I am (or Kujichagulia)

I am

a Black Woman but that didn’t really matter to me til college.

It’s becoming more and more important to me every day.

a lot more self-conscious than most people would ever believe. I hide it well.

young. I’ll turn 20 in 33 days.

a shopaholic who never buys anything at full price. Also,

a scholarship student who spends her money on shopping sprees.

too stuck in my own ways. I hope being a Sociology major will help me see

through eyes not mine own.

addicted to music.

a Princeton student. I don’t necessarily like the way this makes people think of me.

more perverted on the inside than most people will ever know.

an individual who has an apostrophe in her middle name and tries doggedly to ignore this.

deeply conflicted about whether to wear my hair naturally or to iron it straight

but I am entirely unwilling to kill its beauty with chemicals.

also unsure if I like that having an afro is making a statement.

single. Still. But even though it sometimes gets to me I can really say I’m okay with this. Them boys will come around.

unable to sleep with socks on.

a lover not a fighter but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight for what I love.

overweight. I keep saying I’m going to do something about this that usually involves eating cookies.

learning what it means to have real friends and have the best teachers in the world.

going to make it a point to fall more and more in love with myself every day.

Six Degrees of Steparation

I’ll have you know,

today was going to be the day.

Maybe not with heavy quotes like all those

chick flicks and other assorted life-misrepresentations

but it would have been special enough for me.

(I know my passion sometimes scares you,

but I can be surprisingly extra ordinary

in all the ways that count)

-ing the occasional hallway run-ins,

you’re definitely the one I see the most

(Sadly, this is usually at the most inopportune times,

like when I reeeeally have to pee, or on the fifth or sixth

of my eleven steps to the shower, cap- and robe-clad)

It’s funny—

you claim you’re always in your room,

but as today made it a point to prove,

you’re never around when I want you to be

there for me, holding my hand, like you’ve been thrice before.

You listen as much as I talk:

that's never happened to me before.

And I swear you’re the only man in the world

who can make Kansas

sound as interesting as Kenya.

The line of communication from you to me used to be fuzzy

I don’t remember when I started really hearing you,

but I wanna make sure you get this message

me and no one would ever suspect a thing—

you sound so silly and formal in your texts.

We have to take ourselves out of our element

to ever be truly in it. I know it sounds corny, but

what the hell? Amidst deadlines and stress,

I could use a little corny in my life, so

I’ll just say it: you can make the whole world melt away

from it all, we fall

into this mold that makes us somehow more

but never lingers longer than the tingle of my hand

after you’ve let it go. I don’t know if that means we’re

perfect for one another or

we never will be.

Tonight, though, I was willing to take the chance

-s are, I’m making too much of those little moments,

but the way I see it, there has to be something in

the fact that you’re charming

when I least expect it

and even when I don’t exactly understand why,

I can’t exactly cross you off.

Tonight, I was willing to play the fool

if it meant I could find out

my door I went: one to the right, three forward, then to the left

to the left

Six steps separate me and you

and I, or so I thought.

My customary quiet knock: no answer.

With hope, a little harder, but no

such luck—you’re not there.

(It’s time to say I told you so.) I’ll bid my dream goodbye

as I’d have done you, holding just a little too tight,

granting the lightest kiss on the cheek

-y some might call me, and I must admit,

I’m not that regular a girl, and tonight,

if you had opened that door,

I’d have flipped the script on you.

But it seems like we’re just not ready for that, so

two to the right, three forward, and one to the left

to my own devices, I remember what that ambiguous “They”

always says:

There are six degrees of separation between every person in the world.

Maybe there will never be any less

between you and me.

My Best Friend's Wedding

When all our friends and family have settled down,

and even your not-a-baby-anymore sister has turned to look at me, expectantly,

I’ll stand, smooth out the wrinkles in my just-classy-enough-to-not-be-skanky dress, and

clear my throat, preparing to ignore them all and speak directly to you.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace, right?

I’ll tell you that when I first met you, too long ago for me to remember exactly when,

I didn’t imagine there’d even be a you and I, let alone that we

would share so strong a bond we’d challenge customs, you giving me the title:

Best Woman. I’ll make some tired old joke about how that’s all over now that I’ve been bested.

Not that this was a contest—I entered this race knowing I’d never win. I just wanted to be close to you for as long as I could.

I’m sure I’ll tell them that I’ve never seen you this happy.

Inside I’ll be wondering whether or not that was a lie.

I’ll look towards my right, at the one holding your hand, and after everything, I still won’t be able to tell do I want that to be me?

What I will say is that I’ll give him away if I have to, but on one condition:

She must take better care of you than I have. Depending on how much wine/champagne/whatever-the- hell-the-waiters-have-been-carrying-around I’ve had, I’ll speak the truth:

I’ll say, and I quote, “This man right here is the love of my life. If you hurt him, sleep with one eye open—I know where you lie at night.”

She’ll think I was joking.

You’ll think back to those nights in my kitchen, where I turned against my brother to protect my mother’s “other son,” to who rode shotgun and made you get out of the car to leave your first love letter, to who made the family wait to decorate til you were off from work, so you could do the star. You’ll look at me and know I wasn’t.

You’ll look at me and I’ll feel bold enough to keep going…

I’ll conjure up memories of all those times when it was just you and me, alone but for one another, us against the world,

when Mr. Seigel asked me if any degrees of separation were allowed between us, and I told him firmly, “No.”,

every time some blissfully ignorant stranger referred to us as the “lovebirds”, “such a cute couple”,

how we laughed them off me sometimes wishing they were right.

I’ll tell them the story of the night I realized you were ridiculously in love,

rather than just plain ridiculous. How you readily admitted it.

I’ll bite my lip, wondering if now I can say that forbidden word: jealous. Or if that’s not right, then just lonely at the thought of losing you.

I’ll laugh a laugh that’s half a sigh, take another sip of my wine or whatever, and tell them that I still think you’re ridiculous. I don’t doubt it for a second. You’re crazy—and if you’re crazy about anything, it’s her.

I’ll wish that she can drive you crazy in all the best ways, the ways I never could the ways you never let me try the ways I don’t think I wouldn’t have wanted to.

I’ll turn and look at you while I say that last bit. I’ll have worn waterproof mascara on purpose, and you’ll have “something in your eye,” just like the night I left for too long.

I’ll wish you the best this world has to offer, and then some,

say I’m gaining a sister rather than losing my brother from another.

I’ll tell her Sorry to have to break it to you, honey, but we’re bigger than this, him and me. Congratulations.

Reflection

The sun shines down as I swing my feet backandforth backandforth off the side of a bridge made just for them, too small for cars [and in the wrong area too] as Mother once called it, when I was still too innocent to grasp what she’d meant,

“a bridge too low to throw oneself off.” Sitting here I remember her, and the days we used to come swing on the set in the playground that used to be. Now, having only the bridge, backandforth I make-believe.

Swing my legs back solid-side and I lean against the wood, which, caretaker-less, has aged as much as she and I would have, combined.

Peering down into the pond, I see him rushing past the rushes and lilies floating, chasing the tag-playing tadpoles, the dragonfly longing for an answer to his challenge If I squint real hard it’s her looking back at me and

I want to stretch myself reach as far as I can see if she’s real but this gap I know I cannot breach.

The sweat is running and a butterfly threatens to kiss me as the dragonfly’s still begging me to join he can’t understand that I want to soak up every minute with her I can. One of these days I’ll win this staring contest.

Giving up, the dragonfly lands perfectly enough to walk on water rippling through me and myself. Game Over. That which is beyond our control in this swirled world always undoes us distorts us right out of being.

The Writing on the Walls

Aerosol hisses.

A necklace, beaded with paint, streams,

colors lunging for a place to cling.

And if you shook it up right,

the colors won’t drip,

your words won’t melt away to the concrete,

corners, cars, roads, rocks, tracks below.

Calling yourself an artist, you tag your name,

your game, your claim to walls you didn’t build

and would be powerless to tear down.

Artist, your art is a crime, a force to be stopped:

being that bad-ass is unlawful,

and yet you broadcast on every flat surface you can find.

I don’t know what you’re advertising,

but the whole world is your billboard.

Part of me wants to ask you why,

though I believe I should understand the

words that seem random the sketched sound.

Is nonsense the only language you speak?

Am I supposed to get it,

or must I be in the know to know

who you are, Ghost Writer,

how it is you got up there,

and why exactly you wanted me to stand here

caught in this air-dried moment

wishing I could pull your voice out of the wall?