Tyler Perry’s panties, all in a bunch

  By Tzynya | April 4, 2012 - 6:20 pm | rants
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This is one of few times – probably the only time – you will read a post on this blog about Tyler Perry. But, as the topic of his recent run-in with the Atlanta police slithers across the internet, gossip sites, and now mainstream news sites, I feel compelled to make an observation.

Tyler Perry posted a note to his fans on his Facebook page detailing what he considers an instance of racial profiling, and a general call to action against the Atlanta police, and law enforcement, at large.

It did not take long for the note to go viral, and to be picked up by mainstream print and broadcast media (read the ABC News article here).

I was only a few paragraphs into the story when I drew closer to my laptop screen, scratched my head, and started reading it over from the beginning, in disbelief. Not because a famous black entertainer was the victim of overt discrimination, but because I wondered if I was the only reader who noticed this incident was incited by his breaking of a basic traffic law. Yes. Mr. Perry – fearing he was being followed by paparazzi, or a crazed, and obsessed fan – made the strategic decision to pull into the right lane at a traffic light, and then abruptly make a left turn from said right lane, in efforts to shake loose any tail (that may or may not have existed) that may, or may not have existed.

Perry states, “…a safety precaution that my security team taught me. As I got to an intersection, I made a left turn from the right lane and was pulled over by two police officers.” He explains, he rarely drives without a security detail, and as such, has been trained/advised/instructed in matters of safety when driving alone (oh, the humanity!). Perry was pulled over by a police officer after making the illegal turn. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

As stated in his Facebook post, and regurgitated on a great number of media outlets, since, “…the officer came up to the driver’s door and said that I made an illegal turn. I said, “I signaled to get into the turning lane, then made the turn because I have to be sure I’m not being followed.” He said, “why do you think someone would be following you?”

At this point, Perry states that another office approached the passenger side of his car, and began to bang on the window, demanding he roll down it down immediately (his windows were covered in a dark tint) Perry goes on to describe how vile the officers were, using verbal intimidation, assaulting him with questions of why he thought he might have been followed, asking “what is wrong with you!” and then reaching into his car, and attempting to remove the key from the ignition to turn off the engine, while demanding he put his foot on the brake to cease acceleration.

Perry goes on to say he instantly flashed back to childhood when his mother first instructed him in matters of dealing with law enforcement as a black person, in efforts to preserve life and limb (we, colored folk, have all received this speech, just as I have drilled the same wisdom into my daughter’s psyche). He recalled his mother instructing him to be polite, not to do anything to aggravate the situation, and never, ever make any quick moves. Perry, up until this point, had done just the opposite by instructing the officers, “I think you guys need to just write the ticket and do whatever you need to do.” He goes on to write that after continued questioning, he informs the police he wants to get out of the car (because he wanted passersby to witness this altercation). He even reaches down near the gear shift to grab his key fob to give to the officer – which of course had a black leather strap on it, and could reasonably be mistaken for a weapon, of sorts.

A third police officer pulls up as Mr. Perry is stepping out of the car. Luckily, for him and for Madea fans everywhere, the third police officer on the scene was black, and quickly communicated Perry’s superstar status to the white officers, who quickly, and apologetically quashed the infraction.

Perry, having escaped by the skin of his teeth, has turned activist, and victim, and brown panther (not sure how militant one can claim to be while running from the soundstage to the lunch cart with hose, kitten heels, wig, and mascara in pocketbook), and is demanding a full probe into the event involving the Atlanta Police department.

This does not appear to be an issue of racial profiling. Did race inflame the situation once the officers realized he was black? Possibly. In Atlanta, even likely (the south ain’t so new, I can testify to that). But how much did Perry’s action lend to this situation? How much did his actions work to inflame an already terse situation?

1. He broke a traffic law, to escape an imagined stalker, and apparently believed that this was justification, or possibly, since he did instruct the officer to just give him his ticket, he figured it was worth the fee.

2. “It all happened so quickly…I was confused…it was so hostile…” According to Perry, he was so distraught he was incapable of forming the words to explain why he thought he might have been followed, yet he had the wherewithal to tell the belligerent officers he desired to exit his vehicle, and to tell them to just go on and give him his ticket.

In an article that appears on the 11Alive News website, a local Atlanta NBC affiliate, states, “…two white police officers stopped him even though he has directed and acted in at least 16 feature films.” I have to wonder if this is at the core of all of this. Perry, who is famous – so famous indeed, that he requires a full security detail for such mundane tasks as driving himself to the store, or to the airport – should be recognized on sight, and given a pass, or at least treated better than the average American citizen with a drivers’ license, when pulled over for violating traffic laws, that as we know are not really meant for those in positions of wealth, power, and fame – black, or otherwise.

Sounds like Perry is drinking the kool-aid.

A woman on Facebook challenged, “how could they not recognize him, have they been living under a rock?!”

It is this type of frivolous, and self-aggrandizing behavior that only helps to undermine the real work of persons – of all races, colors, religions, political affiliation – attempting to educate, and engage in a real, and true conversation on race, and affect change in this country. But, I suppose, if the bandwagon is playing a damn good song, why not pay your ticket, jump on, and electric slide your way to into the sunset.

Let us not be so poised to fan a fire that too often blows back into the collective face of our community, my people.

Mayhaps, if driving is too perilous a task for Mr. Perry, he should refrain from outings without a driver – a white driver. Or maybe next time he needs to run a stop sign, drive on the sidewalk, or plough through the bicycle lane, he should be sure to don a wig and dress – we see how well that has served him so far.

Blame it on Jean Toomer

  By Tzynya | March 6, 2012 - 8:42 pm | Conversations from hell, rants, Writing
2 Comments

white-writerlady: i like what you’re doing. but you don’t write like a black woman.

black-me: how does a black woman write?

white-writerlady: not to limit the scope of black literature, but that rebel cadence. i get a real sense of freedom from marginalized space and a soul to it.

black-me: and my writing is non-marginal-ized, soulless – dead?

white-writerlady: no, no, let me elaborate.

black-me: yes, please.

white-writerlady: often times i get a sense of who the author is, but your imagery is not so common to black motif in literature.

black-me: like cotton?

white-writerlady: oh, no, not just commonplace images of the old south. i can tell your influences are, more, eh, traditional.

black-me: like apple tarts and trees…?

white-writerlady: …so, so much more. i read your work, and i say, wow, i recognize that in myself.

black-me: well, i do have a poem for a slave woman fucking mary todd lincoln.

white-writerlady: i would love to experience that…poem.

black-me: shouldn’t we all?

white-writerlady: you’re funny.

black-me: it’s my father’s fault. he insisted i do non-black things as a child, and all my dolls were white, or at least, light-skinned agnostics.

white-writerlady: is your father a writer too?

black-me: no, he’s a musician, a dead musician now – well, i suppose he still plays his guitar in heaven. ah-heaven – there’s a black literature motif!

white-writerlady: what i mean to say is your writing appears more learned than…

black-me: …alas, learned verse sans soul.

white-writerlady: c’mon, it’s a compliment.

black-me: if you’ll excuse me, i need to go brood in my porridge.

Stargazing; shalom.

  By Tzynya | February 24, 2012 - 3:25 pm | Music, Sidney L. Pinchback, South Shore Commission
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Exactly a week ago, I was sitting in my car happy for the weekend, when the thought came to me I should call my dad to check on him since it was the Sabbath. I was dialing his mobile number when I remembered he is gone. Then I remembered it’s only a week away from the first anniversary of his death.

A few days later, a dear family friend, and my dad’s fellow South Shore Commission band mate posted a few publicity shots of the band back in the 1970′s at Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles. A nice surprise to see I am sitting there, off to the side like a wild-haired doll baby, holding down the fray.

Thanks dad for making sure that photo found it’s way to me this week.

Award nominee for a nominal fee

  By Tzynya | February 21, 2012 - 2:38 pm | Publishing, Writing
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I received an e-mail from a writers’ organization – an e-newsletter, of sorts – inviting me to submit my work for consideration for a prize. I know very little of this organization, so I did a little research. My suspicions were confirmed. For a small fee, I can nominate my own work, or submit my own work for consideration of award to be presented during their annual gala celebration of the written word. Of course, this “honor” would cost me a pretty penny – gas, food, lodging (not to mention hotel Internet fees so I can upload all the photos from the award ceremony to Facebook and Twitter).

Before you get excited – because I know you are prone to the excite-able – you should know I receive similar invitations almost weekly. Not because my work is outstanding, not because of anything I have or have not done, but because my name and e-mail address have found a home on the mailing list of parties who understand writers are a dreadful lot of egoist who will do most anything to snatch a sliver of recognition.

Red flags: I am invited to nominate myself. No mention of where my work was viewed or reviewed. And no detail of what about my work speaks to the mission, and vision of this literary organization so profoundly they are compelled to award me? And if I’m receiving the same invitation as everyone on their mailing list (based on the e-blast format, it is safe to make that assumption), how special or significant an honor can it be? In other words, I can purchase a plaque, or statue, or figurehead object with my name emblazoned across it exalting me as winner of some makeshift accomplishment. No thank you.

I receive monthly e-newsletters from various publishers announcing fresh-out-of-the-gate “award-winning”, “best-selling” authors. They can’t all be award winning and best selling, can they? By what criteria and by whose standards? What can be gained by touting accolades that are not merit-based (popularity as a result of book sales, and not just clicking a VOTE HERE button a dozen or so times on a website)? Does it matter? Isn’t there something to be said for exclusivity? If the publishing industry were a middle school cafeteria – and it sort of is – the cliques would be grouped by the award and publication.

What’s in a name? Is the award you receive from a group of women readers from your neighborhood church group of any less importance or significance than a Glimmer Train Award? I am poet-in-residence of my daughter ninth-grade Honors Literature class, but I wouldn’t dare list that in my professional writing bio. Imagine the embarrassment, when confronted by a fellow writer’s inquiry into my in-residency, and I am reduced to displaying the paper certificate printed in the school library and bestowed upon me by my daughter’s classmates. But, is there anything of greater importance to me, personally, than being the coolest poet-mom of my daughter’s nerdy friends? Absolutely not.

How carefully should we tread when proclaiming our literary prowess? I am usually modest when tossing out the literary accomplishments, especially when submitting to publications. The last thing I want is a list of slack-jawed, and bootlegged alphabet soup sticking to, and stinking up, my name like elephant dung.

I really want you to like my work, and sometimes I don’t want you to like it, but I want it to move you, or sit with you long after you have read it. And if after you have read it, you lend it to your friend, and she lends it to her cousin, and that person leaves it for the clerk at the village apothecary, and you later send me an e-mail to say my book is the favorite of your block, I will come to your home – if invited – and bring blueberries and a thyme, and I will read for you. And I will feel like a happy, bright thing. And you don’t even have to give me a plaque, just a soft cushion on which to park my ample ass.

If you are so inclined, my professional writing bio can be quoted as such:

Tzynya. Girl. Mother. Maker of poem. Lover of berries, books, and boys.

A (temporary) farewell to kissing

  By Tzynya | October 4, 2011 - 10:25 pm | Uncategorized
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Tonsils

(Very tired.  Low energy.  Not sleeping well)

Medications
Ibuprofen – 600 mg every six hours for pain
Amoxicillan – 875 mg tablets (crushed) twice daily
Claritin – 10 mg antihistamine once daily

Last Dose
Ibuprofen – 7:00am
Antibiotic – Midnight
Claritin – 10:00am, yesterday (Tuesday)

Symptoms
- Hard to swallow, even saliva
- Voice difficult to decipher
- Stuffy nose or runny nose, at times
- Not able to eat or drink much since Sunday
- last ate mushy cauliflower at midnight with a slushy drink
- ate sorbet yesterday (slightly comforting)

Self Assessment of Illness
Treatment not working. Misdiagnosed?

Candid

  By Tzynya | July 30, 2011 - 1:16 am | erotica, Henry & Martha, love
3 Comments

 

we don’t draw the shades for pillow talk. goddamned hussy, natural light and dry red wine with that dirt aftertaste straight from the bottle. fucking hipster, wiping cane rum and lime spittle, my hair from his chin.

shutter release

crosslegged beneath oak and fruit tree at dusk writing songs to turtles and fellatio, scratching sap and mosquito venom off the skin of his right hand. 

shutter release

crosslegged on my sofa in dim light, tea tree oiling my plaits, mouth pressed to scalp sucking and pushing air between his lips making that hideous farting sound i despise.  

shutter release

aged jeans with no draws, dog-eared pages of mary oliver and bukowski poems on his breath, dry humping my ass with camera in hand grabbing light, shadow and texture of a lust with macro lens.

c.’11 TLP

Film: Into Thin Air

  By Tzynya | July 28, 2011 - 9:05 pm | Uncategorized
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The Hillary Step - the most treacherous, and final step on the ascent before reaching the summit of Everest

“Everest arouses a powerful desire. To those who don’t feel it, it cannot be explained.” –Jon Krakauer

If you know me, you know it is my dream to one day summit Mt. Everest. I am not a mountain climber, or even a rock or rock wall climber, for that matter, but I am fascinated by ones ability to willingly traverse something as perilous and daunting as Everest.

Below is the orientation as transcribed from the film Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. The author penned the book from notes taken while on exhibition to Everest – a trip that resulted in the tragedy of the deaths of both guides, as well as many other members of the team.

Itinerary (should you ever desire to ready your mind for summiting Everest):

Tomorrow we began a 10-day hike into base camp Everest. Base came is 17,600 feet. Then on to Camp One, 19,500 feet. It’s early in the game, but already it’s a third less oxygen than at sea level. So we’ll lay in again and let our bodies adjust. Then we’ll go up to Camp Two.

Now, Camp Two is 21,600 feet. This is when when you have to start worrying about edema, or cerebral pulmonary – when your brain can swell up like an over-inflated balloon and your lungs fill up with so much liquid you literally drown.

Camp Three – 24,000 feet. Now your body is working four times faster than normal and still not getting enough oxygen. Your digestive track wants to call it quits, leaving your body so hungry for nutrients it will literally start to eat itself.

And then Camp Four – 26,000 feet. Welcome to the death zone, where bad things can happen very, very quickly. You’re gonna feel sluggish, careless and cold. You might spend a few hours at Camp Four. From this point onwards, nobody on this trip travels without oxygen. Are we clear? Good. The push for the summit starts in the middle of the night.

Were up to the South Col (26,200 feet), the Balcony (27,600 feet), the South Summit (28,700 feet), the Hilary Step (28,000 feet), which is the only point of technical climbing on the ascent, and then on to the top of the world (29,028 ft).

Now most important rule, if you are not on the summit by 2:00p.m., you turn around. I’ve seen too many climbers get killed after reaching the top too late in the day. They run out of gas, they get nailed by the conditions in the descent. So this rule is hard and fast, no matter where you are at 2:00p.m., you stop and turn around. Even if you’re fifty feet from the summit, you go down. You do not want to get caught on the ridge at night. No one can survive overnight on the mountain.

Sherpas believe when you climb Everest, you are climbing into the house of God.

Dance of the bibliophile

  By Tzynya | June 29, 2011 - 1:59 am | Uncategorized
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*this is a fun little missive you may steal to give to your absentee lover, just remember to give me credit as the composer…lol

13 june

cordially,

i have burned the whole of your book collection. have grown tired
of reading your lot of writers cursed and unraveled by,
laid on roadway swathed in the ash and soot of –
love. their firmament, sighs, scorpions, and sweet plums bound

together by raffia string, leather, and over-used metaphor.
i do not share your enthusiasm for the written word. the eloquent note
anguished over passage of season, lover, affair (except maybe
a letter, such as this one, to tell of your books, the ones i have
burned, and that you need not make the eight-mile journey across town
to my small house, that until recently was our house, but is
now my house alone, and even smaller, i must admit – if only i were one
to acquiesce).

might you have stayed, if i were:
languishing; a dozen line breaks pinned to my scalloped
sleeve stained with Malbec from our last fight? falling into,
ferreting out, foiled again by the broken promise of –
love?

might you have stayed, if i were:
sinking, small white stones filling pocket of night coat, into river;
head covered in pink curlers, bobby pins, oven;
cloaked in aspect and ankle socks, leaping
window’s ledge?

(i love you until
there is only tight breath
absinthe, brown liquor
in cracked dirty glass)

fuck that. no posthumous refrains. odes
comparing you and: dusk, dandelions, tree limbs
slouching under the weight of – love. no you
scribbled in margin. no me lamenting black
blood-caked lean of pen.

O!
and laid on its side, your mother’s oak bookshelf is better
suited to volumes of cheap rums, easy going vodkas,
the occasional green olive and histrionics.

in sincere thought,
heroine.

The Widow’s Walk –work in progress

  By Tzynya | June 19, 2011 - 7:29 pm | love, Sidney L. Pinchback
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**This poem is for my mother on the first Father’s Day after his death. **

The Widow’s Walk

Widows and screams echo Portuguese Bend.
Sea foam coddles the deafening shrill.
Sometimes you hear only the wind.

Vowing lips curse the undertow’s legend;
dressing the bridegroom with mossed anchor, still
there’s honey in the rock on Portuguese Bend.

Comes now the sage, the sinner, the kin
cleave to your sighs in silence until
death, in conceit, leaves (only the wind).

The ocean’s bed has its garden to tend;
another name etched in the current’s till.
The scythe moon hangs over Portuguese Bend.

The wife lays her shroud on the beacon’s lens.
A wench draws the shade to the window’s sill.
Both sing a cadence buoyed by the wind.

Listen for the water.  Low is the din
of brave man wrangling to master his will.
Party of whispers on Portuguese Bend,
“Sometimes you hear only the wind.”

c.2011

On cleavage

  By Tzynya | April 23, 2011 - 12:41 am | Conversations from hell, love
3 Comments

this can’t be your easter dress, right?

i do passover, remember?

oh.  so this is what the jews like  – all this breast!?

no, ma.  it’s neither a passover nor easter dress.  it’s a rio grande dress.

[she pauses.  starts breathing, slow and deep like i am killing her with my behavior]

are you moving again?!

no, besides, i already lived near the rio grande, remember.  but the dress has turquoise and red thread that reminds me of the sky and rocks in santa fe.

do you name all of your dresses?

only the ones i like, a lot.

[she pauses again, breathes, starts again]

and did the dress you wore yesterday have a silly name too?

i wore my cranberry fairy dress yesterday to the art walk.

does it have wings, tzynya?  is that why it’s a fairy dress?

i don’t wear wings mom, i’m not a four year old.

you sure?

the dress has a ruffle at the neckline.  it makes me feel magical – the ruffle – when i’m wearing it, so i call it a fairy dress.

what magic do you have, silly girl?

all kinds, mama, too many magics to name.

try me.  tell me one of your magics besides showing your breasts during holy week.

well.  i can change into a mermaid if i want to.  that’s why i wake up and my hair line is damp sometimes.  and other times my inner fairyness is so abundant the freckles on my shoulders start to twinkle.

are you trying to make me come out of my christian mind on this holy week?

no, please not that.

so you wanna take up my time on this phone talking about your stupid fantasy dresses?

hey.  i don’t talk about your postmenopausal sobriety dresses.

where did you come from, child?

from you and daddy.  now that daddy’s dead, i’m all yours.  hook, line and sinker.

that’s morbid, honey.

that’s the law of the sea.  honey.

is it too late to trade you?

for?

a normal child.

if i was smaller, you could.  but i’m all worn in, like a good old shoe.  and did you see my tits?  no amount of discretion will disguise your attempts to drag me and my big tits to the water’s edge to throw me back.

and what if it’s dark, silly girl, no one will be awake to see me throw you back, as you call it.

fine.  tits are mostly fat, i’ll float, top side up.  and by morning my tits will be all over the horizon.  people will stare, and point at you, no doubt, and say, “look at that busty chile with a mama who don’t no more want her silly ass.”

all i want is to see you in a pretty dress.

i have one.

that you can wear to church or synagogue.

i have one.

amen.

wait.  don’t they stone fairies and mermaids?!

no, only whores and intellects.

…oh, mercy.

you can borrow my helmet, dear.