blackgirl on mars: notes on a life in copenhagen (or how my alienation brings me closer to people).

Today is D's 40th birthday. Of all the many things I could give her: books, pens, a vegan dinner it is Brooklyn she wants. We are both daughters of Brooklyn, so I understand her. I awake 5:30 am and despite the fact that I have been in New York for a week, it is only now that I am ready to venture into Brooklyn. It would be the first time in 2 ½ years that I will be seeing the borough of my birth. When you were born, it snowed. It was March but there was so much snow. D's plan is to walk into Brooklyn. We are both staying at Marie's—our agent/mentor in a cozy uptown brownstone jammed with books and other orphaned artists. D is dealing with not only the loss of her mother, but her lover and a family that has ostracized her. In many ways one could say that I am dealing with the same thing. They have torn down the hospital in which you were born. I have never walked over the Brooklyn Bridge before. I remember once, as a child, I attended one of its birthdays. My friend's...

Like a snowflake you fall to earth (no two ever alike) You drift eagerly (a bit too eager) to the earth & kiss-- the most natural response to gravity... & find the warmth conducive to Life. But we called you here you say we called you here. And I answer: Yes we did & know that it had everything to do with Love. And although snow vanishes melts, returns to earth Know that like you it has existed, albeit brief & you will be remembered forever.

So the other day my neighbor complained about all the noise I make. It was rather embarrassing, especially since she chose to let me have it in the backyard where other people could hear. She particularly complained about my "loud African music"...hmmm, did't know I was playing anything that would fall under that heading. It was funny though, cause it was just one of those typical Danish things to say. Drums? Rhythm? Ahhh...yes, it must be, oh dear, AFRICAN! Speaking of which I went to what is one of the few Reggae clubs in this city the other night. It was the last night for a while, and I hadn't been there in YEARS. Let's just say that the last time I was there I was in my early 30s. That says a lot. Anyway, when I was there I realized why I liked it so much. Besides the obvious, reggae music, it manages to pull in a pretty neat group of people. There's the young, college crowd, the Internationals (people who come from all over the world and feel at home the...

There's an old lady that I keep on seeing. She's one of those eccentric ones, you know, with the colourful hats and mischievous glint in her eyes...when she sees me, she smiles as if she recognizes something. I wonder what it is? The creases on her face know no resting place, and map out stories I can not even begin to decipher. The thing about old age is that it transcends race, gender, nationality. I want to drink tea with her, listen to her stories. What would she tell me? About loves not had, lovers had, babies conceived, perhaps not? What is her story? And is she really content moving about, her back bent, lipstick smeared, good looks but a distant memory...but still..there is beauty there. What is her story?

So the Climate Conference is in town...Obama is destined to land here any day now and what I like the most is the influx of non-Danes who now swarm the center. It's not all good though, cause many of them can't figure out the bike lane thing but hey, that's another story... In the midst of the chaos that is my life I must take a moment to acknowledge the small victories. I could tell you about the failures, but hey, that's not fun. All I'll say is, or quote, is Art Blakey, "When you make a mistake, make it loud!" Moving on though--the thing I love most about my job is that fact that I can leave my home in the morning and have had it up to here with my kids, and by the end of the day find myself completely in love with them. Small victories is having someone donate a lot of money to a dream you shared with your 7th graders, "Let's go to Amsterdam and visit Anne Frank's House" without knowing how on earth you will ever collect the money to ...

I have been here before, recognize the sign-posts, the warnings, the no entry signs. But I rush in, exhilarated to just touch what is familiar, what feels like home, knowing too well that soon, I will have to leave. But this time I am not destroyed and walk away intact. Because I am a woman now. No longer a girl.

Got this email from my cousin today: USA: Such tasteful Hors d'heurves, sumptuous finger foods, wow! TnT: Whuddy ass is dis? Whey de blasted food? USA: Here Kitty kitty... get down from that roof munchkins. TnT: Ey yuh ole dutty stinkin cyat, come down from de friggin gyalvanize before ah drop two stone in yuh ass! USA : Aren't those pants a bit short? TnT: Yuh expekin flood or wha? USA : Sir, please don't throw my luggage like that. TnT: Buh wha trouble is dis? Boy,...... stop flingin meh grip so. USA : Lift the hood of the car for me John. TnT: Yute-man, fly open de bonnet deh! USA : I love you TnT: Ah rell check fuh yuh, yuh know. USA : Oh the poor little boy is handicap. TnT: Look at dat lil brooko foot boy dey... USA : It's time for a perm. TnT: Gyul , yuh head need straightenin bad. Yuh doh see all dem gren-gren showin. USA : I have a stomachache TnT: Oh gorm..............meh belly gripein meh. USA: He has no manners. TnT: He doh have no broughtupsee. USA: WOW!......

Call for poetry submissions. What for: The premiere of a soon-to-be-launched online portal for the reading and discovery of the work of West Indian/West Indian heritage writers of poems. What we are looking for: Unpublished works that explore images of so-called Caribbean-ness and do something with them — invert them, twist them, crack them open. Baptise them or make them anew. Works that tread unfamiliar territory — or familiar ones. Works that spill out from that dark place in your mind and relieve the pressure of compression inside of your heart. Avant-garde, experimental and radical verse are all welcome. Of particular interest are poems pertaining to themes of identity, gender, gender roles and sexuality. Please indicate upon submission, if you would prefer to use a nom de plume. Please include a brief biographical sketch or simply, nationality information. Authors retain all original rights to their work. For further inquiry, to hear more about this venture or to submit work, ple...

Disclaimer: I received this as an email and so do not know the rightful originator of this text. Barbara Walters, of 20/20, did a story on gender roles in Kabul , Afghanistan several years before the Afghan conflict. She noted that women customarily walked five paces behind their husbands. She recently returned to Kabul and observed that women still walk behind their husbands. Despite the overthrow of the oppressive Taliban regime, the women now seem to, and are happy to, maintain the old custom. Ms. Walters approached one of the Afghani women and asked, 'Why do you now seem happy with an old custom that you once tried so desperately to change?' The woman looked Ms. Walters straight in the eyes, and without hesitation said, 'Land Mines. ' Seriously though, it is a real situation: http://www.globalissues.org/article/79/landmines

Last night I held my 8th grade parent-teacher conferences. First off, I have to say how much I love my 8th graders. They are an eclectic, electric group of kids whose love for each other resonates. There's M, a young lady from Turkey who is pretty professional when it comes to getting her work done, E who hails from Ghana and broke down to me once admitting, "It's hard being Black in Denmark." There's H, who's turning into such a stunning young man, with those large, dark Arabic eyes which his eyelashes flutter above. There's S, the quintessential football gentleman and K, who's dancing skills are better than I've ever seen in a loooong time. To be honest, I could name them all here for you, cause they each have something super dope about them: I could tell you about S who finally, after 8 years of schooling, seems to be waking up (Yeah!)...but you get the point! They really dig each other, which I guess is where my problem is. They have such a goo...

The Autumn in the East Coast is a patient old man with a paintbrush. He dips into the sun-tinged colors of creation. He takes his time, stretching the inevitable march towards winter, equipping us with an aesthetic that will fortify us against the cold.

Blackgirl on Mars Live & just back from New York this Saturday Only November 21st at 15:30 featuring Martin Ollivierre... the exhibition hall, Helligånds kirke, Strøget...

Lesley-Ann I read about what happened at the airport. I am so sorry to hear about you missing your flight. It is kind of strange when you think about it -- at the exact time that you were supposed to be in the air you were at the reflexologist experiencing a bit of healing and having a great conversation with someone who I am sure will necessarily be in your future. The actual ticket that you had to get for the error may have set you back a bit, but what you gained as far as spiritual enlightenment is concerned is absolutely priceless. It was such a pleasure seeing you, girl. I do mean that sincerely. You are far from an angel in disguise. You are an angel in broad daylight. And it is amazing to watch you continually grow into the person that you are becoming, each and every day, in a way that seems effortless but that clearly takes hard work. Go 'head girl. Keep holding it down in Copenhagen. My warmest regards to Kai and Benjamin. I am sure they are thrilled to have you...

I'm sitting in Newark Airport waiting to get on my flight. Turns out I missed my flight by a day...I've got this thing where sometimes I see things on paper but it doesn't register. For some reason I had it in my brain I was leaving on Tuesday but returning on Wednesday...I knew something seemed strange about it but man, there has been so much on my mind...so I missed my flight and had to buy a totally new ticket to get to Copenhagen. Don't ask. The SAS ticket guy was a real jerk. I loved the woman at British Airways who helped me out. She couldn't give me a discount, but hey, they got me on a flight so that I can see my son...whom I miss immensely. This is the first time I have been to New York and not that cool about leaving... Anyway...what a trip. As I sit in the airport CNN is on and I overhear that they will execute the DC Sniper...they describe how they will do so, lethal injection. As I sit in the U.S....they are about to execute a man. On my drive to the a...

It's early morning on the day I am to depart. I'm sitting here, in Marie's living room, listening as Harlem slowly wakes up. There's the distant sounds of trucks rolling down silent streets, the sound of the steam sighing out of the radiators. There is, believe it or not, relative quiet about me. W.154th Street, Sugar Hill, is a very quiet street. And in this quiet, I want to take a moment to express my gratitude. I am thankful for Marie Brown. I first met Marie in 1996, I believe. Back then her office was at 625 Broadway. She's a literary agent and even after sending her a crooked resume, she hired me. I worked with her for four years, meeting countless literary unsung legends. Lately, when I come home to New York, it with her I stay. I would like to express my thanks to my friend Rayner. Rayner Ramirez is my old buddy from college. He is now a producer at NBC, but no matter where life seems to take us, when we're together the laughter rolls out like a red carp...

Sometimes when you have to accept a reality, and deal with a reality, you end up stifling other possibilities if only because their presence could be painful. When I left New York, almost 11 years ago, I was ready to leave. Most true-New Yorkers, and by true, I mean those of us who were either born and/or grew up in this magical area of the world have a love/hate relationship with this city. A friend once said that living in New York is like being in a dysfunctional relationship: you know you should get out, but you stay... So escaping New York was for me, and quite a few other, fellow New Yorkers quite a victory. Let me explain. You ever heard that expression: the city that never sleeps? Well, it's not an exaggeration. There is always something to do here. Take for example this past Wednesday night--the city was just as alive as if it were a weekend. Even in Brooklyn. But the problem is, what happens with most things when it doesn't get any sleep? It gets this delirious from s...

Who said you can't go home again? Last night, through an uneventful flight from Paris, I landed for the umpteenth time, at JFK International Airport. It is an airport I have passed through innumerable times but this time, for some reason, it feels different. First of all, it is the first time I am home in 9 years without my son. It is my first time home, in 9 years as just, well, Lesley-Ann. The other thing is, I have purposely made no airport pick-up arrangements just so that I could ease myself back into the harmonic cacophony that is New York City... At the train station, as I wait for the E train, I am entertained by large groups of teenagers: It is Halloween, and youngsters are, by the droves, headed into the city for the annual Halloween Day Parade. A racial hodgepodge of kids take the seat opposite me on the train: there's white-faced chocolate boys with ghoulish make-up and fish-net attired young Latinas dresses as zombie nurses. I can't resist: Can I take your pict...

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My relationship with Gil Scott-Heron is deep, complicated and old. His genius and artistry has never failed to amaze me. And whenever I saw him live, I always knew I was getting the best of what he has: no matter where in his life he, or even I for that matter, had happened to be in. I remember seeing Gil Scott-Heron play a show, I think it was at the Knitting Factory, but anyway, his telling the audience that his moms was sick, and how he left after the show and ended up standing right next to us in the train station, taking the same train uptown and my being like, damn, that's Gil Scott-Heron...Gil Scott-Heron to me is wisdom for the soul. Real life is complicated: And Gil Scott-Heron never ever tried to tell us differently. So, Blackgirl on Mars would like to express a personal welcome back to the Griot: You've been missed! Here's a taste of his new stuff! Thanks Malaika Adero for sending me this link! Here's a quote from a Village Voice interview he gave a few year...

Tree crowns look like mountain tops & sky lines look like ocean views, deflated men exit OTB's thier dreams dismantled-- yesterday's news. Mother sits next to child a wall of hostility in the air, rocked by the movement of the train, the child, she doesn't stare. Project boys rig intercom systems love heavy on thier hearts, anything just to ring her... Recycling bins sit next to Redemption Centers, Sundays the hats as varied as Africa a laundry basket so full it regurgitates it's contents, clothes spill over all over the carpet, horses are metal with the glitziest of rims sneakers land on concrete hopscotch next to garbage bins. Cardboard smelling streets subways of wet metal steam whistles constanly out of a forgotten kettle. a little brown girl sits at a shaky kitchen table the ripped plastic digs into her young skin she eats salt fish and looks out the window as a plastic clock bought on Flatbush chips away at her lifetime.

BANDIT QUEEN PRESS ANNOUNCES THE RELEASE OF GOOD WORKS A paperback collection of novel excerpts, short stories, memoirs, poems, song lyrics, original sketches, paintings and photographs by English-speaking women living in Denmark. GOOD WORKS can be purchased from ATHENEUM INTERNATIONAL BOOKSHOP, Nørregade 6, 1165 København K, tlf (45)33 126970. On-line orders at www.atheneum.dk FOR ENGLISH SPEAKERS phone the store or email books@atheneum.dk with their request!! Support Bandit Queen Press! “Refreshingly varied, yet with a common thread….10 women, all accomplished writers, celebrate in 10 individual voices the expatriate experience - in prose, poetry, images and song. A valuable, and enjoyable, addition to the literature of displacement and assimilation.” Heather Spears, award-winning Canadian poet “To leave one's home country can be an exhilarating and even frightening adventure that cries out for expression. Good Works puts words to the expatriate experience in all its frus...

This is just one of those songs that no matter what time in my life I play it, it could only signal one thing: I'm back!

There is something in the spontaneity of letting someone into your life with whom there is an interest: A magic that demands truth. This moment is a ritual, this moment is to break dawn... In Trinidad, to break, is to ejaculate, but to break dawn does not necessitate sex. All that is required is that the new born Sun sheds its light on you and your companion. It is a baptism, a gift, of yet another day of life made even more wondrous by the fact that you are in the company of someone you dig.

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Pigeons are peculiar birds... Some tumble... they fly high into the air and tumble backwards... they are known to have existed in India before the year 1590... they are known to tumble from side to side or roll backward in flight... many say it is a survival technique... basically, they fly high into the sky and tumble all the way down: BUT just before hitting the ground, they miraculously swoop up, into the air: narrowly escaping death. But the problem with the tumbler pigeon is this: If you breed two tumblers the offspring lacks this last but all important reflex-- Instead of gracefully escaping its demise inches away from the ground, they come crashing down only to tragically die. And this is why, I guess, I always will be afraid of loving You.

"There is a civil contract implied by photographs. An Israeli writer, Ariella Azoulay, published a book making that point. Henri Cartier-Bresson made it too. He described shooting pictures of people as a “sort of violation,” adding, “if sensitivity is lacking, there can be something barbaric about it.” There can be, of course, and not just when the subject doesn’t like the image." --MICHAEL KIMMELMAN, New York Times, June 3, 2009

Anonymous said... Hi, I absolutely love your blog! I just came across it yesterday while searching about living as American in Denmark. I am curious to know if danish men are attracted to black women (primarly american/west indian). What is your experience with them? Is there alot of interracial marriages/dating with black women and white men? Sorry for putting you on the spot. Im just curious :)!!!

Sitting at a cafe in Amager I wonder at all the passing people... A woman leaves her child, outside, asleep, in a pram alongside a row of parked bikes. A pock-faced man with the sour smell of street strolls in and stares. He soon leaves. Two adolescent girls a red hoodie tied around not-yet-fully developed hips, their smell: still pink and signals a youth I no longer miss... Clouds sail through the sunny sky shading all the shine. Windbreakers are unleashed the solar retreat inevitable and I sit here anchored in Amager & brace myself for the winter...

He’s from Harlem, she’s from Brooklyn. He said he loved her and that he’d take her away, sometime, that summer. “I’m thinkin a house, beach. Jus’ you and me.” She can’t even respond. The magic he speaks lulls her to believe. He continues: Sometimes I feel you the only person I could talk to. She smiles a smile that contains within it all her heart. Many said that he didn’t do much, but they were wrong. Neighbors saw him, day after day comin and goin from his mama’s house. Handsome boy. But what does he do? Shame, he should be helping his mama. They said he didn’t do much, but they were wrong. He was a poet. He took words and hung them up in the air like multi-colored christmas lights. His words fell upon ears like candy-hued confetti. He was the poet of El Barrio & even if his neighbors didn’t understand that, he did. He was the poet of El Barrio. Inching close to thirty and still living at his mama’s house. But since when that a crime anyway? He looked neat (most of...

Hello, Sorry to bug you, but I was wondering if you have some time to respond to some questions i have about Denmark. I have been hopping over to your blog now and again since last year, but I seriously started to read your archive entries since I made the decision recently to try to move to Denmark. I am thinking about applying for the Danish Green Card and based on points I have a very good chance. I had done a lot of reading about DK before, but now that I am seriously considering the country for a move, things I didn't focus on before are really jumping out at me. One of your blog posts was especially interesting: Blackgirls on Istedgade I was shocked to see how recent the post was written. 2006! Therefore, this question may seem silly since it's only been 3 years (or less): Is the situation the same in Denmark? As someone coming over, is cleaning what one can expect to be doing for a good chunk of the early years, just to get by? Are the options to use one's educa...

Whenever Denmark features in the news, it rarely ever seems to be positive. With a xenophobic fear gripping even the most level-headed, instances of gross racism are rampant. While there is a collective callousness to non-Western traditions, I must take a moment to witness the hope. I'm not going to regurgitate all the many mess-ups Denmark can be blamed for--especially in its treatment towards its Islamic community. I'm not going to point my finger and talk about the lazy politics that take place here, where Muslims are the scapegoats in very much the same way many other minorities around the world have, and continue to be treated. What I am going to say is, is that my place of work is the coolest. My place of work, I get to witness miracles. Yesterday morning when I biked into our courtyard, I noticed a very beautiful girl, from what I thought was our 9th grade class. I always see her around and this morning, I was determined to tell her how beautiful I thought her to be. Som...

Yesterday, with the help of an amazing team of talented people, the first part of the Blackgirl on Mars photoshoot was completed...for those who know me well, I actually hate taking pictures. I feel uncomfortable in front of the camera: but as in all else, it's a matter of practice and by the end of a two hour shoot yesterday, I think I started to get the hang of it. The plan is to have a show up and running by Spring. We all know what deadlines are though...the stuff that makes the Universe laugh. But the idea of this show came to me years ago...and ever since I've been using each performance as a testing ground as to how I will put this multi-media production together. I've often found that as soon as I say I am about to do something, gifts appear. One such gift is L--a fellow New Yorker with whom I feel a kinship: creatively and spiritually. L has agreed, much to my joy, to direct this production. There is much happening, sometimes too much, but I must hang in there, tak...

So, I bought a new bike this Summer and am experiencing Copenhagen on a proper bike. Whoaw. I bought the bike after realizing that the only way I can keep from certain insanity is through movement...thus the bike. On my way home from work today, I took a route I used to take about seven years ago, and it really struck me how little things change in this city. I biked from the somewhat orderly street of Gammel Kongevej, through Vesterbro, to the more disorderly Istedgade, which is still seedy and creepy, past DGI Byen, which is this humungous sports center, past the Central Train Station, along Tivoli, through the Danish House of Parliament, to Christianshavn. So little has changed in the ten years I have been here. Someone once said to me, after returning after seven years, "The only thing that's changed is the metro and the price of beer." Sure, Tivoli has a few new, high rides. Sure some of the roads have even been renovated, and it seems as though something is happenin...

Hi Bandit Girl, It's been a busy summer here. Lots of people coming and going, which I like. Rereading your wonderful blog - fantastic photos of your child and your parents and grand-parents. Your picnic in the park looks a real treat. I was remembering the Copenhagen of long ago, there were very few black people there, but the music was always good (is it the Palace Hotel where musicians used to gather and sit at a big round table?) There were lots of Jazz clubs in those days and I always found the Danes to be 'good movers' . There were still American air bases in Denmark and the Danish girls who dated black Americans, spoke like black Americans. The coffee was always fresh and the people always friendly. I always came with a ticket to visit Sweden, but the people in my hotel always talked me out of going, it wasn't until I moved to Britain that I visited Sweden. One of my dreams at that time was to live in Europe and find all the black people who lived in countries...

Once an old friend of mine said to me, "You don't like Jazz music because you can't stay in the moment." I knew he was right, but there was also something else to it: I am the daughter of a Jazz musician, and I guess the simplest way for me to rebel was through disliking the very music I grew up with. Unlike many of the other kids I knew (or so I thought)my musical repertoire was full of slick cats and mesmerizing music that would define everything I have now come to identify as my childhood. Well, slowly but surely I grew out of my self-imposed rebellion. Funnily enough, it was through Etta James who I discovered in my early 20s. Suddenly, I had something to talk to my father about and my weekly visits with him became something I actually looked forward to, as he would give me free reign through his by then diminished album collection. I got Miles, I got Ayers, I got Stevie...musical gems made even more valuable by the fact that they once belonged to my Daddy... I g...

Life goes a lot faster than I can write...and even though I said I would be on vacation til the 14th, well, I just can't keep myself away. I think it is official: this has been one of the best summers I have experienced in a long time, and I didn't even leave the country! First was the great move: moving from one part of Copenhagen, a pretty posh side to a more working class neighborhood. I do miss my old apartment and neighborhood, it was a great peak into a world I'm not usually privy too, but I am loving my new neighborhood too! It reminds me of Brooklyn, Queens even. And the apartment is mine! It is close to Kai's school! It is close to all Kai's friends! And it is close to his dad as well! So, needless to say, my little boy is pretty happy with the move. After getting the apartment semi-functional, I spent some time up North in a small, old fishing village called Tisvild e. There's a fantastic beach, surrounded by the woods. There was a lot of Nature, some...