Pat Parker

Pat Parker (USA) Poet
Sunrise: January 20, 1944
Sunset: June 1989

“If I could take all my parts with me when I go
somewhere, and not have to say to one of them, ‘No, you stay home tonight, you won't be welcome,’ because I'm going to an all-white party where I can be gay, but not Black. Or I'm going to a Black poetry reading, and half the poets are anti-homosexual, or thousands of situations where something of what I am cannot come with me. The day all the different parts of me can come along, we would have what I would call a revolution”

I used to think that there was never going to be a place and time when ALL of my parts would be welcome anywhere. Actually, I still think it, but now it doesn't matter. I take all of me almost everywhere. I realized very early on that I was not who/what people expected. The setting did not matter; I was a misfit. My style, appetite, sexuality, music, everything was just wrong. It seems that there was always something suspect about me.

I say was not because anything has changed but because it no longer matters. I know that I have to honor all that I am. I have to 'tend that inward fire' (to quote Van Gogh). It is ok that others scratch their heads or do a double take, I can embrace myself. I celebrate those seemingly opposing sides of me.

..nappy headed hoes...

Just who is the nappy headed hoe?



It speaks for itself.


I have a blog entry on Indigo Storm discussing this issue further.

untitled

I don't know what to title this posting because I really don't know, right now, where I am going with it.

For Thanksgiving, my mother cooked most of the food and brought it to my house for dinner. The deal was I was to cook for Christmas. So, I called mom, verified that she was still coming and set of to purchase and cook.

I cooked food for about 8 people, even though I knew there would only be 4 of us eating dinner (holiday meals are no fun without leftovers). I had to be at work at 6 AM Christmas morning, so I cooked a little 2 days before, then most everything else on Christmas Eve. Whatever I did not cook, my daughter finished on Christmas while I was at work.

I called my mom's cell phone at 4:30 PM on my way home from work, got her voice mail and left her a message. "Hi Mommy! Merry Christmas! The food should be ready, I am about 5 minutes away from home so I hope you're on your way. OK, see you in a few minutes, I love you. Bye."

My mother NEVER called me back.

Not only did she not call me back, she did not come over for Christmas dinner.

She did not call the day after Christmas either.

My mother called my house on Wednesday, two days after the holiday and said:

"Hey. How long have you been up?"

"Well, all day."

"Oh, well, I'm gonna come by and drop some stuff off. I will see you later."

When she arrives, she offers no apology (which at 38 years old, I know better than to expect) and no explanation. I still have not even heard the words 'Merry Christmas' from my mother.

She is all grins like nothing happened.

So she puts gifts down.

I give her the gifts that have been under the tree for the past 2 days. I finally manage to calmly say, "We missed you on Christmas."

She says " Oh, I went with Sister to one of her co-worker's. He has a nice house. We had prime rib and duck with orange sauce. But, I didn't try the duck. It was really nice."

I am standing in my living room in front of my mother and daughter and I want to tell her to get out of my house. I want to know what the fuck is wrong with her and I want to ask her why she could not have told me that she really had no intention of coming to my house for dinner.

What did I do to her that spending Christmas with strangers was so appealing?

What the FUCK is that about?

I felt embarrassed. I look stupid looking for my mother to arrive at my home for dinner and she doesn't show up.

No, this is not about how it looked.

It is about how I felt.

For quite some time now I have felt that my mother has no use for me. I mean, yes, she's proud of me and loves me. She knows if something happened I'd be there for her. She knows she can trust me to do any financial transactions and would give her my last. My only purpose for my mother is to be there for her in case she gets sick.

But, she has no real use for me. She could take me or leave me.

Actually, to be perfectly honest with myself, she could leave me.

And has.

I mean, how low on her list could I be if I did not even deserve a phone call.

And, yeah, I know....WAHHH! Right? I am crying like a little baby, but FUCK!

I am talking about my mother.

I am angry.

I think I am fair to be angry.

But it becomes unhealthy because I am angry with myself. How many times will I allow my mother to just do whatever to me and I accept it?

How long am I supposed to remain open to her?

How am I supposed to trust my feelings to her?

How do you only close the gate halfway?

I am kind of an all-or-nothing kind of woman. You're either in or your out. I trust you or I don't.

But with my mother, I love her, but I don't trust her.

I wanted to push the issue and tell her that she hurt our feelings by blowing us off for Christmas, and I did not. I knew that it would just lead to an argument.

But, what did I really avoid? I mean, I am angry with her anyway. I don't want to see her or talk to her. I am just LIVID.

She never apologizes. I have never gotten a straight apology from my mother. Her apologies are always Pyrrhic victories--you win but it costs much more than you would ever gain. What would be the point in that?

I feel like I did as a child, just so frustrated by her and like I belonged to another mother. I just had to belong to someone who had real feelings and empathy.

OK, maybe the name of this posting could be childhood. or depression. or anger. I recall now my first depression. Winter 76/77, we had a tragedy in the family, my uncle died in an apartment fire. We all lived in the same building. We came home from shopping for a Christmas tree to find our building fully involved and no one could get to Uncle Lawrence's apartment. That winter and spring I was withdrawn and sullen.

I was clinically depressed at 8 years old.

When I tried to talk to my dad, my mother would shush me, because he was grieving his brother.

When I tried to talk to her, she would not hear me or I would not be able to find the words.

I felt so very alone. I wondered why no one wanted to know about me. I wondered what was wrong with me.

Some days, like Christmas evening, I wonder, what the fuck is wrong with me that my own mother would rather be anywhere but here?

This has offered some clarity. Maybe there is more to my Seasonal Affective crap than just daylight and chemicals? Maybe I need to figure out how to leave the gate partially closed. Maybe there are reasons for my insecurities and feeling less than.

I won't go all Freudian and blame everything on my mother, but hell, I can see that there are some issues that I used to pass over as 'how she is' or even worse 'i just get a little sad', but there is more to it and I deserve to be honest with myself and see the whole picture.

Whatever it holds I am finally ready to see it all.

And by all means, if my viewpoint is askew(or in any other way: all off*, all wet*, all wrong, amiss, awry, defective, fallacious, false, faulty, flawed, inaccurate, incorrect, inexact, invalid, misguided, mistaken, off, specious, spurious, unfounded, unsound, untrue, way off, wrong number ), please tell me.

I was wished courage for Christmas, I think I could use it already.

peace.

Now you see me...oh, no, you don't (being femme)

It is frustrating, being invisible. It is still something that I cannot figure out how to navigate.

Years ago, I had a heated argument with my former partner about black femmes. I told her that we are invisible and that in order to be seen, we must either wear something which identifies us as gay, be in an environment that would identify us as gay, or overtly flirt. Otherwise, how would you spot us? I mean, there is no specific haircut or handshake. We are largely invisible. I mean, if your gay-dar is really, really good you might spot me, but you would question yourself. I challenged her to test it out. When we are out, how many black femmies do you see? Then, when at a gay event, gathering, how many of the femme women there would you walk past and assume to be straight if you were in another environment?

It's frustrating. I do not, generally, flirt. I mean, I have had my moments, but for the most part I like to be approached. Actually, I love to be approached. I make eye contact, to communicate that I am open to some conversation, but that is about it for me. It's subtle, and if you are not looking for subtle you would miss it completely. I really don't like the bar scene, unless I am going out dancing. I like live music, museums, and the theatre. I like to learn things and have wonderful conversations. But I am easy to miss.

I am femme. I cannot walk hard. I do not act hard. I think butch women are sexy. I do not define butch as masculine, or hard. It's hard to define, but so delightful to see. It is not about 'acting like' anything, it's natural, sexy, and real. That is what I like. I assume that a woman who is attracted to me, is attracted to my heels, purses, lipstick, and tight jeans.

So, femmes, be of good cheer. Keep your head up. Making eye contact; you know, the kind that would make a straight woman uncomfortable, but lets a butch woman know exactly where you're coming from.

; )
Peace.