I was 7 years old shocked out of my vocal cords. I sit here tight gut and sweaty back pretending to not be as inspired as I am by Rhianna’s pure outpouring of diamonds in the sky. To sing or not to sing that is the litmus. Never able to be worth a dam in the jackson five menagerie that enticed my dreams of triple threat. A short sighted dream deffered praied by all the townies and placed on the same high mount in which my elders still pray too. Developed early on top of being tone deaf keeps baby in a corner to be the walk on waiting patiently in line, wanting to be picked as the lead and guided toward the train to new york city.
Left behind in appetizer glory making me feel as if I am the greatest of all; and can handle being passed by. Assuming it is the brown skin on my arms and kinky hair above and below the casting couch. All I wanted to do was create in finger paints and tapestries. Comparison and competition to work harder and pay my dues without getting my hopes too high cuz I’m not a musician and can’t carry a tune…….. so I must overcome these shortcomings and prove to the world that I was worth the tidbits of attention bestowed upon my royal lineage.
I am that monster who those behind and before me think i am. ….. crazy but not ok…..unless the stage bares the spotlight of approval from Center Stage. Too black but not black enough. To fat but not fat enough. Too thin but gangly and sloppy clothes hiding my beauty to not get assailed in the male world of look me up and down. Newyork to LA tap dancing with Savion at spike lee’s wrap party waiting to name drop the shit out of my inheritance of not good enough in name only.
A sinking ship in need of a hand out from all the famous adolescence that they sarcastically throw in my face to quicken my pace to join the union and prove them wrong about me. Opportunities lost they tell me all along watching me prance in a wooden puppet costume and leotard begging to make it across the floor without looking at my big thighs and fat ass in the mirror.
A dispointing let down for not reaching that high note and straining to mark the low note and silently singing my blues. My voice is light in the shower and the acoustics are suberb when I am on the shitter. Voice rape keeps it locked up behind a wooly sweatshirt and nostalgic could have beens Al bundy style thrown from my sleep to keep it from slipping way. Torn from my hands long ago in that basement, next to that piano and up that hill standing before my judge and executioner at seven years old.