Unprotected

I am afraid. I’ve always been afraid and left to fend for myself. I hide within my fear. Survival mode sustains me, I rise up and boss up because that’s what black women are expected to do; ALWAYS.

But if something were to happen to me, who would tell my story? And were I to suddenly go, these niggas knocking on my door wouldn’t even show up to my funeral.

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Happy Black Poetry Day [Video Clip]

 

 

Hi Friends,

I usually save this kind of thing for the newsletter but I wanted to share here and say Happy Black Poetry Day! I put in a ton of work as a performance artist, event host and producer in the Washington, DC area so it was very cool to get the call to be on air with 93.9 WKYS Angie Ang in the Morning Show.

I am grateful for the opportunity to have been highlighted amongst my talented friends Luki and New Vision. As a black woman I often feel abused, unprotected and as if we are a group most people care about the least. Through my poetry I try not only to fight the stigma of mental health but to simply tell the story of my life as a black woman. Black women, black people: your stories are important; it is vital that we share with the world.

Check out this YouTube clip and enjoy!

Good Vibes Always,

~Whiskey

Oh, White People

Screenshot_2017-07-31-18-13-56-1

If you can’t muster the courage to be an ally– at least be very mindful of what you do say!

Oh, white people it’s going to touch you

How much longer do you think you can ignore it?

You love your favorite basketball player, but the racism—you didn’t sign up for it

But it only starts with Lebron

It doesn’t end there…it goes on

It’s your boss, your neighbor—even your best friend becomes hate crime victim

While you sit idly by, still pretending there is no racism

I mean, what year is it?

You are above it

You voted Obama as president

You deserve the right to be passive and silent

 

I am just so curious

I need to know how long does it take to notice the elephant in the room has already had babies

And is raising an entire dysfunctional family

I am not asking you to fight for me

Just wake up and acknowledge that yo, you fucked up, B

Every nigger joke that you let slide—hell, every nigga lyric you rapped

Every all lives matter post you hashtagged

You don’t get it, and now you missed it

The revolution has already begun, son

And you have chosen Switzerland

Because of that we can’t be friends

I don’t have the luxury of ignoring social unrest

My mental is distressed

My brothers and sisters are dying

Please don’t say you don’t know why, because in the back of our minds we want to say fuck you

And your whole crew, too

We were brought here for your labor, allowed to stay for your entertainment

Cultural confinement

It feels like living in a zoo

And it’s cute when we have our rallies and marches as long as it doesn’t bother you

You are not neutral

You are lazy and apathetic

You are pathetic

And it ain’t right but I almost have more respect for the so-called “alt-right”, at least they had the balls to choose a side

You hide

Behind Facebook reposts and thumbs up on Kiana’s status

You don’t know what it’s like to live like this

It’s going to touch you

Better yet, hit you like a ton of bricks

And it will be too late to ameliorate this shit

“Black people should just stop committing crimes” is a phrase that echoes from your privileged lips

Tell me, who deserves to die from selling loose cigarettes?

Or for wearing a hoodie while carrying a Skittles packet?

Or from routine traffic stops

Just stop

And take this moment to tell yourself the truth

You don’t care as much as you say you do

OR

Maybe you fear the work involved and the loss of friends

Just remember, when you choose no side the evil party wins

 

It’s going to touch you

Creep into your soul; haunt your dreams at night

You Netflix and chillin while the rest of us are at war and we fight

I hope your grandchildren ask you your thoughts on fundamental civil rights

I hope they want to know where you were during the real emancipation

And I hope you give in and tell them something real

That you checked out because you just couldn’t deal

A “Fuck Trump” bumper sticker is as far as you could go

You didn’t know your voice could have a powerful impact

That you could do your part to pick up the slack and help bring decent humanity back

America is bullshit right now, for us it was never great

Your silence is not a worthy component to conquer all this hate

So sorry to wake you up out of your comfortable slumber

But are you grabbing a bucket or is this ship going under?

There is no fence to straddle

There is no grey, just black and white

Just wrong and right

…you gotta choose

Because my friend, it’s going to touch you

 

I have said it once and I am saying it again; I do not like talking about this stuff on the blog. The subject of race, politics, religion etc. is a minefield! As a practitioner and teacher of empathy I acknowledge that it is difficult to communicate with people in such a way that they not only come to an understanding of your personal plight, but also make the effort to change their way of thinking. Furthermore, addressing a group of people who consider themselves peaceful, non-combative and believe they are genuinely good people, free of bias and prejudice could perhaps even have me labeled as a bully. But it’s my blog, so here we are…

I was born and raised in the Washington, DC area. I live in Prince George’s County Maryland—one of the most prominent and prosperous black counties in the nation—and I have always worked in either DC or Northern Virginia. For those who don’t know, Southern Maryland, Northern Virginia and Washington, DC is known as the DMV and is home to a unique culture in and of itself. We are a melting pot of different ethnicities and diverse backgrounds on top of including the nation’s capital where all the dirty politicians dwell. Because of our culture of political correctness I never understood the different levels of racism, prejudice and bias until well into my twenties.

As a teen in high school I didn’t understand why none of my white guy crushes liked me. When I entered into the workforce at 19 I didn’t understand why white people were so taken aback by how articulate I am, and I didn’t really understand that white people were capable of appearing woke as fuck, but more than likely went home to their white lives and immediately stopped giving a fuck. In the DMV area we are the nucleous. News stories have a deep impact here and if you are not talking about Kaepernick, insert-protest-march-here or Trump’s latest tweet then you are not a part of the conversation. Washingtonian white people are a part of the conversation because it is their business and in their best interests to be so. However, it took me longer than I’d care to admit to realize that being in the know is not the same as giving a fuck.

For me, the worst kind white people are those who immerse themselves in black culture and claim to not see color but do not consider themselves allies nor do they want to acknowledge that the need for allies exist. I sat in silence during the election season as I listened to my Republican friends say things like, “Ugh, I don’t know who to vote for– both Clinton and Trump are so awful!” It felt like a stab in the back to my face—if that makes sense. I thought to myself, “So you are ok siding with racism and misogyny because your loyalty is to your political party and not decency and humanity? Duly noted.” I didn’t purge as many friends as I probably should have, but I peeped the bullshit and I am aware.

I am aware of the white people in my life who remain silent or eerily neutral when the topic of racism comes up. I am aware of the white people in my life who are uber liberal arguing you down about feminist rights, pontificating about LGBTQ rights and debating you about the top ten hip hop albums of all time. But, I peep when those same people are passive, evasive and vague during group conversations about race relations as if they are too afraid or unwilling to say, “That is racist. That is unjust. That is not ok.” Period. I liken it to a silent gaslighting where I literally begin to feel like as if I’m crazy and I ask myself “Am I playing the black card? Was that shooting indeed a racist act of violence or am I overreacting?”

The kind of white person that quietly wonders to themselves why all lives don’t matter and loves black people but wishes we would chill and stop getting shot is fast becoming my least favorite kind of person. Maybe I am getting old, but I just can’t fuck with the duplicity like I used to. As tensions rise in our country, I am starting to treat silence as acquiescence. As much as I hate covering these kinds of topics I do it because it’s my life—and my life and my reality are not up for debate or opinion.

If you can acknowledge that fake news and sensationalism exists, then why can’t you admit that racism still does? Obama voted in as president does not magically erase the disturbing history of a country that was built on the backs of African slaves. Ignoring the existence of racism is a dangerous game—a weak one. It takes strength to dare to step out of your own delusion, admit that injustice exists and to check your own privilege and prejudices as well as those of your peers. It takes strength to make the decision to stand up to bigotry and hate when the safest move for your physical and mental health might very well be to try to remain neutral. The decision is not going to be easy, but you must decide.

If only people of color had the luxury of making such decisions.

 

This is a Subpost

I am a 33 year old woman, I like to think I know a few things. For instance, I know that a lot of things in this life are temporary and that life itself is not fair. I know that love is not a fairytale, it is actually pretty rare and there doesn’t have to be a bunch of pomp and circumstance surrounding it for it to be great. However, I still stumble over the fact that two people can go through the trouble of finding each other and falling in love while somehow still being unable to work things out to be together. 

Apparently, all the wonderful things about a person can be trumped by just one bad trait or circumstance or belief. All the wonderful things about a person can somehow not be enough if they aren’t able to give you the one thing you really need to feed you soul. All the wonderful things about a person can rip your soul to shreds when it comes to making the tough decisions about your future, goals and expectations.

All those wonderful things will have me up at night for a very long time contemplating the magnitude of what I have sacrificed…

this is over

If you are no longer faithful, please let me go

because I am lonely and I’d rather be lonely alone

without expectation of physical touch that you choose to outsource

while I am too disconnected to realize that we have run our course

this is over

and so is my willingness to tolerate neglect

and to believe that somehow you were offering me your best

you were never ALIVE

you were soulless carcass

you…were heartbeat’s rest

stillness and calm before a storm that never came

rainbow, shooting star, cool summer rain

lucky penny, four leaf clover

but this…is over

as well as my desire to live out my days while sober

I need drugs to help cure this persistent ache

only so much one soul can take

if I can’t die, I at least deserve the option of not having to be awake

without you 

I’m not sure how that life even goes, I have been you

you are everything and all that I know

the more I need you, the more it seems to just push you away

and I weigh the bad times against all the good and I stay

knowing we will never quite love each other the right way

this should be over

but you are so lost in familiarity

whereas I am madly in love with you completely in awe that you’ve chosen me

insecure within your security

driven by jealousy and abandonment issues, I love yous turned into I miss you’s

and I got scared

and we both lost our grip on each other

I fear i may have nagged you into the arms of another

or maybe you just realized that I was not worth the maintenance

lost the will to fake it and checked out of relationship in broad daylight

we tend to exist in twilight, you and I

and I am not quite yet ready to go dark

let’s go back to the people I know that we are

let’s start over

seriously, can we start this thing over?

I already taste the agony from missing you advance

you haven’t even left yet

and I am never sure if I actually want you to go

I just want my brain and heart to finally reach a consensus

there is no future in this

baked cookies and blended families are a complicated fantasy

that pushes the boundaries of intimacy you are willing to show me

your damaged love will not grow me

just as my unconditional love will not change you

the smart decision is to be through

after we have traveled around and around; dark places took us under

we will never reach the level no man can put asunder

and no matter how much I wish it, I will never be your heart’s rightful owner

you will never turn it over

we are only getting older

this

is over

Medicate. Is HERE!

medicate-w-poem

In February of 2016 I released my first chapbook and quickly realized that thanks to online do it yourself programs, self publishing is easy! So, naturally I started to plan and compile my next project and it’s FINALLY here.

Medicate. is dear to my heart just as Trigger was. It is raw and emotional and draws from my own personal experiences and perceptions. I truly believe that most of us on this Earth suffer from mental health issues at one time or another, we are just resourceful creatures and have found ways to self medicate. This book explores just a few of those ways; touching on substance abuse, over eating, losing yourself in others, the Internet, religion (and so much more!) in a way I hope is relatable and sheds light on a growing issue across the world. Whether you laugh a bit or cry I do hope the book provokes you to some genuine emotion.

I am offering the PDF version of the book on sale for $7.99 to my mailing list subscribers. The normal price of $10 will resume after the weekend is over. I always struggle with the pricing, I wish I could give them away for free but I invest so much time and money into each of these projects I can’t afford to be a philanthropist just yet!

In addition to the soft rollout of the book, I am sharing with you the link to the Whiskey Girl store. As of now there are Medicate. mugs available for purchase and I will soon be adding t shirts and other fun things I hope entice you to order.

Thank you again for your support. Purchase, enjoy and let me know what you think.

~good vibes always~
WG

WG

So I suppose that a lot of my readers (or folks who trash this post as soon as it reaches their inboxes) don’t know that in my real life I spend time as a spoken word artist. I use the term very loosely because I low-key do not think of myself in that way. Spoken word artists are loved by all, powerful and captivating and I am just a nerdy writer girl who likes to share out of some inexplicable need to connect. When I first started sharing live poems at open mic my stage name was WG—which is for Whiskey Girl. But for whatever reason folks like and prefer to call me Whiskey. I can dig it. But the WG moniker was also an acronym for White Girl and Weird Girl. I do think the latter is probably most fitting.

Someone asked me a few days ago how I deal with stage fright and my douchey answer was that I actually don’t get it that much anymore. I really do think of WG as a separate person—it’s just an aspect of my personality that I play up but it’s not the core of who I am. So when I have a bad night I can say to myself, “Whiskey had a bad night, Naomi is doing just fine.” That mantra has not been working for me lately. I’ve been busting my ass to try to make a reputation and name for myself and it’s like running into a brick wall. In high school, I never had to bother being a cool kid, because I just knew that I wasn’t. In this community, the creative community, it’s as if I have to try to fit in with the cool kids just to be given a chance and I think it might be wearing on my mental health a little bit. For whatever reason I keep coming to the same conclusion: I am not that likeable and I’m 32 so this is it! I pretty much am who I am :-\

I had a show a few days ago. My very own show! I decided to do my own event because I just got tired of waiting around and begging for other creatives to like and accept me enough to give me a chance. Around me folks were pairing up with mentors and I was just there, alone, going from event to event trying to connect. I also had this crazy notion that the poetry community would be a world of misfits that understood what it’s like to be part of the outcasts and misfits—instead I found that it was the cool kids AGAIN. There I am assuming the position on the outside of things. So I put on my own show, just to prove to myself that I could. I gave myself my own feature because I don’t think I am the world’s greatest poet but I have something to say, and my narcissism tells me that the message is important to communicate with others. I got the flyers, paid the vendors, bust my ass trying to sell tickets, even got some other poets on board and hash tagged the shit out of my social media and the people actually CAME! I was exhausted but I felt so good and so proud of myself, in spite of what others thought, I had proven to MYSELF that I could do it.

Bullied

And it was time for me to take the stage as a headliner, and folks cheered as if I were somebody special. I had something to say and there were people that actually paid money to listen. So I spoke, and I had no trouble with the words because it’s never really me up there it’s WG. She was waxing poetic about life, and good sex and heartbreak when I kept hearing the voices of rowdy audience members override her. The voices only got louder so I watched as she moved in front of their faces and recited in front of them in an effort to bring them back in—captivate them! Because this was her show and at the very least she could pretend that she was good enough to headline it for a night. The loud voices got up and moved to the back of the room in response. Their volume increased and became more aggressive. Perhaps I, as Naomi, didn’t know how to handle it but WG did. That’s what she does, she takes the stage and she says what needs to be said in a way that compels people to listen or at least be polite. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t working this time!

That’s when I heard laughter, and I don’t know what happened to her (I am still angry at her for this) but Whiskey disappeared. It was me up there, a lowly under study that knew all the lines to the play but was almost too hysterical to perform. It wasn’t the kind of laughter that flowed out with mine until the sounds met across the room and blended into a melodious unison. No, it was the singular sound of laughter. The laughter of walking through the halls of high school in skater clothes and being made fun of for my dog collar and short hair that would just never grow. The sound of him saying that it didn’t matter how many layers of clothes I wore it was clear that I was fat underneath. It was the sound of boys laughing under their breaths, calling me sexy when just the year before I was an ugly gap toothed nobody. So WHICH IS IT? How am I supposed to gain control of my identity when people can’t even seem to decide what the FUCK it is?! Am I that loser with the clarinet and the chain around her neck and Skechers on her feet or am I Whiskey? Did you come hear to make fun or to LISTEN?

ETC - Awkward bullyingWell one thing is for sure; that night I was Naomi. This woman laughing and talking shit about me got under my skin and she triggered an old feeling inside of me I thought was long buried away. I’m never going to be the cool kid—and on some level I thought I was ok with that. I thought I had fully embraced that others were attracted to me for some indefinite reason and that I’m not going to fit into the categories they choose most often. I was a chubby girl in too much makeup and an annoying voice playing princess at my own event for the evening. I bleed on this keyboard for 4 readers and I pretend that I am making progress but I feel this event may have set me back to the beginning emotionally. I’m deciding marketing and promotional strategies—asking male counterparts for assistance and they smile and wink at me and tell me I can do the work all by myself. Because to them I am just that nerdy girl craving male attention so much that a wink and a little flirtation is supposed to be enough for me to do everybody’s fucking homework!

High school never ends—this is NOT the shit I signed up for! But I am in the midst of this shit so apparently I have to keep going. At the very least until I can find Whiskey again…

DoItForYou

Shattered Pieces

I have a thing for broken men
I am no fixer, I just want to lay next to their shattered pieces
to worship
Cut my cheek on jagged edges
Taste blood as it runs down my face
And I tell myself this is what alive feels like
Knowing the both of us are really dead
Slow bled out a long time ago
But the truth is never real as long as you say it isn’t so
And I’ll probably never leave you if you tell me not to go
I am unhappy
But it’s my favorite dress and I tend to wear it so well
How it fits like a glove over the exaggerated swell of my hips
Just past the honey bee tattoo you used to lick and kiss
But I haven’t seen you and your tongue is fast becoming a memory
Visions of our future are slowly erasing, fading
Trading themselves in for loneliness and neglect
The irritable clench of your jaw as I pleaded and I wept
For the us that I thought we could be
Watching your passion transform into apathy
It was beautiful sad, it was just like you
It was sleeping late curled up in bed …the countless times you’ve never come through
I watch you stop caring and I withdraw further into myself
Tell me, are you so much in love with yourself you have none to spare for anyone else?
Or maybe just a little more for me
See, I’m a bit tired
Of waking up to missed text messages that I wonder if you sent because you knew I was asleep
And of leaving voicemails laced with desperation after the sound of the beep
Wishing for time and touch with abated breath
Flat lining on this table, you are the surgeon with each incision I fear you will call a time of death
Love doesn’t live here, didn’t give enough notice when it left
and I am being evicted in its wake
Let me stay, give me more pain I promise you I can take it
I am a pro, an underdog a masochistic hero
And besides, I am a lot more crazy than you know
I have  thing for you
I am obsessed with your shattered pieces
Let me lie prostrate, and let’s sit in silence as I worship
At your feet

**********************

I’ve been reading articles lately—trying to find out what psychologists have to say about ways to love and, more importantly, ways to keep it. Something about retaining it is not my strong suit; it always slips through. Or, I hold on too long and I don’t know when to let it go and stop trying. People are hard to read these days, they don’t tell you when they’re through with you, they try to hang on to you while simultaneously reaching out to something more, something BETTER or just different. Society is insatiable and cruel. I seem to only be left with the prayer that everything will end up alright in the end—because I’m tired of spending a relationship’s duration flinging cheating accusations and keeping tally of love lost and considerations that slowly diminish with time.

Loveland Art Image 2

Loveland Art

I can’t stomach another break up—break apart. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with this level of trial and error; the stakes are too high. I’ve given of body and time, spirit—pieces of me I won’t be quite so generous with the next time around. I’m only 32 but kind of feeling like I’m getting too old for the “next time around”. After this age it seems like we’re all kidding ourselves, arriving at the door with too much baggage and only the worst parts of ourselves to offer because we’re too beaten, broken down and plain selfish to offer up the good parts…the naked parts. Tell me, where do you hide your good parts?

 

No matter the outcome—of life and so many things— I suppose there is comfort in the possibility of finding peace within my own self-worth, and power in knowing I don’t have to force someone into validating that for me.

 

*************

*All artwork in this blog post courtesy of Loveland Art. Please click the link to check out more; also follow on Instagram: @lovelandart.

Rum

Rum was my first drink of choice when I realized my life was falling a part
I needed something to help me medicate
Today’s sips still flavored with brokenness and divorce. ..
I’ve since changed course, I chug whiskey now
Because life is a son of a bitch
I need that bit of grit
To get by