East

If I should choose a direction
I would travel east
And count how many nights it takes
To return to the footprints of my soul
Or maybe I’ll get lost
And dance under leaves of trees
I’ve never seen before
The smell of freedom forever brightening my view

I might make a home in that moment
Live a thousand lives in that moment
And tumble over air, still warm with your breath
The harmony of my being catching rainbows
Tracing borderlines of countries
Insensitive for societies
Because my heart is but a thunderstorm
And rain is all that belongs to me

And I promise
I’ll make death wait on me
When the wind no longer burns in my veins
I’ll embrace my stellar destiny
Hide within Osiris and forever chase
The origin of my name

But for now, I would travel east
Trace the dust of the sun
And braid silk and satin words
Out of memories lingering in the
Hallways of my mind
Just in case you need to find me

I would travel east
And crumble the moon into pieces
Wrap them up in fairytales and
Shadows of unknown languages
My essence, small enough for you to
Wear under your skin
I’ll pin your smiles on the deep, dark nights
And when you finally travel east
You’ll understand the ocean’s song
As we count distance and time
With single eyelashes blown into the emptiness that you left
And when you’re far enough
You’ll understand that a mother’s love
Is the only thing pure enough
To create life
After death

Poems In Ink

This is a call to all poets for a new project: I’m looking for poets worldwide to exchange handwritten poetry with.

You know, the way people used to write letters, back in the day before Facebook and Twitter and text messages and what not. If you are interested, send me a message on here or by email (soraya_deb@yahoo.com). We exchange postal addresses or POBoxes and send each other 1 poem by regular mail. You can decorate the paper, explain the poem, tell me the background story, your inspiration,… whatever you feel like, as long as you send me a poem. Handwritten and signed with your poetry name or real name. Whatever you choose.

I will do the same for every poet who helps me out. This project has no commercial reasons, it’s just a way to satisfy my passion. Let’s get the ball rolling.

Oh btw, I’m located in Belgium – Europe, just in case you’re wondering

A gesture of appreciation

Five more days before school starts again. I can’t wait. It has been fun having the kids around all the time, not having to get up early and rush them to get in school on time. But two months is long enough. Not just for me, but for them too.

They are crazy about each other. Sometimes they act like a Siamese twin. My couch is big enough to fit seven adults on it, yet the both of them sit in the same corner to watch tv. Sometimes it’s hard to make out which legs belong to who. They find it hard to share a candybar, but not to share a blanket.

But sometimes, all this extra time together makes them rebel. Against each other. Against me. Against the whole world and the whole universe. All of the sudden an angry look on Kymany’s face will make Badu cry. “She is always angry at me. She doesn’t like me.” And once that storm calms down, Kymany’s world ends in tears because her sister never wants to play with her.
I’m not the best referee. I get annoyed when they cry over small things that really don’t matter much. But it matters to them. A long time ago we agreed on a rule: we only cry when we are hurt. So when they start whining and crying over something small like a tv program that hasn’t been paused because one needed to run to the bathroom, this little nagging feeling bubbles up from inside my stomach and I tell them:” Stop crying! You are not in pain!” Of course more tears: “Yes, I am! My heart is broken and it hurts!” Oh my… Here we go again.

This morning they were playing together and I was on the couch reading a book. I was happy that they were behaving, even though I expected some shouting and crying to erupt at any time now. After a while I’ve noticed that it got quiet. Then Kymany opens the door with a big smile (I still love her dimples so much) and Badu shows up next to her, with possibly an even bigger smile. Kymany puts her left arm around Badu’s shoulder and she responds by putting her arm around Kymany’s hip. I sit there, with my book open on my lap, looking at them.

“Mommy, we want to thank you for everything you do for us and because you are the sweetest mommy in the whole wide world, we are going to do the laundry for you. You just sit there and read your book, we will take care of everything.”

And before I can tell them how sweet they are (or that they shouldn’t put colored with white laundry), they both run – with that same big smile on their pretty little faces – to the washing room and start working as a professional two-little-girls-team to get the laundry, soap and fabric softener in the machine. No arguments, no tears, no fighting. No stress.

And even though they might have poured in just a little bit too much soap and just not enough fabric softener, it’s alright. They poured a lot of love into it. And in the end, that’s all that matters

Did he lie again?

9 p.m. Bedtime for the girls. I tuck them in, kiss and hug them goodnight. “Mommy, I love you” as I go downstairs. “I love you too, girls. Goodnight!”

Ten minutes later and Badu shows up in the living room. “Mommy, why didn’t daddy come back yet? Did he lie again?” All I can do is nod yes. I spread my arms and she runs to me. One single tear rolls down her cheek. And there we sit, hugged up on the couch, both unwillingly thinking about the same person who has hurt us in different ways.

I can’t help but think about the millions of times that I’ve been telling him, asking him, begging him to stop lying to the kids.I don’t mind him lying to me, I’m used to it and it’s honestly the only thing I expect from him. But my daughters are young, and they still believe that people are honest and keep their word. Especially when it comes to their father. A promise is a fact. Hope is truth.

He has put my girls through five years of lies, disappointments, heartache and pain. I’ve decided that it’s enough. His priorities are not in parenthood. I need to protect them from unnecessary pain. It’s not like he’s making a lot of effort to stay in touch with them. This is hard but I know that it’s for the best in the end.

But how do I explain to an 8 year old and a 6 year old that their father can’t handle the responsibility that comes with raising children? How do I tell them the truth without bashing him? How can you tell innocent children that it’s for the best to keep their father out of their lives? What words will help them understand without hurting their feelings?

I don’t really know. And I’m supposed to be good with words. But I wasn’t prepared for this. I never planned on having to deal with my children hurting over their biological father. And honestly, when I see my kids hurting, words seem to hold no weight. So up until now I try to help them make sense out of a senseless situations. By answering any question they might have. And so far hugs and kisses are our main comfort. We are like a bunch of huggy bears haha.

I do realize that I’m forced to be their mother and their father at the same time. I have to be both combined in one. But I’m not complaining. I get all the love back. A million times multiplied. I am truly blessed.

The Ugly Duckling – a real story

In elementary school they used to make fun of the kids wearing glasses, the one with the fierce red hair, the one with the terribly long legs. The kid with the braces, the smart ones, always studying, getting great results. The freckled face, the chubby one. Kids express terrible creativity when it comes to hurtful nicknames. The group against the individual. The ‘normal’ kids against the ‘weird’ one.

Years later and – all of the sudden –  glasses, red hair and long legs are sexy. Intelligence, straight teeth, freckles and curves are flattering. The initiation of admiration and lust.
A lot of adults still seek the safety of being an invisible part of the group, but it’s no longer a sign of strenght and power. It becomes the exact opposite. The one who stands out in a crowd is now the one they wish to be (but are probably too afraid to become). The group now looks up to the power of the individual.

Do we need to be tormented before we get appreciated?   Is it faith that the one who struggled his or her way through childhood and school now becomes the center of attention? How much sense does it make that being bullied for being different turns into being attractive for that exact same reason? Is the story about the ugly duckling turning into a beautiful swan inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s personal experience? If not, he was a great observor.
The underlying messages in fairytales never fail humanity. Morals and norms taught in a beautiful story. It’s a pity we stop reading them once we become adults. And it seems like a lot of grown-ups forget all about the fairytale lessons. Even though life really is better when you allow some magic in it…

Panick in the city

Every now and then, when I’m just strolling through the city, minding my own business, enjoying the sunshine warming my skin, my eye catches a random stranger with a look of pure panick on his or her face. And right then and there my fantasy and curiosity gets the best of me.

I’m a very curious person by nature. I love observing people and analyzing them.
So my mind starts racing immediatly. What is this person scared of? Why is he walking around so fast, not looking at a single person, trying to be invisible? All kinds of scenarios entertain my thoughts. Did he just steal something? Does some crazy mafia hitman have a bullet with his name on it? Or would he be just a random person who came in the possession of some secret government information and is now the main target of some secret assassin service?

Maybe she cheated on her husband and just learned that he found out. And the husband is a psychotic obsessive lunatic who’s already sharpening his knives to cut her and her lesbian lover up in pieces, while screaming “If I can’t have you for myself, no one will have you!”. Or she just escaped from being introduced into the prostitution network by human traffickers. She could be a nurse who just killed an old person after forcing him to put her in his testimony. And now she’s on the run, because she might have been caught. Or maybe…

I know, I know. My fantasy tends to get out of control. And I enjoy it. Usually. But honestly, it just looks weird to walk around the city or get of a bus with a facial expression formed by some secret personal terror. It leaves mere passants like me struggling with this nagging, wondering-what-happened feeling.

The things you see in the city….

LL Cool J is unconquerable

Ladies Love Cool J. Who doesn’t know him? Old skool hip hop artist to some, pop artist to others, actor to everybody else. Women drool over his muscles and lips. His eyes and smokey voice. Yes yes, he’s kinda sexy.

The thing I always liked about him, is that he never gave in to the hype, he doesn’t do gangsta rap. He stays true to how he started out. I think that is a reason why it was easier for him to make the transition to becoming an actor. His musical career didn’t pin him down to playing a certain roll. He has quite some titles on his name by now. I don’t think I’ve seen all of them. I saw the best ones. But something I have noticed over the years though, LL never dies in a movie. No matter how hard the beating he gets, how many bullets, if he gets electrocuted, stabbed, strangled and what not, no matter if sharks try to digest him, … in the end he survives AND saves the day. Oh and the lady of course.

It is a remarkable fact. Because usually, in action/adventure movies the black actor is one of the  first ones to die.

Well, good ol’ LL never dies. thats a fact. It’s also a fact that Cuba Gooding Jr. cries in every movie. But that’s a whole other story.

If you happen to be one of those die-hard fans who has seen every single movie he has been in and you can prove me wrong, please send me the title of the movie LL dies in. Until then, he will always be LL The Invincible!

Must be nice

I’ve loved this song since the very first time I heard it. It has been one of those lyrics you hold on to, when you meet someone and you wonder if there’s a future in it.

Must be nice
Having someone who understands the life you live
Must be nice
Having someone who’s slow to take and quick to give
Must be nice
Having someone who sticks around when the rough times get thick
someone who’s smile is bright enough to make the projects feel like a mansion
Must be nice
Having someone who loves you despite your faults
Must be nice
Having someone who talks the talk but also walks the walk
Must be nice
Having someone who understands that a thug has feelings too
someone who loves you for sho’
you just remember to never let ’em go

Chorus:
Even when your hustling days are gone
She’ll be by your side still holding on
Even when those 20’s stop spinning
and all those gold-digging women disappear
she’ll still be here

2nd Verse: 
Must be nice
Having someone you can come home to from a long day of work
Must be nice
Having someone you don’t have to show they know exactly where it hurts
Must be nice
Having someone who trusts you despite what they’ve heard
Someone as mighty as a lion but still as gentle as a bluebird
Must be nice
Having someone you don’t have to tell you don’t want to be alone
Must be nice
Having someone you can grow old with until God calls ya’ll home
Must be nice
Having someone who understands that a thug has feelings too
someone who loves you for sho’
you just remember to never let ’em go

Chorus

“Mommy,what are condoms?”

“Mommy, what are condoms?” I was caught off guard when my 5 year old asked me this question. She and her sister were watching a kiddie program about surviving in the wild. I sat on the couch with them, but I wasn’t paying attention to the program.

“What did you say?” I asked, trying to disguise my surprise and buying myself more time to find a kids-proof answer to the question. Answering a question with a question always works if you want to postpone a reply.

“What are condoms?” they now both asked at the same time. Still thinking about how to answer while trying to prevent more questions, I asked them what was said about condoms on tv. “Well he puts water in it and then puts it in his pocket”.
“Oh, but I guess he uses them to carry water while he’s in the woods, because they are water proof. He can tie a knot in them and that way he won’t loose any water.”
“And condoms are also used by men who don’t want to make babies” I added as if that was just one of the many things you can use condoms for.

They both said “oh” and luckily for me the next program started and their attention shifted back to tv. A relief.

This is the second time that I got really close to having “the talk”. The first time was when I was talking about the baby in my belly. Badu asked if O. will be the daddy.  I said that he put the baby there so he’s the father. Two seconds of silence. I was just waiting on the question: “How did he put the baby there?” I was bracing myself, but I was ready to explain. They didn’t request more details. They just continued talking amongst themselves about whether the baby would look like O. or like me. It was a close call, but I was safe.

I know, one day I won’t be able to avoid this conversation. They are very curious about everything.  But if possible, I would like for my kids to make an appointment and give me at least a week time to prepare for it. I won’t forget. I promise. I will write it in big red letters in my agenda. I’ll even add a few big fat exclamation marks…

Pointing fingers

Sometimes I find myself sitting with my face resting in one hand, 3 fingers bent against my cheekbone, my thumb under my chin, and my index finger stretched across my cheek, with the fingertop resting right next to my ear.

As soon as I realize the position I’m in, I correct myself. A small but significant correction. I bend my index under my chin too. Why? That exact same position reminds me of my father. He used to sit like that when he was drunk and his mind was racing. Nobody knew what was going on in his head, but I knew, if he would sit like that, with his finger stretched across his cheek, trouble was about to happen.

The very moment I realized this is imprinted in my memory. Very vividly. Like a snapshot. Very sharp, clear image. Not a moment that took long. I don’t remember what came before it, nor what exactly happened next . I just remember the breakthrough, the AHA-moment.

When we were little and we went somewhere by car, I would sit in the middle on the back seat, with my brothers on the left and the right. I was like a barrier to prevent them from fighting (eventhough that didn’t stop them). I also had the best view on the road ahead. And the front seats.

It was a sunny day and if I remember it right, it was a grey car. I was probably around 7. I don’t know if we just left to go somewhere or if we were on our way back. I know that my father was drunk. My mom annoyed. They started bickering back and forth. Tension was building up. My brothers were there, but it felt like it was just me in the backseat, staring at my dad.
I was scared for what was about to come. My heart started beating faster. My muscles tensing up and I subconsciously start to breathe a bit more quiet. You know that feeling, when you are watching a movie and the plot is about to unfold? The music builds up and you are sitting on the edge of your seat, anticipating what’s about to come. That might be the best way to compare it. Except this wasn’t a movie, but every day life for me. I didn’t choose to pop this movie in, I was born in it.

They kept snarling at each other. All of the sudden it got quiet. I looked at my dad. He was slightly leaning to the right. His elbow against the window, his forearm stretched out alongside of it. His left hand against his face. 3 fingers bent against his cheekbone, his thumb under his chin and his index finger stretched across his cheek, with the fingertop resting right next to his ear. Like it was pointing out the danger of what was going on inside his head. And I remember thinking:”That’s it! He always sits like this right before a fight breaks out!”

I leaned back and pushed myself against the car seat a bit more than usual. I wanted to sink in it, disappear in it. This was not a good sign. Did my brothers see what was about to go down? How bad would it be this time? Maybe if my brothers would just start fighting now, my parents were going to forget about their bickering-on-the-edge-of-becoming-a-full-blown-fight.

I don’t remember anything after that revelation. It was a valuable lesson though. Growing up, I learned to observe people, as a survival skill. Read the small changes in body language, voice intonation, even pattern of breathing. It told me when to escape to my room. Pretend I couldn’t hear anything. Silently crying when the pillow over my head did not block out the sounds of screaming and yelling, the accusations, the beatings, the breaking of plates and glass, the pain and frustration being released as a atomic bomb. And then I would cry louder. Scream. The sound of my voice was more comfortable than the sonic picture being forced onto my vivid imagination.

I moved out when I was 19. My father stopped drinking almost 8 years ago. They are older and calmer now. It’s more than 20 years later, but I still correct myself when I sit like my father sat that day in the car. It’s intruiging how little details can trigger a whole series of memories…