I wake
And I want to wrap my wounds with words
And rest
And heal.

But I must return to the battlefield
To fight
To kill.

Photo by Katherine Webb

I have a confession: I am jealous of poet and educator Ashley M. Jones.

I don’t envy Jones because last year, at the ripe old age of 25, she was one of only six winners of the 2015 Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award, a prestigious award given annually to support emerging women writers with exceptional talent. I don’t envy her because she landed a dream creative writing teaching job at the Alabama School of Fine Arts (ASFA) as soon as she finished her graduate work at Florida International University. I’m not jealous of Jones’s book deal (her first full-length poetry collection will hit bookshelves in November) and I don’t envy her because last yearB-Metro gave Jones their Fusion Award, an honor given to Birmingham residents who champion diversity, inclusion, and acceptance.

I am jealous of Jones because she is in love—with poetry.

Sure, I, too, as a writer and an English instructor at ASFA, have great affection for the written word, but compared to Jones’s passion for poetry, the relationship I have with writing is mere puppy love. Jones’s love for poetry is evident not only in her written work, but in every conversation you have with her, in every lecture she gives to her students at ASFA, and even in every post she makes to her social media channels. On any given day you’ll find her on Facebook gushing over a new book of poetry she just bought or old work she has just rediscovered. On Instagram you can see her as giddy as a schoolgirl with a crush on the boy next door as she posts pictures of her preparation for her latest lesson. And during football season, when her fellow Alabamians are posting chants of “Roll Tide” and “War Eagle,” Jones simply declares, “Go poetry!”

“Whenever I post on Facebook about poems that I like, it’s usually because I’ve read the poem and caught the Holy Ghost from the poem,” Jones says, laughing and raising her hands in the air in praise of poetry.  “The way that people use words and even the way their message is conveyed [through poetry] just seems more immediate, sometimes more sassy, sometimes more painful. It’s just juicier. And so that’s what I love about reading it and writing it.”

Read the entire article at B-Metro.com

Image via B-Metro.com

Sometimes I feel as if I’m caught in a love triangle—writing and teaching both tugging at my heart. I was born to teach, but I didn’t realize this until after working in education for seven years. When I was a girl, I named all my dolls and other toys, arranged them in nice, neat rows in alphabetical order, and then launched into a lecture on whatever struck my fancy at the time. The classroom called me early in life, but I didn’t know it.

But I was also born to write. This I’ve known since the day I wrote my first poem. I was only 7 or 8 years old, so it was terrible, and I’m sure it included the line “Roses are red, violets are blue.” But it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the written word. And it was this love that led me to study journalism. I had dreams of working for Essence magazine and one day starting a print magazine of my own.

But a career in education was still whispering in my ear, flirting with my future plans. In graduate school at UC Berkeley, I was a graduate student instructor, or GSI, and taught a communications class for undergraduate students. I was charged with breaking down the complicated concepts and theories the professor discussed in her lectures. I did such a good job that students assigned to other GSIs would ask to come to my class, willing to sit on the floor or stand in the back if there weren’t enough desks.

I applied for Teach for America. I was accepted by Teach for America. I turned down Teach for America. I had also been offered a job as a features reporter in a city that I loved with the man whom I love. Writing won my heart again...

Read the entire article at B-Metro.com. 

Image by thestoryscape via Blavity

I'm a girl obsessed with goals. I write yearly goals, monthly goals, and even goals for the week.

But so often these goals get lost in my litany of daily tasks. When my daily to-do lists and my lofty aspirations go head to head in battle, the to-do list wins -- always.

Then I think of Octavia Butler, the black woman warrior writer who, as Kiara Collins so perfectly stated in a recent article for Blavity, "literally wrote her life into existence."

Within her personal journals, Butler boldly declared that her novels would be a success, that she would be "a bestselling writer," that her books would be "read by millions of people" and that she would help "poor black youngsters" by broadening their horizons.

I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I'd become one of those people who start feeling down as their birthday approaches. This was happening to me, me who looked forward to 30, me who often utters the words, "I can't wait to turn 40!" because my friends over 40 are so fabulous and fierce.

Yet as I saw 35 in the horizon I started to feel sad, even a little scared. Is this it? I asked myself. Is this all I will ever become? Are my best years behind me? 

But then my hard-won confidence and past accomplishments put an end to that pity party. I wrote myself instructions on How to Turn 35 and now I'm taking my own advice.

As I turn 35 I will laugh, I will dance, and I will dream as I did as a girl.

Dear Javacia,

When you turn 35, you must celebrate all month long. When you turn 35, you must celebrate first with a look back. You will discover that 34 was quite the year.

Thirty-four was the year you built your labor of love—See Jane Write—into a business and learned that if you take yourself seriously as an entrepreneur, other people will, too. Your 2015 “Top 40 Under 40” award from the Birmingham Business Journal is proof.

Thirty-four was the year you and your husband bought a house, something you never thought you could do. When you were younger, you saw homeownership as something reserved for folks from wealthy families. Your family never had much money. Even though your parents worked very, very hard, they always struggled to make ends meet. They weren’t able to purchase a house and you saw your fair share of eviction notices taped to the front door. But 34 was the year you declared you would go after all those things you once believed were beyond your reach—and it worked.

Thirty-four was the year you were deemed “inspirational.” Because of your work with See Jane Write, Girls on the Run Birmingham recognized you among other local “Women Who Inspire,” such as legendary TV news anchor Brenda Ladun. At the awards ceremony, you felt like a fraud because that night you didn’t feel “inspirational,” you felt like a mess. You were in the midst of one of your most stressful times of the year, a time when you were ready to quit everything. You spent most of the evening in tears. Then several women came to you sharing how you had changed their lives simply by inspiring them to share their stories and write their truth. Thirty-four was the year you realized you could be a mess and still be inspirational...

Read this entire article at B-Metro.com. 

Beyonce has had enough.

Beyonce has had enough of y'all talking about her baby's hair.

She's had enough of y'all talking about her man's big nose.

She's had enough of her people being killed by the very people sworn to protect and serve them.