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The 26th Project: The list that began it all

This is the initial list that Tony and I exchanged back in 2007 and the crazy short story that resulted.

  1. Amsterdam
  2. Blind
  3. Crazy
  4. Dawn
  5. Edify
  6. Fracture
  7. Giddy
  8. Homage
  9. Infantile
  10. Jaded
  11. Klondike
  12. Lesbian
  13. Marsupial
  14. Negro
  15. Operatic
  16. Palestine
  17. Queer
  18. Radical
  19. Scientology
  20. Truncate
  21. Utopia
  22. Vixen
  23. Whimsical
  24. Xenophobe
  25. Yearn
  26. Zygote

My arrival on earth had been delayed by an unexpected brush with a meteor storm soon after passing Venus.  My destination Alaska where I would meet up with other members of the Interspecies Liberation Movement to get the revolution started on another planet – Earth.

I was dressed for the frigid landscape of the land of the midnight sun in midnight blue leather, of course. A leather jumpsuit with matching parka trimmed in silver fox and my signature six inch stiletto boots. Ok, not your traditional Klondike attire but stylish, totally hot and totally me.

I was all ready to step from my glitter capsule into the crisp Alaskan air but when the hatch opened I found myself, instead, smack dab in the middle of Amsterdam’s red light district at dawn. As the sun rose in the sky its rays reflected off the garish windows of the brothels and sex shops. The glare left me blind.

This was crazy!! I was in Amsterdam. There was no radical queer community waiting to pay homage to an intergalactic vixen preaching interspecies rights. Instead of throngs of worshipers chanting my name in sweet operatic tones I was surrounded by dirty old men in trench coats and drunken tourists stumbling in and out of the shops and brothels – so inane, so infantile.

No revolution here. Just crazed Dutch boys that didn’t want to vibe on my message, they only yearned to cop a feel on my muscular, chocolate, 6 foot 8 inch frame.  I lifted the flap on my pouch and pulled out a pair of silver framed sunglasses.

“Look Hans” one of the Dutch boys shouted “I don’t think she’s just a Negro. I believe she’s one of those interspecies hybrids.” A crowd started to gather. All of them watching, pointing, and getting a little giddy.

I cleared my throat and spoke. “Listen up folks I am not a neee-gro. I am a Black Lesbian Marsupial with a message for you. It’s a message about Utopia. If you care to listen?”

They kept mumbling and staring. Finally a short red-haired stud stepped forward, grabbed me by the arm and said “I feel you sister but these are lost causes. Let’s get out of here.”

We slipped into the coffeehouse at the Van Gogh Museum. “What happened? I’m here in Amsterdam and nothing. Where’s the love?”

Maxie, the red-haired dyke, told me that every since Tom Cruise had moved to the Netherlands and started throwing around Scientology doctrine and more importantly money there was a fracture in the community.

“So that’s why they’re so jaded – Scientology. Well I’ll be damned” I said

We left the café and headed toward my glitter capsule. I pulled out my astral map to chart a course for the nearest commune.

A trench coated xenophobe whipped open his coat and flashed me. “Want to play girlie” he slurred and reached out to touch me.

Just then a location lit up on the astral map – Palestine. As I charted my course I felt the jerk’s hand on my shoulder. I spun around and kicked the little weirdo, knocking him flat on his ass. “My back! You broke my back! I’m paralyzed” he screamed.

I scanned his body with my x-ray/CAT scan watch. “Quit whining you zygote. It’s not even fractured.”

I started for the Glitter capsule again. Ï heard footsteps running behind me. It was a band of queers “Wait! Wait! We yearn for Utopia. Take us with you” they called.

I could have turned around and given them a lecture but I needed to get to Palestine. There was no time to edify the masses now so I did the next best thing.  I said, “Get on board. I’ll tell you on the way to Palestine.”  We all climbed into the capsule, battened down the hatches and took off for the Promised Land.

We landed in Palestine an hour later. I had changed in to a hot pink leather mini dress with matching stilettos. I fluffed up my afro and opened the hatch. My motley crew and I were welcomed by the sweet refrains of the liberation anthem. The weather was hot, crazy hot and the sun reflected of the desert sand was blinding.

A sister from my home planet stepped out of the crowd and gave me a big hug. She was dressed in an identical leather mini-dress and stilettos only in lime green. “What kept you sister Yar? The Klondike team froze their butts off waiting for you” she said.

“Well I could tell you the whole sordid story but our “peeps” are waiting. Do you mind if I truncate?” I asked.

“Truncate! I like the sound of that. Truncate, my sister, truncate.” Xena said with a whimsical smile.

I gave her the reader’s digest version of my trip including the meteor storm and my stop in Amsterdam.  “Scientology! Wow!” she said at the end of my story. “I knew it was out there but it’s becoming a frigging cult.” “With Tom Cruise as its leader, the revolution can’t start soon enough” I said.

“Who are they,” she asked pointing to the wide-eyed, scraggly group standing close to the capsule. “They’re cool. Met them in Amsterdam and they came along for the ride,” I said. I let Maxie do the introductions.  Pretty soon everyone was talking and smiling.

I cleared my throat to get their attention. “That’s right, all eyes here,” I said. “Now that we all know one another let’s get this party started.”

“The sun’s pretty bright out there” Xena said as she put on her sunglasses with lime green frames completing her outfit. “I hope you brought some shades.”

“Am I not a Black, lesbian marsupial” I asked unsnapping the flap over my pouch and pulling out a pair of sunglasses to match my hot pink ensemble. We looked at each other, smiled then hopped towards the city to preach interspecies liberation to the believers waiting at the commune in Palestine.

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“The 26th Project”: Rebooting a Writing Project

In 2007, with my friend Antonio E. Johnson, I began a whimsical writing experiment we called “The 26th Project.”

We began by exchanging a list of 26 words beginning with a different letter of the alphabet (from A-Z) and, using these words, we each wrote a short story.

From this humble beginning I set a goal to collect lists of 26 words from 26 very diverse individuals from around the world – gay, straight, multicultural, multi-ethnic and from different socio-economic backgrounds – that would celebrate the diversity of imagination.

Like most projects, this one got off to a great start but got bogged down by LIFE. So I am rebooting this project and encourage you to send me your list of 26 words and let’s see what stories they tell.

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The Secret Society of Twisted Storytellers “Storytelling Slam”

And the winner is – ME!!!! The theme was “Stand Your Ground” and I told a story about standing my ground in support of the city I love Detroit, MI, in support of building community by supporting local businesses and in standing your ground for respect as a consumer. An eclectic field of ten storytellers, but in the end there could be only one -winner that is – and I am so honored to be that winner.

The Secret Society of Twisted Storytellers (TSSOTS) was created by award-winning performer and actor Satori Shakoor. TSSOTS has a global mission and purpose to connect humanity, heal and transform community and provide an uplifting, thought-provoking, soul-cleansing entertainment experience that is unique through the art and craft of storytelling. In Detroit on the third Friday of the month? Come experience TSSOTS at the Museum of African Am erican History.

 

 

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Message for Mandiba

Every day I read another report on the condition of Nelson Mandela or falsely claiming South Africa’s beloved Mandiba has died.

I can only imagine his thoughts as he lays in that hospital bed – having done so much and knowing that there is so much yet to be done. Seeing the sadness and grief not only in his family’s eyes but on the faces of everyone who comes in to visit from nurses to dignitaries. He is Mandiba, father and like any family elder it is hard to let them go, hard to imagine life without their presence.

My aunt “Little Nanny” was 94 when she transitioned. She was the last one having out lived parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. She was the family matriarch.  Life without her seemed unimaginable.

After each trip to the hospital she’d look at me and say “I’ve been to the mill and back. Never thought I’d be here this long.” As the trips to the hospital became more frequent, when we got back home she would look at me and say “Michelle, we’vebeen to the mill and back. How many more times do you think we’re going to make this trip?” I’d smile and say “as many times aas you need to make it.”

And like the proverbial comeback kid, each time the doctors said this was the last time, and everyone would gather around to say heartbroken goodbyes, Nanny would take a look at all the faces and decide to hang in there just a little longer. She’d tell me “Gwen needs to get a good car.”  She’d ask “How is Fred really? i can tell he is not feeling good.” “You think Terrance and Karol will make it to the altar?” And looking  at me say “Who is going to take care of you Michelle? I’m sorry all this landed on your shoulders. We sure have been to the mill and back.”

About a month before her transition, Nanny and I had a talk I told her that her family was going to be ok and all that she had stood for would go on gave her peace of mind and we spent that last month in a love fest of hugs, kisses and laughter.

That last night in hospice, as she struggled with each breath, I kissed her forehead  and told her it was ok if she wanted to go home to be with her mom, dad, sister, brothers and husband. We had been to the mill, but this time I could go back by myself and it would be ok. About ten minutes later, Little Nanny drifted off going home to be with the ancestors

If I could visit Nelson Mandela I would kiss him on his forehead, thank him for everything, promise to continue his work. He has been to the mill and back many times but now it is time for us to pick up the message, and continue the work. I wish Mandiba safe passage home to the ancestors. Rest now mighty warrior.

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That Afro puff story got my hair all twisted – Rantings of an Afro Puff Warrior

Afro Puff Warrior Woman

Afro Puff Warrior Woman

Like many African American women I have had a love/hate/love history with my hair. I have worn it long, short, straight, braided, twisted and natural. I have covered it with wigs and had it dyed every shade of red imaginable and even a few shades of blonde. We, my hair and I, have traveled a long way to get to the place of love we share today.

You see I was born that middle child. I was supposed to be the long awaited son but instead they got me. Unlike my older sister with her fine curly “good” hair, I came into the world with a head full of thick, unruly, ‘had a mind of its own’ hair.

If my mother braided it in pig tails, it didn’t lay flat like my sisters. After a few hours of play, it would work its way free from the rubber bands and rise up, so my mother and aunties would say, like “someone had sprinkled baking powder on it.”

When appearance really mattered I would sit between my mother’s or aunt’s knees, my head in a knee-lock vice grip, and have it braided so tight my head would hurt. I’d cry “Take it easy” but my hair was a beast and taming it could not be done by “taking it easy.”

One year there was a big wedding. Relatives came from far and wide. When time came for hair combing I started to cry before my mother even touched me because I knew she was going to pull those braids so tight my toes were going to curl.

Aunt Helen who was in from North Carolina asked me what was wrong to which my sister answered “She doesn’t have ‘good’ hair like me. Mommy has to really comb it hard to make it look nice and it’s going to hurt.” She probably giggled (yes she was that kind of big sister.)

Well Aunt Helen looked at me and said “Come here baby. There’s nothing wrong with this child’s hair. You just have to work with it.” She took the comb and brush from my mother, worked a little hair magic and when she was done I was rocking my first set of Afro Puffs.

When I saw the photo on face book of the smiling little girl with her Afro Puffs above the headline that an Ohio School was banning Afro Puffs and braids I felt a pang in my heart.

Horizon Science Academy in Ohio sent a letter to parents including a ban on some Natural hair styles including Puffs as not in keeping with their dress code.

Seriously in 2013 natural hair banned, lumped in with other personal appearance bans like Mohawks, hair dye and body piercings!!!

Ironically I read this post on the same day my city Detroit, Michigan celebrated the 50th anniversary of the March in Detroit where Dr. King first gave his I have a dream speech in 1963.  We all remember his dream for his four little children (two were little girls) that they would “one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

I’m sure if he were alive today; Dr. King would look at that photo of that beautiful child with her puffs and see his own daughters Yolanda and Bernice.

Maybe he’d remember seeing their heads locked in that knee vice grip, remember hearing them cry as their mother or auntie braided or pressed their hair so it would be acceptable to a world where little black girls were repeatedly told they weren’t good enough, weren’t pretty enough.

I’m thinking he’d feel more than a pang in his heart that in 2013 the quintessential pretty black child look, the Afro Puff, along with braids and natural hair would be banned as unacceptable to Horizon Science Academy’s dress code. .

I believe he would see that speaking out against this ban and talking about instilling self-love in our children was part and partial of not being judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character if the dream is to ever be fulfilled.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not pointing the finger solely at Horizon, this decision did not come in a vacuum. We need only look at the community in the mirror with our penchant for assimilation, each generation getting further and further away from being black as we become more multi-racial, people of color to see how any school board could so blindly see this as just a matter of personal appearance on the same level of body piercing.

I bet Dr. King would be mad as hell, not just at Horizon but at us as community for still allowing our beautiful black children to be seen through a lens of beauty that denies our history, culture and inherent African American beauty

When I saw the photo on face book of the smiling little girl with her Afro Puffs, I remembered all those years I thought I was not pretty and some of the questionable choices I’ve made (like the blond hair) trying to fit someone else’s idea of pretty.

I think of all those dollars I spent on hair products trying to tame my hair so I would look “more professional” when trying to get a job, knowing my black skin was already a strike against me.

I think about how it still stung a little, just recently when someone asked me if I combed my beautiful natural hair and how appalled I am that people still ask if they can touch my hair (yes my hair, part of me  not IT).

Although my first thought was to twist up my Afro puffs, gas up the car and head down to OHIO, instead I twisted up the puffs, gassed up the car and went over to visit my nieces. The youngest was wearing her puffs too. I told her “I love your puffs.” I gave her a big hug and said YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!

 

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