Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Scotch on the Rocks"

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Scotch on the Rocks"


"What’s Goin On?" is a scene from the story, "Scotch on the Rocks" which is in my memoir,The Mee Street Chronicles. This story is about the first time I was confronted by an alcohol counselor about my drinking. Alcoholism is a serious disease. Most people are like I was. They don't know or understand that it is a disease. Before the drinker can get help to treat it, the drinker has to first acknowledge that alcohol is a problem. Then she or he has to be willing to get help. This story is about my attitude toward my drinking at that time of my life. And what happened after I was confronted about it.



"What's Goin On?"


The five o'clock crew at Allen's Lounge was off and running. The place buzzed like a busy hive. What's goin on? I heard Marvin Gaye ask over the chattering hum of the crowd. Home free! That's what's goin on, I answered in my head while situating myself on a barstool. No alcohol counselor and his stupid questions around here! I nodded hello to the regulars lining the bar like pigeons waiting for bread crusts. Behind the bar, Allen, tall as an ostrich and dark as bitter chocolate, counted bills and change to balance the cash register. Jay iced down the beer while Les, looking like a sad-eyed, basset hound, poured up half-dozen drink orders as Katie, the waitress, reeled them off.

I lit a cigarette and glanced up at the huge, lighted mirror in front of me. Scattered at tables, men in blue or gray work uniforms, just getting off from work at Whirlpool or Alcoa, drank quarts of Budweiser or shots of whiskey, smoked cigarettes, traded lies, hawked the women, and speculated on which one might want a just-for-tonight lover. The women, in bright colors, sat in groups of two's and three's, cutting their eyes at each other, whispering behind their hands, or throwing their heads back in noisy laughter. Most of them sipped pretty drinks—the kind I never had much use for—like Tom Collins or Tequila Sunrise, although some toyed with a glass of beer.

I caught Jay's eye and winked. He was a beauty. An x-rated honey-dripper. Cinnamon skin, thick eyelashes, naturally arched eyebrows, sculpted, full lips. And so good in bed that I could pretend my woman-jones didn't exist. Sometimes, all his sexiness and beauty triggered my inferiority complexes. At other times, my ego swelled with the idea that a sugah-lump like him had picked me to be his woman.

"What's up?" I asked as he came toward me

He shrugged, slapping a napkin on the counter. "Gonna be jumpin in here tonight. Allen's got me working the night shift, so I won't get by your place until 2:30. You want your usual? It's on me."

"Yeah, scotch on the—"

He finished it. "Rocks, lemon slice, water back."

"What else?" I smiled.

He grinned at me and started to pour. As he did, a voice hollered out.

"Give her another!" It was Sylvester sitting at the other end of the bar; he slammed two quarters down for Jay. I waved at Syl and nodded my thanks. He, in turn, lifted his shot glass ceremoniously in salute.

Jay put two drinks in front of me, went down the bar to collect for it, rang up the order, and trotted off to the john.

I shifted my sight to the mirror behind the bar. It ran the length of the wall. The bottles, in front of it, artfully arranged in stair-step fashion, caught my eye. Like ladies of the night displaying their wares to the highest bidder, the shimmering liquor winked and promised good times: Scotch in emerald green bottles, whiskey in topaz brown bottles, vodka and gin in diamond-clear bottles. I picked up my glass and sipped. Nothing like the first scotch of the day, I told myself while savoring the bitter, slightly oily taste of J & B.

A good feeling began to settle over me. But before the good feeling could make itself at home, out of nowhere, I heard the counselor ask: Do you want to quit?

Spooked, I glanced over my shoulder, frowning as I scanned the crowd. Was that asshole of an alcohol counselor in here? Did he follow me to Allen's? But, no. There were only Black folks here, getting down to some serious partying. I stared into the golden liquid in my glass. Do you want to quit? He’d asked me. An icy tremor passed through me. How could I give it up? My palms felt clammy and I wiped them together.

There'd been times when I'd thought about it. Especially when I'd come into Allen’s, and somebody at the bar would ask me if I remembered what I'd done the night before. I hated that question. It shamed me. They knew what I'd done, but I didn't. It was unnerving because a big, black hood had dropped down over my brain. What I'd done the night before was gone. Wiped clean. When someone asked me, I'd drop my eyes, afraid that I'd made a fool of myself. Afraid that somebody was going to rib me for it and I wouldn’t be able to, couldn’t play it off. How could I when last night was a bunch of empty pages scrolling in my head?

I pulled on my cigarette. Why couldn't I remember? What was happening? Maybe I should seriously consider quitting. But when that line of thought came to mind, I had to have a drink since thinking about quitting was unnerving. By the time I'd finished drinking and thinking, mother scotch had moved the whole idea to the back burner.

What's goin on? Marvin asked me, his voice fading on the last notes of the song. I took a long swallow of scotch, almost draining the glass as The Isley's kicked "Love the One You With" into high gear. It was then that the door swung open so hard that the hinges squeaked and sang. I turned my head to see who was coming in. There at the entrance stood Jay's wife—a harmless-looking, brown terrier with the soul of a war dog. For a millisecond, she was motionless; then, she swooped in.

Thank God, Jay was in the john. If she had come in a few minutes earlier, she'd have caught me sitting here carrying on with him. But she didn't need to catch me to know I was guilty. When Jay was here, nine times out of ten, I was, too. Marsha knew, like everybody else in Evansville, that I was Jay's sideline woman. It was a common practice. Husbands took lovers; wives looked the other way. Marsha didn't frequent the bars, so ordinarily Allen's Lounge was safe territory for me and Jay. But not, it seemed, today. In the mirror, I watched her double-timing it straight to me, her jaws tighter than Dick's hatband. She stomped up beside me and stopped, hand on her hip, glaring. Without looking at her, I lifted my glass to drink, weighing the threat of danger her presence signaled while cold sweat inched down my stomach.

"What the hell," she addressed me in ringing tones, loud enough for everyone to take notice, "do you think you're doin in here with Jay?"

At the sound of her voice, the bar's noisy crowd suddenly came to attention, slipping into the I-was-a-witness mode, drinks forgotten as eyes turned to watch local drama.

Marsha moved a step closer. "Ain't I tole you bout this shit before?"

Survival instinct screamed for me to get the hell out of the bar, but my feet had turned to concrete. Careful not to look her in the face, I took a drag on my Pell Mell and tapped some ashes off the tip.

She took the drama up a notch, playing to every person in the room. "I hope," she proclaimed, "you don't think I'ma jus sit back in some corner while you fuck around with my husband."

I could feel her breath on my neck. Was she going to jump me? My heart was thumping in time with the record's beat. Since I'd never been a fighter, I had zero confidence about myself when it came to fisty-cuffs, but if she made a move to beat my ass, would I just sit here and let her?

The crowd hung with bated breath on every word. She huffed and puffed for them. "I'ma tell you one more time to leave Jay alone."

I kept silent, gambling that she'd interpret my silence as browbeaten humiliation and leave me be.

She pronounced her final threat with a flourish. "Don't let me have to tell you bout this shit no more!" A dramatic pause, and then: "You hear me?"

The challenge hung in the air. Despite the fact that I was shivering in my boots, the smart-ass in me finally reared its head, ready to deliver me to the hangman's noose. I opened my mouth with the intention of sarcastically assuring Marsha that I had, indeed, heard her. But Jay glided up before I could say a word, and quickly steered her out of the bar.

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Story Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: From “Fever”

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Fever" from The Mee Street Chronicles

The excerpt that you’re reading today is a scene from the story, “Fever,” in my memoir, The Mee St. Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. My memoir tells you stories about my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity.

“Fever” is about the first woman I fell in love with and our love affair. Although “Fever” is very much a love story—which makes it a universal story— on another, significant level, the conflict and essence of this story is captured by these words: “The greatest struggle is within.”

Long before the whole book was finished, I sent this story to my writer friend, Nikki Giovanni to read; she called and told me that it was very brave of me to write it. But I didn’t write it because I was brave. I wrote it because it’s a story that NEEDED to be told.

“Fever” takes place in while I’m at college. I’ve met and fallen for Stacey. And we have begun an affair. The scene called “Secret Lives” that you’ll be reading takes place shortly after the affair begins.

Enjoy my story!

"Secret Lives" from "Fever" in The Mee Street Chronicles

For a few weeks, our secret life remained securely hidden. Then, there was that close call one afternoon in my room when Lynn, a student in one of my classes, barged in without knocking. Going by looks, nothing out of the ordinary was happening in that room, but if you went by gut feelings, the room was heavy with tingly, I-got-a-itch-for-you vibes. Stacey and I were sitting on the bottom bunk bed, books on our laps. Because my head was turned toward Stacey and away from the door, I didn't see Lynn coming in. But something in Stacey's expression scared me enough to make me jump to my feet, my book landing with a heavy thud on the floor.

It was a weird moment: Lynn at the door, wearing her usual dull-witted, sleepy look; Stacey seated on the bed with a startled, almost terrified expression, and me up and ready to take on whatever unknown bugaboo had darkened my door. When I saw it was only Lynn, my alarm drained away, and I asked her, with more roughness than I intended, what she wanted. As she told me, I noticed her dense expression changing. Into what? Curiosity? Slyness? While I hurriedly dug out my class notes for her, she stared, mouth half-opened, at me and then at Stacey. With guarded wariness, Stacey, I saw, was taking Lynn's measure herself. Everything seemed to be taking a long time, or, at least, it felt like forever before I found the notes and held them out to her. Lynn took them, nodding her thanks, and wearing a kind of smirking grin as she backed out of the room.

The door shut and I realized I couldn't breathe, was, in fact, holding my breath. I sucked in air as Stacey lit a cigarette.

"That," Stacey declared, "was way too close for comfort. We've got to be careful from now on. That girl was like a hound dog smelling a fresh trail."

I wrinkled my nose. "Lynn? She couldn't find her ass if you showed it to her in a mirror." I waved the idea away, moving close to Stacey again. "Does not play with a full deck, that one."

"No, baby!" Stacey snapped. "No. Pay attention. That one smelled our vibe. And we cannot afford to let that happen again." Stacey's voice had turned into an ice storm.

I still didn't see cause for alarm. "I don't think she suspected anything," I said, sitting again, putting my arms around her. "Lynn's too stupid to notice stuff like vibes."

"No!" She shook me off and drew back. "No! Don't do that! We'll get caught doing things like that!"

If the room had been feverish with steamy vibes before, now it was a below-zero blizzard. I backed off and got up, fumbling for my cigarettes. As usual, my hands trembled when I was scared. And Stacey's tone of voice had scared me. She'd never used it with me though I'd heard her use it before when she meant to cut somebody to the quick—slice em, dice em, and serve em up on a platter. She was known for her sharp tongue.

I could see Stacey trying to take a hold of herself and calm down. After a moment, she spoke. "Look, you're my girl, Frankie. But we're not like them. So let's don't act like them."

I was confused. What did she mean, let's don't act like them? Did she mean for me not to put my arms around her? Not to kiss her anymore? What was wrong with showing affection? And just who was them? "Who're you talking about Stacey?" I shot back, knowing the answer all along.

"You know. Them." Her voice was a cold wind. "Those freaks! Bulldaggers!"

The words made me flush with embarrassment; and, at the same time, I felt the sting of insult, of absolute put down. Why did she have to use those names? It was the same as calling us niggers. Or calling girls bitches. Anger rumbled in my chest, the kind that would usually goad me into starting an argument, but I didn't want to fight with Stacey. Besides, I could see she was already fighting, struggling with some invisible thing inside herself. A nerve at her temple moved up and down, throbbing. Her mouth was a tight slash. Whatever this thing was, it was a fearsome opponent. And it made her face ugly. Silence lay hard in the room, and I let it lay. The thing to do right now, I told myself, is keep quiet. Be cool.

Stacey peered at me across the room. "I guess this is our first lover's quarrel, huh?"

I said nothing. Mostly because I didn't know what to say. Doubts about Stacey and me swirled round my head like fireflies. The undertone in Stacey's voice when she'd used the word bulldaggers was poisonous. Hateful. How could she feel that way about herself? About me? Anxiety wrapped its fingers around my heart, forcing me to take a long, hard drag on my cigarette. She was watching me, waiting for a reply. Still, I said nothing.

"Forgive me?"

I didn't want to make her madder, so I nodded, abandoning my feelings, ignoring my unease. I nodded because I was afraid to put my feelings into words. Afraid to pursue the threads of doubt setting up house in my head. Afraid of the doors doubt might open that couldn't be shut again. The meddling voice in my head was shouting a warning from a distance, but I turned the volume down on it. All the while, silently beating myself up for a coward. A chicken-hearted coward.

(End)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com<
www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Love Songs: Twelve Poems

Table of Contents

Love Song 12: Moon

Love Song 11: Opposites Attract

Love Song 10: Memory Quickens

Love Song 9: La Loba

Love Song 8: Dancin

Love Song 7: Eyes

Love Song 6: Conjurer

Love Song 5: Empath

Love Song 4: Sea Change

Love Song 3: Pied Piper

Love Song 2: Lyric 2

Love Song 1: Play Goodbye

Love Song XII: Moon

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

Moon

moon
jewel of the night
diviner of
longings unfulfilled
look down

wishing moon
look down
tonight
with tender
mercies
on two lovers
angry and alone

at first sight of you
gentle
their spirits
goddess moon

let fall
from your fair countenance
magic light
full of potions
full of spells
full of
love’s enchantments

whisper
incantations
cast charms
unbridle passion
witching moon

let fall
sorceries
sweet bedevilment
beguile
these two
hearts again

mistress moon
oracle of the sky
and
of the ages
look down
on two lonely
hearts
angry
and afraid

look down
mistress moon
soften their hearts
with the
magic
of your
lustrous glow
and
speak
of
love
to them
once more

speak
lady of the night

speak
and
let fall
shimmering moon dust
let fall
your enchantments
let fall
a golden circle
of love
binding them
together
binding them
forever
in love’s embrace.
9/30/09

Love Song XI: Opposites Attract

Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved

Opposites Attract

opposites attract

you and I
are
zodiac signs
opposing
yet
complementing

we are
capricorn
and cancer
mountain goat
and sea crab

I am earth
you are water

we are
tide and shore
mountain and stream

opposites
drawn
by
star-dusted
constellations

opposites
linked
by
sun
moon
and
planets

opposites attract

we complement
we balance
and complete
each other

we are
opposites attracted
working love spells
making juju
on each other

we are
different
but
much the same
on
a journey
together

uncovering
the invisible
and
the visible

on a journey
uncovering
that
which
we are.
10/2/09

Love Song X: Memory Quickens

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

Memory Quickens


I know the sound of you
I hear
your
breath
in the rush of waves
your heartbeat
in the silent forest
I hear you
the sound of you
in a bird’s call at dawn
in the chatter of autumn leaves
you
quicken
in memory
echo
in summer thunder
whisper
in spring rain
I know
the sound of you
you
beckon
with the setting sun
and always
in every
golden
moon rise.

memory quickens
and
I see your dreaming face
know the sight of you
in morning light
see
your shining softness
the silhouette of
your soul
see
the length and breadth of you
curled
in sleep’s embrace
lying peacefully here
next to me.

I know the touch of you
remember it
as
memory quickens
and I feel
the summer lightning
of your
fingertips
moving lazily
down
my neck
moving across
the diary
of my palms
moving deliberately
to find
each secret
hollow of me
moving
until
I
catch fire
in a fever
in a
cool
burning
that
consumes.

I know the smell of you
stealing
into my daydreams
riding
the heat of day
like a naked Godiva
riding
hot afternoon breezes
carrying
your exotic woman-smell
like perfumed desert sage
quickening my memories
drawing and pulling
me
ever
to you.

I know the taste of you
your sweet bursts of pleasure
tender
as ripe
pomegranate seeds
quickens
in memory's fire
so that
once more
the spice of you
pungent and honey-laced
bites my lips
like ginger
and
lingers
fragrant
on my tongue.

while
we are apart
memory
of you
draws breath
and

lives
here
in my five senses.

while

we are apart

my memory
quickens
returns

night and day

to

the sound

and

sight

of you
returns

to

the smell

and

taste

of you

returns

to

the memory

of

your touch

evermore.
9/17/09

Love Song IX: La Loba

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

La Loba: Women of the Wolves

passing
like smoke
through
cracks in stars

we glide
as one

from
veiled
underbrush

out
of shadowed
mountain fog

tread softly

gliding
beneath
silver moon beams

see us:
beautiful la loba
women of the wolves

prowling
margins
between worlds

outrunning
the winds of time

riding bareback
together
into the unknown.

see us:
la loba

you and I
moving as one
never apart

women wild
born
to run with wolves

born
one soul-spirit
born
paired and
mated for all time

together
we

guard each other’s soul
we
sleep the same dreams
drink each other’s breath
we
swim in each other’s blood.

shapeshifting
mysterious
la loba

see us:

dancing life
back into
our once-deadened souls

singing love
to ourselves
to each other

transforming
our dried and dusty bones
our strangled selves

see us:

slipping
out of boxes
out of cages

crossing boundaries
crossing worlds

la loba
you and I

women who run with wolves

together
we

step out
of the hidden
the unseen

together
we

stand
at the crossroads

cradling
magic
in our
palms.


5/13/09

Love Song VIII: Dancin

Copyright 2008 – All Rights Reserved

Dancin
(To Our 1st Party- 1/08)

1.

ages ago

I wished

a secret wish
on sweet sixteen
birthday candles

I wished

I could dance
my sweet sixteen
with you

wished

us two girls
could dance
our rite of passage
together

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

dance

just dance
like any
natural born lovers
would

all
night
long.


2.

for
so many years

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

it was
only
your name

I wanted to see
on my
dance card

it was
only
you

forever
you

I’d set
my heart
on

you

I wished
would come

dance
with me

wished
would come

fill
my arms

fill
my life

for always.


3.

instead
when
the needle dropped

time

danced
between us

time

filled
my arms

with
an
eternity

of
undanced
dances

of
hollow
desert
years

without
the music
of
you.


4.

now

after years
lost
and
long
with
waiting

tonight

my wish
of sweet sixteen
comes true

tonight
this night
we dance

when the
needle drops
and the
music plays

we dance
our rite of passage
long denied

dance
our dance

at last

two women
smiling in each other’s eyes
dancin

two women
movin and groovin
dancin

two women
fearless and free
dancin

two women
natural born lovers
together
forever

dancin

all
life
long.

6/15/08

Woman Series: The Color Purple

Copyright 2008-All Rights Reserved

When I identify as a Lesbian, the first thing that people usually want to know is what does your family think? The family. Or your friends. Or some aspect of my community.

These questions come up because people are aware of the social stigma associated with same sex attraction, with love between two people of the same gender. It's a stigma that grows out of socialization that that has trained us to take the attitude that only heterosexism, love between people of the opposite sex, is “right” and valued as good. The questions come up because of "learned" homophobia, the fear of and condemnation of same sex attracted people, both externalized and internalized. Homophobia is an ugly and toxic force to be reckoned with. One that is as destructive as racism, as sexism, as classism. Like the others, it thrives on ignorance and shame, on hatefulness and misinformation.

This past fall 2008 semester I taught an English Literature class. With this course, the instructor gets to choose the material and focus of the class. I decided to do a course I called “Out of the Closet: Literature by Black Lesbian, Bisexual, and Gay Authors.” This wasn’t the first time I’ve taught it. It’s always interesting. The students learn about writers and their characters—about people who have, more often than not, been “disappeared” out of literary courses and academic study. They learn, through the work of talented and distinguished authors, about what life is like, really, when you are bisexual or transgendered or lesbian or homosexual. They learn and I learn—as an author, teacher, and human being.

The first novel we discussed was The Color Purple.

One of the major themes that Alice Walker’s novel explores is love. Love across the spectrum or continuum of what humans know as love. Love between family members, between women as members of a sisterhood, love between men and women, and love between two women. Intimate love. What society would call Lesbianism.

It’s obvious that there is a deep relationship going on between Shug and Celie; they openly sleep in the same bedroom, the same bed with each other. To complicate matters even more, Shug would be labeled Bisexual because she sleeps with men…with Albert, Celie’s husband, and has children by him, as well as with Grady, for another. Another major theme, then, is sexuality…Bisexual and Lesbian sexuality.

And just what is the community’s, the family’s reaction to this relationship between Shug and Celie? In the novel, you might expect to find some family or community reaction, or homophobia, to Lesbianism, but the author does not explore the community’s reaction. Religious, community and family censure in the form of social stigma and homophobia does not come into play in this novel which is set in the early 1920’s in rural Georgia. The author does not explore it directly. What about internalized homophobia? That is self-hate, self-loathing because you are same sex attracted, because you are a same gender loving person. Well. The two Lesbian lovers don’t suffer from it. Shug certainly does not, nor does Celie.

I believe the author’s depiction of these two women argues against social stigma, homophobia, and internalized homophobia. Celie and Shug’s behavior, their attitudes about themselves and their love affair, their personal values and view of God and the world defy the negative… the internalized homophobia, the stigma, the ugly light that some would cast on a same gender loving relationship.

What’s valuable to me about this novel, about teaching it, about reflecting on its themes of love and of sexuality is this: I see Walker’s characters as open doors that invite us to walk out of one place and into another where we examine old ideas and redefine others.

The novel invites us to question: What are our philosophies, ideas, beliefs about what we call God? What is love? What do we value about love? Is it possible that God is love only when it comes to heterosexual love?

The novel invites us to rethink and reshape ideas that some believe are engraved in stone. Celie and Shug ask us, as readers, dare us to redefine our whole notion about love—what it looks like, behaves like, what we think about it, and our attitude toward it.

Love, Walker suggests, is the most precious thing. No matter what package it comes in. I agree.

Testimony- Part 2

Copyright 2008-All Rights Reserved

I’m not going to say that being closeted and wearing a false face drove me into alcoholism. That leaves out too many pieces of the puzzle. What I do think is that wearing a false face was a big-time contributor to my drinking every day. Even without the drink, hiding who you really are drives up the stress level. I remember the Anita Bryant controversy broke in the news while I was living in Evansville. Everybody—meaning the men—at Allen’s Lounge (my every day water hole) endlessly voiced their sentiment that she was right to castigate gays. They took up the “party line” that gay people were degenerate perverts, and so on, and so on. It was painful to listen to and I weakly tried to put in my two cents worth of counterargument, but I was too scared of being found out. Some speculating rumors about my relationship with my roommate had already circulated in the community when I first moved there. I’d had to work hard to dispel them and I didn’t want them resurfacing. So I didn’t have the courage to defend myself and those like me.

I went on hiding out, playing the role, trying to tell myself that my life was okay, even though I knew it wasn’t. What kind of life is it to pretend every moment that you’re somebody else? What kind of life is it to drink every day to numb yourself? What kind of life is it to sense there’s so much more, but never have the courage to reach for it? I went on like that for 13 years until the spring of 1980 when the man I had been with for 10½ years was murdered and then, a month later, my father died. The double whammy almost did me in. It was a very bad time, but Spirit brought me through.

When these double deaths hit, I joined the Baptist church in Evansville that my late lover’s family belonged to. The minister’s eulogy had comforted me. I went back the following Sunday to hear his sermon. It appealed to me intellectually, but there was some element missing. The fact that his church was near empty every Sunday, and the lack of amens to what he was saying from the few in the audience said that he wasn’t reaching them. But I kept going back because I was searching for some spiritual something. Eventually, I joined even though I knew this was not the church or liturgy that satisfied me, but I figured a little bit of something was better than nothing. I wasn’t looking for the church to help me stop drinking. In fact, I had resigned myself to being a prisoner of the bottle for the rest of my life. I knew, by this time, that I had a “drinking problem”. I just didn’t know what to do about it. At any rate, my membership in the Baptist Church was short-lived because several months after joining, I knew I had to leave Evansville.

There was nothing there for me in a career path. And I had long been struggling to make myself fit into the small town outlook and life. It had always been hard for I was a rebel thinker and Evansville was a sea of conformity. Over the years, it had gotten harder, not easier. Now, since my lover—who was my crutch, as well as my “beard”—was dead, and since there was no more blood family in Knoxville or anywhere else, I was free to go. The idea of freedom scared me; yet, it fascinated me. I decided to go to Los Angeles where my friend, Ron lived. I knew he would help me with the move. When I made the decision to move, I was a full-blown alcoholic, and indecision was my usual state of mind. Generally speaking, the addiction to alcohol wouldn’t let me make decisions with ease or clarity. But I did with this one. In January of 1981, I decided, and by May 5th, I stepped off the plane at LAX. That move, I sincerely believe, was Spirit’s pulling me to Unity Fellowship Church.

It would be five years before Providence walked me through its doors. When I got to L.A., I did try three or four churches—a Presbyterian, a Christian Scientist, and a couple of other Protestant. They left me unmoved and bored. I gave up on church. On Sundays, you could find me drinking at home or at a bar.

(end Part 2)

Love Song VII: Eyes

Love Song VII: Eyes
Copyright 2008 – All Rights Reserved

how
youreyes
your
suneyes
stirred
my blood

that last time
that last moment

stirred something
hungry
parched
somethingdeep

youreyes
that last moment

how
they
seared
into
my brain
my
soul

branding
you
into
the
hidden corners
of me
now
open
like a flower
to
your light
to
your sun

youreyes
forever amber

taking me
branding
me
into the marrow
of
your
bones
aching now
with cold
at
my
leaving you

youreyes
that last moment

so full
with
the what
the when
overflowing
with
the
how
of
me
and you

youreyes sunbrown
myeyes earthbrown

taking
the measure
saying
the measure

shining
with rivers of goodbye
that last time

eyes
that last moment

telling.

2/23/08

Love Song VI: The 5 Senses

Love Song VI: The 5 Senses

Copyright 2008-All Rights Reserved

I know

the sound
of
you

know it
by
the whisper
of
rain

the patter
of
raindrops
lonely
gentle
on
my windowsill

I know

the sound
of
you

I know
the touch
of
you

know it
when
thought
of you
streaks
through me
like
summer lightning

blazes
in memory
like
a
wild fire

leaving
your touch
a cool burning
here

just
here
inside
me

I know
the touch
of
you

I know
the smell
of
you

know
your
fragrant
woman-smell

seductive
as
desert
sage

know it
by
the
aching
that
comes
with
the
sweet
earth scent
of
you

wafting on
afternoon breeze
stealing
languidly
into
my
daydreams

intoxicating
my
nightdreams

I know
the
smell
of
you

I know
the
piquant taste
of
you

biting
my lips
like
ginger spice

bursting
with
ruby red
sweetness
like
pomegranate
seeds
falling
slowly
on
my tongue

I know
the taste
of
you

lingering
exotic
disquieting

I know
your
taste

I know
the sight
of
you

see your
face

in
the
soft glow
of
Diana’s moon

exquisite
as
a pearl
shining
above
the ocean
of night

I know
the shape
of
you

by
the
constellation
of stars
you wear

brilliant as diamonds
draped
about
your
velvet neck

I know
the sight
of
you

I keep
the
memory
of you
my love
in
my
five senses

see
the flash
of
your
sky wings
at dawn

hear
you
in
a
waterfall’s
song

taste
you
in
pungent
honey-laced
spices

smell
the
essence
of
you
in
sweet grass
and
lavender

close
my eyes
and
touch
you

brush
your
skin
with
the
smoldering
fire
in
my
fingertips

the
memorance
of you
is
here
always
in
my five senses

always
just
here.


3/5/08

Adventures of a Maverick Author 4: Teaching Mee Street

Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved

One of the advantages for a writer who is also a college professor is using your own book as text for a class. I’ve done that in my Sociology class and English classes several times since my book, The Mee Street Chronicles came out in February of 2007. It’s always an advantage and an adventure to find out what your reader-students have to say about your work. An adventure—a journey both scary and exhilarating. An advantage—a chance to learn things as a writer about my readers. What I’ve learned, thus far, on this journey with my book, is that I can never assume or predict anything about people. People are full of surprises. They are curious. They’ll ask all kinds of questions once they feel comfortable enough with me to do it. They tell me things about myself that I never realized consciously before. They love my stories. They respond to them with warmth, empathy, and good humor. With respect and with love.

The subtitle for my memoir is Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. I think that it’s apt because the stories are straightforward, pull no punches, and truthfully tell it like it is—or was. The stories are “straight up”—no chaser. No mixer to dilute them. No cherries or fruity add-ons to soften the taste; no umbrellas or gimmicky decorations to pretty them up. You get what you get. Or, rather, you get what I lived.

I wrote these stories for those who are lost, who think they aren’t good enough, who are stymied by shame about who they are, who are struggling just to keep their heads up every day. I wrote my book for you—because I was lost. Because I was riddled with toxic shame about who I am. Because I never, ever thought I was good enough. Because I kept drowning in alcohol, in shame, in those voice-tapes that play on and on in my head. I wrote my book to tell you not to give up, to show you that lost or not you can find your path—that you can find your way. Apparently, my Freshmen English students got the message. And liked it enough to wax eloquent about my book. -end-

Erika Alatriste said:
“The Mee Street Chronicles is a great book. There are three parts to the book and they are all great in their own way. This book leaves you wanting more details, more stories, and more memories. My favorite story is “Fever.” It is full of passion, emotion, and is very descriptive. I really enjoyed it because everyone is aware of how men and women are in a relationship and how they first connect, but no one ever talks about same sex relationships. The narrator is very descriptive when it comes to the love of her life. The way the narrator described her love would make anyone fall in love. It is so romantic and leaves the reader wanting more. I would recommend anyone to read this book because it is one of those books that once you start reading you don’t want it to end.”

Marilyn Mata said:
“In my opinion, it is unusual for an author to write about her sexual orientation because society always pushes a heterosexual agenda. The author of The Mee Street Chronicles is truly an admirable woman who writes with honesty and bravery about her struggle with her sexual orientation, alcoholism, racism, social pressure and her working experiences in the field of AIDS. Mee Street has been the best book I have read in a long time. One of the things this book describes is how sexual identity discrimination was practiced a few decades ago in this society. In the story, “Predators,” a woman named Anita Bryant announced on national television that people who are homosexuals are recruiting children to become gay or lesbian. People are always searching for reasons to discriminate against homosexuality. Today, we also hear hateful comments against homosexuality. One of my classmates made an ignorant comment saying gay people should be forbidden to get married because homosexuality causes AIDS and that access to health care will decrease while insurance rates will increase. This, of course, is incorrect. AIDS is not a “homosexual disease.” Anyone can get it. This book opens people’s eyes about sexual orientation. It helps you realize that coming out of the closet is not easy, and how heterosexuals leave a mark on homosexuals.”

Grace Cha said:
“The unique quality of this book is that the events feel so tangible. After reading the story, one can almost say he or she experienced what the author had in the past. The book isn’t filled with superficial comments or ideas in order to put an image in front of the audience; it only gives you the honest truth about an individual. Before I opened up the book and began to read, I wondered what I could possibly learn from this book. Having read it, I believe that this book has taught me many things. This book is written by an incredible author who took that bold step and told her life story. I never knew anyone who is lesbian or gay and although I was never really against it, I also never knew the difficulties they faced or the hardships they have in life or all the hatred and pain caused merely because they are seen to be different. This book changed my life. It changed my views about everything in life. For example, I ask myself this question now when I catch myself judging others: Who are we to judge what the norm is and what goes against the norm? Because of reading about this individual’s life, I have become more aware of the issues that are in the world around me and I am less scared to come out and express my feelings. I can stand in a room full of people who disagree with my opinions and I won’t feel little or intimidated. Now, I’m not scared to be different or worried that I’m different from others.”


The Mee Street Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman's Life is available from http://www.amazon.com/ or from the publisher http://www.kerlak.com/

Love Song V: Conjurer

Conjurer

Copyright 2007- All Rights Reserved

speak
my name
and
let
wind
rise

restless

whipping
slipping
through tops
of trees

summoned

invoked
by
you

say
my name

whisper it
to
the
wind

send it
into
ripples
of
air
to
ride
across
the
sky
like sails
full blown
carrying
precious cargo

conjure
wind

conjure
gods
of air

implore them
entreat them
beseech them
bring
me
to you

stir
bird wings

stir
shadowed mist

stir
old bones

and
bid me
come
to
you
bid me

rise
like smoke
to
crisscross
treetops
peaks
cloud banks

rise
on
filaments
of
your
breath

rise
on
whirl winds
trade winds

rise

fly…

and
come.

9/27/07

Love Song: IV - Sea Change: Summer of 2007

Sea Change: Summer of 2007
Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

your lodestar

shifted
the angle
of the sun

bent
the radius
of my perspective

folded
linear time
past
present
future
into
triangled planes

while
your
moon power
raised
sublime
possibilities
exponentially

placing them
just
there
above
my horizon…

your force

disturbed
the poles
of
my world

charged
changed
their
magnetic direction

while
like
a riptide
you
pulled
my sea
into
to your
sphere

displacing
my currents

drawing
my tides
skyward
to
arc
upward
evermore
to
you…

your moon

imploded
the mysteries
of you
of me
of us
together

shooting us
like stars
somewhere far…near…

somewhere
into
parallel universes

where
the equation
of us
burst
into fire
and sparks
and
circles
unbroken
without end
or beginning…

circles
spinning
out
beyond
eternity.

9/15/07

Love Song III: Empath (for ND)

Love Song III: Empath (for N.D.)

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

gather
the pieces of your wounds
packed neatly in dusty attic boxes
swept carefully under the kitchen rug
dropped haphazardly in bedroom corners
gather the pieces
like hard candies…
wounds
alive
denied
but never
forgotten

gather
the days of your pain
the days
liquid-red
once bloody
and throbbing
now years-hardened
into stiff
brown streaks
lying in bottoms of coffee cups…
gather
the leftover
signs
of hurts
yet denied
but alive
and well

gather
your night terrors
strung together
and hanging
about your neck
like
a noose of pearls
strangling
all breath
cutting off
all life
terrors denied
but still alive
still
well

gather them all now
and
bring them…
wounds, pain, terrors…
press them
etch them
release them
into
onto
me…
for I am your empath

your empath
wounded…
as your scars become mine
your empath
broken…
on the wheel of your pain
your empath
tormented…
by demons of your nights

I am your empath
I am
a balm
to restore
an elixir
to heal

I am your empath
come now
to you
with love
unconditional…
your empath
come
gladly here
with love
for you.

9/9/07

Love Song I: Lyric 2 (To Stacey)

Copyright 2007 – All Rights Reserved


Lyric 2
(To Stacey)


play goodbye
frankie

drop
a coin or two in the box
and

say
goodbye

play it now
frankie

listen
to
the
blues
the muse
the song
that
tells you
why

you
have to

say
play
goodbye

no
you never
wanted
to say it
but

play it
now

while evening dusk
fades
into
night
so lonely so blue


play it
now

while she haunts
the heart
the soul
of
you

play your last
frankie

the die is cast
frankie

go on
say

your
last goodbye

and soon

god please
make it soon

soon

you won’t
remember

soon

you won’t
forget

soon

you won’t
hear
the sounds
of
her
spinning
round in your head
the sounds of her
spinning
round


go on
drop a coin
frankie

then
you can
forget

the lyric

yes
drop a coin
so you can
forget

the melody

drop a coin
so you won’t
forget

the song of her

say it
say
goodbye

because
you will never
ever
play it

because
you could never
ever
say

never
tell her

goodbye.


8/28/07

Meditations III: Sappho's Daughter

Copyright 2007

I can’t say that my being aware of my Lesbianism was the sole cause of my drinking…that being a Lesbian propelled me into alcoholism. I cannot because it wouldn’t be entirely accurate. There are no simple answers here.

I am Sappho’s daughter. And I knew it early on. Inside me, for years, a fierce struggle between fear, desire, and shame had bound me. Had strangled me. Their ceaseless struggle for domination tortured me. Tasked me. I was their prisoner.

Then came alcohol, holding out a promise, a false promise, but a promise, nevertheless: If I would drink of its soothing liquid, I could have peace. If I would but drink, relief from this anguished struggle would cease. And, perhaps, I could forget who I was. My fears had made me a traitor to who I was. My fears had helped drive me into alcohol’s velvet arms.

But soon, I began a new and different kind of struggle: to break free of alcohol’s treacherous currents. For it had betrayed me, finally…had trapped yet another of Sappho’s daughters. Trapped this daughter for twenty-seven years.

In my book, The Mee Street Chronicles, you'll find stories of me and my struggles with alcohol, as well as stories of recovery. Order it from amazon.com, barnes & noble.com, or borders.com.

Meditations II: College & the Bottle

Copyright 2007

My freshman year was pivotal in starting me on the road to alcoholism. I began because I wanted to belong. Because I wanted to be seen as a sophisticate. Not a neophyte, a little southern girl from “the sticks” who really was not hip, slick and cool. I lied when an important date asked me if I drank. I didn’t. But after that night, I did. Rum and coke did me in that night and I ended up passed out in the john with my arms wrapped around the base of the toilet stool. At some point during the week that followed, I vowed to myself that I would “learn” how to drink without passing out. Which, eventually, I did. It took a while before I could get high without getting sick and passing out, but I managed to do it, thanks to those college weekends when my college buddies and I spent our Saturday nights devoted to rum and coke, seven and seven, boiler makers, and the like.


Cut to my sophomore year. The second semester I started drinking during the week on a regular basis. I cut classes, too, so my grades dropped way down from the three-point, B average, that I’d worked so hard to get during my freshman year. Up til then, I’d confined my partying to weekends and ONLY after I’d done all my studying and class assignments. Until that semester, I’d been solicitous of my grades and grade point average. But all that changed. I knew what I was doing when I began to drink like that. I knew I was screwing up, but I couldn’t pull out of screwing up.


When the semester was over and I went home for the summer, I was mortified to face my parents who were sacrificing to send me to a Big Ten college, Indiana University, so far away from home (Knoxville, Tennessee). They didn’t fuss at me or punish me and that made me feel that the two D’s and two C’s on my record were pasted on my forehead like some shameful brand for all the world to see. One of the D’s was in a class that was an introduction to what I thought would be my major, Journalism. What a disaster that semester was!


I think back now and remember a little bit of what was going on inside of me: the conflicts and pain and terror that I was choking back over my same sex attraction. I was trying to use alcohol to cover them, drown them, kill them off.


Anyway, I was so horrified and ashamed about my grades and that I’d let my parents down in their expectations for me to succeed that, from my junior year through my senior year, I rigorously disciplined myself to only drink to excess—“party”—on the weekends or during holidays away from school. I did drink a little bit sometimes during the week, but I never let myself go over the top because I had set a goal to get my grade point average back up to a three-point. Though I succeeded with my disciplined drinking, it only left me yearning for the weekends, for holidays, so I could drink all I wanted. My grades did go up, but the bottle was getting the better of me. Of course, that was a red flag, but I chose to ignore it. Besides, though I didn’t know it, I was already at the point that I couldn’t stop. Will power, I would learn later, was no match for alcohol.


By the time I was a senior, I had my grades way up. My last semester as an undergrad, I scored straight A’s in all my courses. I remember that Joann and some other girls in my dorm marveled at how I could make such good grades and “party” (read “drink to excess”) as much as I did. I was a functioning alcoholic already. But they didn’t know it and neither did I. After graduation, I went right into grad school. One of the benefits of having a single room was the privacy to stash my drink in the closet. The bottle was a fifth. And I never let it go below one-third empty before I dashed out to buy another. That was axiomatic.
----------------------------------------------------