I love myself most days.
This is a faith statement
as I struggle to look in a mirror
at a face fatter than ever
gut hungover, body not limber.
These are the horrible things
and more that are in my
head about me, child of
God, of Universe, of
Ancestors who survived
real horror and still,
I cannot believe my lover's
words that I am beautiful
or brilliant or anything
good. Why are we often
the ones who believe
the worst about ourselves?
No one has ever said--
at least to my face--
any of the negating
words that pound
inside my thoughts.
Self-hatred is a sin.
And I have been
chief among sinners
in this regard. Today,
by faith, I love myself
fiercely; I love the pug
freckled nose; the arms
that know the value
of squeeze; the mind
that thinks and sorts ideas;
feet that walk and run
when necessary, that
bare pain and keep moving;
legs that hold up the
weight of my whole body
and the weights of
my worry as well.
Tongue that speaks
truth even when my
heart is afraid,
a mouth that kisses
granddaughters and
lovers with the same
fervor; back that
sits up straight
when despair
could be my lot
My hair that is thick
and unruly, a
prophecy of who
I could always be
I love me when
I'm laughing,
and when my lips
are burnt from
prayer.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 6, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
DEAR LOVE #16
Your face lights up
when you see me...
did you know?
Nothing like
having someone
glad to see you coming.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 5, 2013
when you see me...
did you know?
Nothing like
having someone
glad to see you coming.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 5, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
GUANXI
(N): A network of social connections based on mutual trust and the balancing of debts by returning favors so that the relationship's benefits are shared by all. (Pronounced: guan-'shi)
It was our running joke
"I owe her my life," one of us would say.
"I just hope you don't ask for the payment
in a lump sum," the other would counter.
And we'd laugh at the notion of life
being in a balance, teetering between
the debt and grace of forgiving what
was owed so that neither of us ever
really felt beholden to the other. I mean,
what was it to buy a Jack's hamburger
for 99 cents or a bar of candy from
the school's vending machine. We were
athletes and needed our energy, and
money was just the paper passed back
and forth between us: sometimes I had
it; sometimes you did, but we never
went without and that was the point.
Guanxi the Chinese would call it:
that life of trust, mutual and precarious
but always balanced enough to
benefit us all. We returned favors
like badminton birdies. We were
good athletes, after all. And even
if the birdie dropped, it was of no
deep regret because missed opportunities
never cost us each other. There were
the rides, first on bicycles, later on
motorcycles and later still in cars.
I never had a motorcycle, but you
didn't let that stop you from giving
me a ride. You knew, somehow,
I'd figure out how to pay you back
in advice, or clothes, or secrets
told under makeshift livingroom
tents with flashlight beams staring
in our faces. I was good for a
story, if nothing else. By the time
the car ride came around, I was
the most reliable. You never
knew if your mother was feeling
any way generous with her
Impala; I could sweet talk my mama
out of the keys to her Chevy with little effort
and a full tank of gas on return. That is
the way it works, trust and
connection and the making
of improbable bonds and
unbreakable friendships.
(I don't know where you are, now.
But I'm pretty sure, we've gotten
Guanxi down).
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 4, 2013
It was our running joke
"I owe her my life," one of us would say.
"I just hope you don't ask for the payment
in a lump sum," the other would counter.
And we'd laugh at the notion of life
being in a balance, teetering between
the debt and grace of forgiving what
was owed so that neither of us ever
really felt beholden to the other. I mean,
what was it to buy a Jack's hamburger
for 99 cents or a bar of candy from
the school's vending machine. We were
athletes and needed our energy, and
money was just the paper passed back
and forth between us: sometimes I had
it; sometimes you did, but we never
went without and that was the point.
Guanxi the Chinese would call it:
that life of trust, mutual and precarious
but always balanced enough to
benefit us all. We returned favors
like badminton birdies. We were
good athletes, after all. And even
if the birdie dropped, it was of no
deep regret because missed opportunities
never cost us each other. There were
the rides, first on bicycles, later on
motorcycles and later still in cars.
I never had a motorcycle, but you
didn't let that stop you from giving
me a ride. You knew, somehow,
I'd figure out how to pay you back
in advice, or clothes, or secrets
told under makeshift livingroom
tents with flashlight beams staring
in our faces. I was good for a
story, if nothing else. By the time
the car ride came around, I was
the most reliable. You never
knew if your mother was feeling
any way generous with her
Impala; I could sweet talk my mama
out of the keys to her Chevy with little effort
and a full tank of gas on return. That is
the way it works, trust and
connection and the making
of improbable bonds and
unbreakable friendships.
(I don't know where you are, now.
But I'm pretty sure, we've gotten
Guanxi down).
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 4, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
LIZZIE WHITE
Ancestor, I try to imagine how you survived
the memory of bodies swinging in the breeze,
of the smell of flesh scorching your nostrils,
the unwanted hands grabbing your breasts
a mouth, hot and hellish, over your tongue
and teeth. I want to know how you survived
to bring us forward; what did you have to say
to yourself to bear the lash. Did you dream
of us? How did you do it, Lizzie? HOW?
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 3, 2013
After viewing the movie "12 Years A Slave."
the memory of bodies swinging in the breeze,
of the smell of flesh scorching your nostrils,
the unwanted hands grabbing your breasts
a mouth, hot and hellish, over your tongue
and teeth. I want to know how you survived
to bring us forward; what did you have to say
to yourself to bear the lash. Did you dream
of us? How did you do it, Lizzie? HOW?
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 3, 2013
After viewing the movie "12 Years A Slave."
Saturday, November 2, 2013
INVITATION
When you invite me into your world
a deliberate opening of small spaces
a welcome into cramped and neglected rooms
I hold these moments carefully
When you say, "here--I know the closet
is full of mix-matched clothes and old
habits hard to let go and secrets I
meant to hide even from myself"--
but let me look anyway, I remind
myself not to stare--to be easy with
your heart. I know what courage it takes
for you to let me in. I know the creaking
sound and the silence underneath
every yearning to be known. I hold
these moments very carefully.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 2, 2013
a deliberate opening of small spaces
a welcome into cramped and neglected rooms
I hold these moments carefully
When you say, "here--I know the closet
is full of mix-matched clothes and old
habits hard to let go and secrets I
meant to hide even from myself"--
but let me look anyway, I remind
myself not to stare--to be easy with
your heart. I know what courage it takes
for you to let me in. I know the creaking
sound and the silence underneath
every yearning to be known. I hold
these moments very carefully.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 2, 2013
Friday, November 1, 2013
DEAR DARIUS (PAPA/BEAR)
I listen to the anguish in your voice--
the passion of a papa as you try
to figure out how to protect your girls
from a world that does not believe
in them the way that you do. I am
happy for the tinder in your mouth
that sits your throat on fire;
that raises your ire at teachers
who socially promote children
because they don't think brown-skinned
girls are smart; that your double-language
tongue talking daughter can learn.
I am glad for your warrior's rage,
the barely caged disgust that these
are the realities she must face
and the knowledge that you cannot
follow her everywhere into this
world--but you are set on giving
her skills, cunning, and armor
to face it.
You tell me, "I got it from my mama,"
and this rising to bless me is just
the rest of the story. I have been
you, only wondering whether I could
ever help a boy-child understand
just how dangerous his mother had it;
what his grandmother had to do
to graft armadillo thick skin onto
my body; the plotting it took for
me to figure out boys to make
them safe for girls. Yours
is a generational experiment
in surviving and it seems the
grafting took. You look more
than a warrior defending a damsel
in distress; you look like a general
leading an army, and raising
up girls who can fight for themselves.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 1, 2013
the passion of a papa as you try
to figure out how to protect your girls
from a world that does not believe
in them the way that you do. I am
happy for the tinder in your mouth
that sits your throat on fire;
that raises your ire at teachers
who socially promote children
because they don't think brown-skinned
girls are smart; that your double-language
tongue talking daughter can learn.
I am glad for your warrior's rage,
the barely caged disgust that these
are the realities she must face
and the knowledge that you cannot
follow her everywhere into this
world--but you are set on giving
her skills, cunning, and armor
to face it.
You tell me, "I got it from my mama,"
and this rising to bless me is just
the rest of the story. I have been
you, only wondering whether I could
ever help a boy-child understand
just how dangerous his mother had it;
what his grandmother had to do
to graft armadillo thick skin onto
my body; the plotting it took for
me to figure out boys to make
them safe for girls. Yours
is a generational experiment
in surviving and it seems the
grafting took. You look more
than a warrior defending a damsel
in distress; you look like a general
leading an army, and raising
up girls who can fight for themselves.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 1, 2013
PERFECT SENSE
One day it will make perfect sense
the way the world keeps opening
up before you; the way you call
the best out of yourself, others
the way not even your doubt
can stop you.
© Valerie Bridgeman
October 31, 2013
the way the world keeps opening
up before you; the way you call
the best out of yourself, others
the way not even your doubt
can stop you.
© Valerie Bridgeman
October 31, 2013
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