to catch a whiff as it rides in clean and fresh like an ocean breeze. Enough so you can just see its head peeking out, like pink calla lilies rising up, in spring, out of winter’s melting snow.
And I am reminded that the plot always thickens with unexpected twists and turns.
The Mee Street Chronicles will tell you more about me and my maverick ways. Buy it online at www.amazon.com and read the stories for yourself. If your church, organization, book club, or class would like to engage me to do a Book Read, contact me at either flennon@ peoplepc.com or frankie.lennon@gmail.com
The other day, I read a story excerpt from “Woman Dreams: Going Against the Grain” which appears in Part I of “The Mee Street Chronicles.” I’ve gotten so I read that story first off because people always ask me THE QUESTION—When did you know you were a Lesbian? “Woman Dreams” answers that question though I find that some still feel the need to ask even after I’ve read it. Maybe they just don’t believe what they hear.
Questions and Answers is my favorite part now. Because I never know what people will ask me. That keeps me on my toes. I watch myself bobbing and weaving like Muhammed Ali did in the ring to keep from getting pounded by the punches thrown by Joe Frazier.
My audience is part of a college where the student body pulls no punches. These folk are street savvy challengers. Typically, after they’ve heard my story excerpt, they’re amazed at my shameLESS, straightforward audacity in stepping out of the closet and into the light. Typically, they’re chafing at the bit to expose me with their questions. As a phony? A wimp? A repentant sinner looking for redemption at their hands? Who knows? What I do know is that these college students are definitely a Joe Frazier audience—big fisted and willing to knock you silly if you’re not ready for the punches they throw.
This time as I finish, close my book, and step away from the podium signaling that I don’t use it as a shield between me and my audience, I point to the first person I see with a raised hand.
“Who would you say is responsible for your being …uh…same sex attracted, as you call it?” The question was from a woman of color.
“God,” I said without pause. I was stone serious and I wanted them to know it. Stone serious, but not hostile. “God made me. God is responsible. I was born this way.”
She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face.
We were off and running. I figured they’d be going in the same direction as the last class of students I’d presented for a couple of weeks ago. There’d been some sharks in that class. And they’d been hungry. But they didn’t get a bite of me because my answers wouldn’t allow them to get their teeth into my behind.
More hands shot up. I nodded at a young man, Black, sitting near the front. He said, “We can assume that God considers you an abomination, right? So….”
I cut him off at the pass. “No,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t know assume that God considers me that.” I moved closer to where he was sitting. “If I were an abomination I don’t think I’d be standing here. Why would God create an abomination and let it walk around? If I’m an abomination, I’d be dead. Don’t you think?”
He simply looked at me, confounded.
I glanced again at the forest of hands lifted. I pointed to another woman. “Was it hard coming out back then? I mean, as opposed to right now.”
“Well, I didn’t come out back when I was a kid. As for now, you need to know it’s always hard to come out,” I said. “Always. You don’t know what might happen because homophobia and heterosexism is everywhere. It ain’t gone by a long shot. We’re killing our world with hate and bigotry. That can change if we talk to each other. Like now.”
The woman gave me a tentative smile. Some other heads in the room were nodding at what I’d said.
The confounded guy raised his hand again for another go. “After you die and when you stand before God, what’re you going to say about the choice you made to be a Lesbian?”
Several students turned around to glare at him. I noted their reaction. That was something new and interesting.
“First of all,” I began, “it’s not a choice. Why would anybody choose to be stigmatized and hated? Read “Predators” in Part Two of my book for more on that. And as for the afterlife issue, I won’t get drawn into a discussion about religious beliefs because that’s not what my book is about. Suffice to say, my beliefs are not yours.” I paused to see if he was getting it before I went on. “Besides, I’m not here to persuade you about anything; I’m here to share my life experiences with you.”
He was a dog with a bone. And he didn’t know how to let go. “But the Christian Bible says you’re wrong—”
A Black woman sitting in front of him cut him off and barked: “You can’t push your beliefs off on somebody else!”
From the back of the room, another Black woman hollered: “You can’t judge her! Don’t judge her!”
That surprised me. Before I could respond, the professor intervened. He reminded his class that college is about learning new things and expanding your base of knowledge. That open-mindedness is the hallmark of an educated person. That it’s part of a college’s mission to show people that broad diversity exists in the universe regardless of whether we fear it or disapprove. And he reminded the Black students that none of us would be in a classroom three hundred years ago because teaching slaves and free Blacks was generally outlawed and disapproved of.
I listened, surprised at what had happened: That the students had jumped in to defend me although it was clear that I could take care of myself, and that the professor had stepped in. He never had before. But I think he was a bit put-off by the narrow-minded reactions that he’d heard in the past several days from some faculty and students about my open, guilt-free sexual identity—a journey narrated in the stories of my book.
Just when you think that homophobia and heterosexism is taking over every heart and mind, blitzing through the land at terrifying speed like Hitler’s Lightening War, blasting away all hope for respect and good will among all people—just when you give up on that, something appears on the horizon that rescues hope and gives water to its roots: Unforeseeable, unpredictable incidents.
Those are the kinds of things I love in a story. Yeah, it’s the end of Act Two and the beginning of Act Three; everything looks grimmer than grim because the Evil Empire is winning. And that’s when the unforeseeable happens, bringing you a ray of hope, all warm and shiny, enough so you can smear it all over your face. Enough to catch a whiff as it rides in clean and fresh like an ocean breeze. Enough so you can just see its head peeking out, like pink calla lilies rising up, in spring, out of winter’s melting snow.
And I am reminded that the plot always thickens with unexpected twists and turns.
The Mee Street Chronicles will tell you more about me and my maverick ways. Buy it online at www.amazon.com and read the stories for yourself. If your church, organization, book club, or class would like to engage me to do a Book Read, contact me at either flennon@ peoplepc.com or frankie.lennon@gmail.com
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