the age of 25

Many, many moons ago when I was a little girl, I thought that at the age of 25 THINGS happen.

What things? (One may ask) well ANYTHING. Like? Sex, drugs, jazz & rock and roll?
Not necessarily in that order…but Life.
Plain and simple.
General “adultness” would happen. So I recall on the eve of my 25th birthday just thinking, "wow, is this what I planned for?"

Let me take you back…

May 22, 2001…
it was a Tuesday evening. Not too hot, not to cold, perfect spring weather.
Where was I? Painting what would become my very first apartment (as of June 1, 2001). I do recall thinking man, I know I have to turn on Con-Edison (gas & electric), think about having a home phone # (because who doesn’t have a home #) and think about actually furnishing this apartment...but overall I had this generally accomplished and almost satisfied feeling.

Almost.

What was missing, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it yet, but I seem to have thought that if I had someone to share this with, it would be better. Better than it currently was (in my mind) which was my first real foray into the single dome of the world. My first place/ space/ something to call my own. I do know that back then, I didn’t fully appreciate what was truly mine, and anticipated what could become an “ours”. <---who was this imaginary person that would share my world, NO CLUE, but I thought I was ready for love.
I also recall on the magical day of May 23rd, nothing really spectacular happened, (besides me being born of course)

I mean I went to work that day, got a few phone calls and cards, but had a generally pleasant day with the family.

Nothing happened.

I also know that because NOTHING happened, I needed to do something to make a change come.

This was the time I cut off my hair.

Back story- child of Island parentage, Mom from NY by way of Jamaica & Grenada, Dad from Bermuda, by way of Bermuda. Apparently, I am one of those with “good hair”. Always long, flowing, curly in the summer, easily straightened in the winter. Can be tamed and wild at the same time. ALWAYS told to keep my hair long, people [read= men] loved longhaired lassies. To cut ones hair made you ugly, and boyish and if you were a girl, then you may as well be a lesbian and call it a moment, so to come to the decision to cut my hair was not an easy one.

But I did, figuring it would be a new me.

A different me, maybe lead to a better me.
What happened?

NOTHING.

A few “Oh’s, that’s cute”. A few “wow, I can’t believe you did that”. One definite “oh my goodness you look so much better with long hair, don’t worry you can always buy a weave.” And another “I loved you with long hair”. I should of had a V-8

Fast-forward a couple of months—9/11/01.

The world changed. Big time.

While everyone around was tying to make sense of it all and trying to put the words together to make it be alright, everyone had the same issues of realizing something bigger than them (right here/right now) is happening. And as stupid as it may seem now, one of the MANY things I realized was the hair (MY HAIR) is just that- dead follicles on my head, no more a definition of me than the pink shirt I wear (on any given day) or the dress I choose to put on the next day.

And with that, I started to write again. Now, you must know that I have always written, contracts, journals, poetry, short stories, so I considered myself to be a writer of sorts. But it seemed that for awhile, I had no voice. I could no longer express anything to anyone. And I stopped putting pen to paper to let it out.

In my apartment, chicken grease was formed.

Chicken grease: a group of poets who are so amazingly talented, it is beyond belief.

Alone, pure fire. Together, unstoppable. Powerful.

This is to my fellow poets…
I realize: we make things happen.
Don’t stop.

keep writing.