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

your father's boots underground beats in brooklyn inspiration on the streets my old block in the b-k. an afternoon w/the spirit of rosenfeld an artist's home rosenfeld's home an artist's desk (rosenfeld) a sunday at rosenfeld's snowy view in harlem the forgotten father 'dreams realized'.  carrie weems is the boss #1 carrie weems is the boss #2

The Organist’s Daughter I sit Amidst The smell Of Disinfectant & shit while you sleep seeming delicately balanced between life & death I hold your hand. Although you are Asleep, We both know That you are Already dead. You wait for Me to do what I can not do. I hold your hand Daddy, your hand Which once held Belts lashed into Young flesh. You beat us, you said, because When you were young… Sometimes, I suppose It takes more than Just one man To break a cycle. Offences were Arbitrary & Ebbed & Flowed with The availability Of work. You were the overseer Of the plantation Of our youth. You were the guard Of the bedroom Which imprisoned us. The punisher Who whipped Young virgin Brown skin With metal-studded Leather (father) You executed our Youth Beheaded our hearts With a frustrated Sigh You midwifed us Out of our childhood & birthed beaten brothers & sisters bloodstain your heart, your badge of bitterness— this is your legacy. Your face is Round like the moon ...

I am sitting here, in a hospital room, holding my dying father’s hand. There was a time when I feared it. It could, his hands, reign terror on any of his children or, when its fingers played across the keys of the Hammond, belt out the most profound array of molasses-like notes any person would glow to. His face is round like the moon, and sprinkled with the minutest moles across his face. His nose is round at the end, without a bridge in that space between his eyes and the tip of his nose. His eyes are small: chinky we called them and as he slept, with his hand in mine, I could not help but ponder, How did he conceive me when he could never, I think, in his wildest dreams ever conceive of me? His snoring becomes a bit more pronounced and I rub my thumb against the skin of his hand. He flinches a bit. When was the last time someone touched him with the taste of love on her fingertips? I try to envision my father as a little boy. “Dolly” his mother called him, because sh...

Dr. Roi Ankhara Kwabena passed on January 10th, 2008. Dr. Roi Ankhkara Kwabena was born in the Caribbean island of Trinidad. He was a cultural anthropologist who has worked with all age ranges in Europe, Africa, Latin-America and the Caribbean for over thirty years. His positive cultural advocacy has ensured his suitability for a variety of specialist projects addressing wide ranging issues such as functional and Cultural literacy, therapeutic harvesting of Memories by elders and young people (including cross generational dialogue) Anti-Racism, Community Cohesion, Social Inclusion, Cultural Diversity , redefining the Heritages of Indigenous peoples plus confidence building for prisoners, excluded and traumatized students, Refugees, etc. Dr. Kwabena was renown for using critical analysis to examine the historical roots of racism and to assess the direct relevance this has on our lives today. He was the 6th Poet Laureate of Birmingham, U.K. and appointed Writer in Residence at the Trinid...

I can't tell you how many times I have googled my father's name hoping to find some information on him. You see, I grew up hearing my father's Hammond in our Ocean Avenue living room. Sometimes my mother would say, tinged in typical Trinidadian modesty, "Your father has talent, you know." But she didn't need to tell us children. We were surrounded by it. My father made everything from multi-bulbed lamp shades made from graters to our fake leopard print couch that we were not allowed to sit on. He made a spherical fish tank (I kid you not) and once, in order to cool the motor of his Hammond, he even built in a fan. When I lived in Trinidad I would always hear from my mother's family about how talented he was, but they would always add jokingly that he was from "behind-the-bridge" as if that was supposed to mean something. Although I was young I had already been exposed to the ghetto and was privy to the creativity inherent in living in poverty. I ...

There's a picture of my father in one of his bands that I keep close to me, on my desk. It's a group of 8 young men, and the band includes conga drums, a guitar, drum set, bass and keyboard. My father is the keyboardist. It is an old picture, he must have been around 17. My mother told me that my father started playing professionally by the time he was 15 or 16, hanging out in Port-of-Spain in a time when it was really a port. It was full of rum shops, prostitutes and music-- commodities engendered by the frequent visit of foreign ships and its crew. My father is the son of a musician. His father, my great-grandfather is from St. Vincent and played what is called the box guitar. He was a carpenter by trade, but walked the streets the streets of Port-of-Spain, playing his guitar in his free time. My father is from a part of Trinidad referred to as "behind-the-bridge", I believe the bridge is the East Dry River bridge, and it is a place that my Grandfather always ref...

I am sitting here, in a hospital room, holding my dying father’s hand. There was a time when this hand, feminine-like almost, was so strong. There was a time when I feared it. It could, his hands, reign terror on any of his children or, when it’s fingers played across the keys of the Hammond, belt out the most profound array of molasses-like notes any person would dance to. His face is round like the moon, and sprinkled with the minutest moles across his face. His nose is round at the end, without a bridge in that space between his eyes and the tip of his nose. His eyes are small: chinky we called them and as he slept, with his hand in mine, I could not help but ponder, How did he conceive me when he could never, I think, in his wildest dreams ever conceive of me? His snoring becomes a bit more pronounced and I rub my thumb against the skin of his hand. He flinches a bit. When was the last time someone touched him with the taste of love on his or her fingertips? I try to envi...