As you probably heard last month, political exile Assata Shakur has been added to the FBI's Most Wanted Terrorist List. This is huge, not only because they doubled the reward for her capture to $2 million, and not only because she's the first woman to be added to the list, but because the U.S. government is sending a message that reaches beyond Assata's ears. This message reaches me, and of course, anyone like me, merging the word "revolutionary" with the word "terrorist" to call those of us who resist, who challenge injustice, enemies. 

Like many others, I've been searching for a way to respond to this attack on political activists. And, like I usually do, I've been searching especially for a way to respond through art. 

So of course, I'm so glad that such an opportunity has emerged. Poet, artist, and cultural organizer Vanessa Huang has written a poem for Assata, and she's invited all of us to be part of amplifying "our liberation love frequency" by sharing these words. Hearing about the poem, I knew already that I believed in its power, and all the more so when I heard of its sources of inspiration - Assata's poem "I believe in living," Audre Lorde's poem "For Assata" and essay "Poetry is Not a Luxury,"  Cheryl Clarke's poem "wearing my cap backwards," and Morgan Bassichis' play "The Witch House." The convergence of such artistic power can only mean magic is taking place, so it's only fitting that the invitation is to help "cast a spell" for Assata by helping the support for her spread and grow. 

Visit this project's campaign page at www.igg.me/at/poemforassata to read Vanessa's poem and to learn about how you can help share the poem, get a print for yourself, and do more help bring love and liberation to Assata. We, the change-makers following in Assata's revolutionary footsteps, can have our say - Hands Off Assata! 

I'm realizing I spend a lot of time trying to shake off the good things that come my way. I dismiss compliments to my work as exaggerations of my talent, shaking my head rather than letting the words stick. If I read the poem and the audience applauds, I try to let the sound fly off me like a dog shimmying water off its coat, instead of letting the praise sink in. And recently, upon reading a particularly glowing review of my poetry, I seriously considered the possibility that the reviewer was uncharacteristically drunk when she read my work. But I guess that's not likely. 

Can anybody relate? Why do we do this? I guess I can see why people of color, or women, or queer people get used to the idea that we're not good enough, not deserving of good things, so it's easier to attribute our successes to other sources than to believe that we're really the ones who created something of value. After surviving abuse and oppression, I can understand why someone like me would have a hard time accepting that she's worthy of praise. 

Today's practice is not one in humility. Today, I'm practicing saying something new - "I deserve this." 

Recently, I've read my work as part of some truly magnificent events, and poems of mine have been published in some compelling journals. It feels both humbling and empowering to share my work among such talent, and instead of asking, "What the hell am I doing here?" I'm taking a breath and sitting with the feeling. And I'm saying, "I deserve this." 

Try it out when good things come your way. Let me know how it goes. 

And for one of those compelling journals in which I'm honored to have my work published, check out last December's issue of Blackberry: A Magazine. 

I've written about Writing Ourselves Whole before, but that was a while ago, and anything that brings transformative healing into survivors' lives is worth mentioning again and again. There's no better time to mention this precious work than now, on the eve of Fierce Hunger, Writing Ourselves Whole's 10th anniversary celebration.

For the past ten years, founder and facilitator Jen Cross has been helping survivors write at the intersection of a trauma and desire. And what a liberating place to write from from – I'd know, as I've personally spent time in some Writing Ourselves Whole workshops, and I have Jen to thank for so much of the courage I've found to write my truth.

And now, I also have Jen to thank for my latest publication credit. She's included my poetry in the Fierce Hunger chapbook, alongside the work of many of the brave and talented Writing Ourselves Whole participants from the last ten years. I'm thrilled to be included, and by association, to take part in tomorrow's Fierce Hunger celebration.

The event sounds like so much fun! The night will include dancing, a silent auction and a raffle with some fabulous items available, and readings by Carol Queen, Jacks McNamara, and more. All proceeds benefit the Writing Ourselves Whole scholarship fund, to give more survivors the gift of transformative writing workshops. You can find more details on the event, on the prizes available, and on how to donate to the fund on the Fierce Hunger tumblr.

I'm glad that my words will be at Fierce Hunger, so I'll attend in spirit, since I can't be there in person. I'll be reading at the Bernal Yoga Literary Series, which is happening the same night, in an unfortunate coincidence in scheduling. I must say, I'm a little blown away by the list of the other writers who'll be sharing the stage (studio floor?) at Bernal Yoga Studio tomorrow night. The lineup includes Joshua Mohr, Aimee Phan, and Phil Lumsden. I'm trying not to shake in my boots over here.

Here are the details for that event:

Bernal Yoga Literary Series
March 2, 2013, 8:00 pm
908 Cortland Ave in San Francisco

I hope to see you there, but you won't hurt my feelings if you show up at Fierce Hunger instead. I'm looking over the details for that below, and I know it's hard to miss!

Okay, so I know I get really excited about every event where I get the chance to read my work, but I must say, I'm really excited for this weekend's reading. Let me tell you why.

• It's called Black Women From the Future. Enough said, right? I'll say more, anyway. This event, the latest installment of Black Futurists Speak, celebrates Black History Month and helps kick off Women's History Month, by lifting up the unique power of black women's voices. That's right, it's a lineup consisting entirely of powerful black women.
  

• Said badass lineup of performers is as follows: African-Jamaican dub poet d’bi.young anitafrika, poet and director of The Lower Bottom Players Ayodele Nzinga, the stunningly talented fiction writer Lisa D. Gray, poet and musician Amber McZeal as our host, and lil' ol' me. 
• We'll be reading along with music by Kevin Carnes of the celebrated jazz-electronica trio Broun Fellinis. 
• There's also an open mic, which means there will be even more badassery, which we have yet to hear of.
  
• The creation of this event is truly inspired, born from Warehouse 416’s current art show, African-American Icons (featuring the work of celebrated artists James Gayles, Esuu Orinde and Aswad Arif) and the theme for 2013’s Women’s History Month - “Women Inspiring Innovation Through Imagination: Celebrating Women in Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics.” By celebrating black women of today, we are looking to "the future of the written word - where creative innovation and skill meet community responsibility and futuristic thinking."

Now you can see why I'm so looking forward to this event. Here are the details:

Valentine's Day came and went again this year, along with its usual...challenges. You know I'm all about the self-love when it comes to these kinds of holidays, because if nothing else, it can be a good time to remind ourselves that we're worth loving even if we don't have the types of relationships or lives deemed perfect by the mainstream media's standards.

But one of the great things that came out of this year's Valentine's Day was more about coming together than being alone. It was One Billion Rising, a global campaign to end violence against women. People all around the world united in the most wonderful way – by dancing. Anti-violence action and dance? You know I love it! Taking a stand to say we all deserve to live without violence – in the end, that comes down to self-love, too, doesn't it?

For me, one of the most inspiring results of the One Billion Rising campaign comes out of the San Francisco jails, with those who participated there. Maybe I love it so much because I'm connected to these folks through my life and work, but I think this action also spreads a moving message that's important for all of us to hear. Watch "Inmates Rising" below, to see why the inmates danced, and why it was such a special experience for them.

This video reminds me of the work of the formerly incarcerated poet Reginald Dwayne Betts. If you're not familiar with his work, I'd recommend getting to know him. Here's a taste, one love-centric poem of his:

"For you: anthophilous, lover of flowers"
by Reginald Dwayne Betts

For you: anthophilous, lover of flowers,
green roses, chrysanthemums, lilies: retrophilia,
philocaly, philomath, sarcophilous—all this love,
of the past, of beauty, of knowledge, of flesh; this is
catalogue & counter: philalethist, negrophile, neophile.
A negro man walks down the street, taps Newport
out against a brick wall & stares at you. Love
that: lygophilia, lithophilous. Be amongst stones,
amongst darkness. We are glass house. Philopornist,
philotechnical. Why not worship the demimonde?
Love that—a corner room, whatever is not there,
all the clutter you keep secret. Palaeophile,
ornithophilous: you, antiquarian, pollinated by birds.
All this a way to dream green rose petals on the bed you love;
petrophilous, stigmatophilia: live near rocks, tattoo hurt;
for you topophilia: what place do you love? All these words
for love (for you), all these ways to say believe
in symphily, to say let us live near each other.

During a moving Wellness Wednesday group at CUAV yesterday, we wrote poems about finding love and the skills to survive within our own bodies. Here's Jane Springer's poem, "Mules," which inspired our work.

Mules by Jane Springer

When they told us Don’t speak until spoken to, we grew
ears the size of corn.  

When they forced us to eat everything we swallowed
their hurt whole. 

When they hit us for drawing on the wall we painted
doors that opened behind curtains.  

For generations they lived like this. Wanting badly to
save us—not knowing how.  

& all the while we found love in unlikely places: In
the ravaged church of our bodies & our faces,  

refracted in their long faces.

I got down in the kitchen recently. I love to cook, so I do it fairly often, but there’s a difference between throwing dinner together for myself and getting down in the kitchen. It was a whole Caribbean-inspired feast – seafood sizzling in lemon juice, veggies coated in curry, cornbread sweetened with honey.

It was all for my grandmother, who just passed away. Or, as I like to think of it, she just found peace, after fighting many battles. One of her most recent battles was with Alzheimer’s disease. Another was her effort to live out her final days in her home country of Trinidad. In that fight, she claimed victory.

Now, I say that the food I cooked was “Caribbean-inspired,” because it was not quite authentically Caribbean. Cooking here in the U.S., I didn’t have the ingredients to make the dishes just right. I didn’t have the wise guidance of somebody like my grandmother, who could’ve helped me craft the meal like they do in Trinidad. So I had to substitute ingredients, and find my own path to the flavors I sought.

The most obvious of this inauthenticity was the callaloo soup. Callaloo is a popular dish in Trinidad, a green puree of delightful flavors, made with vegetables, coconut milk, and many times, crabmeat. I had to substitute leafy greens found in Trinidad for those at my local market, and I left out the crabmeat. In the end, my soup was more yellow than green, and considered callaloo by name only. It was delicious, and completely inspired by the real thing, but my soup was not real callaloo.

Sometimes I feel that my writing process is similar to this cooking endeavor. Lately, I’ve been feeling all kinds of things that exist beyond my grasp of words – grief, love, passion. For a moment there, these things threatened to shut me down with a bit of writer’s block. I mean, what could I really say about feelings that burst through the containers of the words we try to give them? Is it even worth the effort, when I’ll always fall short of capturing what I really want to say?

Well, the food was worth the effort, despite the flaws. It filled my home with an irresistible aroma, filled my mouth with delectable flavors, and fed a few people I really care about. And it also gave me a chance to honor and celebrate my grandmother, to send her off with a tribute to her life. I don’t have the right words for this, and I couldn’t find the exact flavors for it, either. But it feels good to create something that represents, in a way, my search for an expression of all I want to say.

A poem I wrote in 2010 for my grandmother:

Here's some of what I've been writing lately - part of my reading from last month's Lyrics and Dirges anniversary show. You can watch the whole show on Litseen.

My next reading's on Thursday - The Grinder Reading Series at Telegraph Cafe. Details on my events page.

And I'll have a new blog post up soon! A real one. This shameless self-promotion doesn't count. But until then...

It's Labor Day. So to honor workers in labor movements and other tireless folks whose work never ends, here's a poem by Audre Lorde.


A Song for Many Movements
by Aurde Lorde

Nobody wants to die on the way
and caught between ghosts of whiteness
and the real water
none of us wanted to leave
our bones
on the way to salvation
three planets to the left
a century of light years ago
our spices are separate and particular
but our skins sine in complimentary keys
at a quarter to eight mean time
we were telling the same stories
over and over and over.

Broken down gods survive
in the crevasses and mudpots
of every beleaguered city
where it is obvious
there are too many bodies
to cart to the ovens
or gallows
and our uses have become
more important than our silence
after the fall
too many empty cases
of blood to bury or burn
there will be no body left
to listen
and our labor
has become more important
than our silence

Our labor has become
more important
than our silence.

Sometimes, you just need to pause and take in some art that's good for your soul. That's what I needed this morning, so I'm passing it on. Here's award-winning poet Iyoeka Okoawo using music, song, storytelling and spoken word to bring a message of hope.