Monthly Archives: February 2010

Hankering:

I see a Ham Torta Sandwich in my future….  Everything about it rocks and comes together to do a little Mexican hat dance in my mouth!  Yummy;)  The image below is Taco Mix’s Torta Cubana.  This monster of a torta contains refried beans, mayo, melted cheese, jalapeño peppers, lettuce and tomato, avocado, hot sauce, two slices of boiled ham, one split and grilled hot dog, some hand-carved shards of smoked ham, and, finally, a thin, lightly breaded Milanese-style beefsteak.

Yowzer!


It seems to really pack a punch with it’s assortment of meats.  I’m personally of the “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” school of idealogy.  However, I think I will experiment with having smoked ham, boiled ham, bacon, and chicken for texture.  I’ll let everyone know how it turns out, finger crossed for Mmmness.

Here’s a simplified recipe from a good friend’s mom!

INGREDIENTS:

bolillo bread

refried beans

ham

lettuce

tomato

onion

lime

avocado

fresco cheese

DIRECTIONS:
Slice bolillo buns in half and spread with lime.  Toast in skillet.  Spread thin layer of refried beans on bun halves and toast again.  Layer one half of bun with ham, lettuce, tomato, onion, avocado slices and fresco cheese.  Slap on top of bun and Ole’!!

*The best thing about this sandwich is it gives you the liberty

to play around and create something easy and delicious!*

Good Luck and Good Eating.

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Action

I made it through the night.©
A Playlike Poem
By Kimberley Gladney
[Act One]

Scene1:A crowded bar, live music, and people.  A stage in the center of the room.  A MC stands on top of it spitting lyrics.  The crowd feels it.  They bob their heads and wave their hands in the air like they just don’t care.

I smiled.
I talked.
I even pretended to eat.
Who wears the mask, Mr Dunbar?
(laugh here)
and I laughed to keep from crying.
I laughed to cry later.
Lines, what are my line?!?
Oh, yeah…. “I’m Fine” and “Everything’s going well”
The audience liked my delivery.
It was well received.
Yes, the crowd is pleased.
The crowd is deceived.
I am left relieved.
I am left in peace.

Scene2:a crowded bar, a DJ spins records, people are dancing.  A table rests against the wall.  He sat here once.  I am remembering myself standing between his thighs freestyling him a love song.  He felt it.  He held me close and smiled.

My friends enter.
They know me.
Their eyes are kind but I detest pity.
They know.
They’ve played this part before.
What do you want to drink?
….um………………………………
My timing’s off.
I’m trapped in memories, reality unbalances me.
I don’t want to be here with their knowing eyes
My grin is wobbly.
My eyes are watery.
a Jack with a splash of Coke, please.
“Thank you,” I say.
We know I’m not speaking of the drink.
They want to hug me.
Reassure me.
but….
They’ve played this role and we all know what happens next when the plot drops.
We taste the thickening.
It’s bittersweet.
“Will you be ok?”
(insert sardonic look here)
We giggle.
I don’t have to lie or convince.
“I will be eventually.”
I am not myself.
I am quiet.
I have little to say.
I am tired of pretending I think.
“I’m going home,” I say.
They wave.
I bow.

exit- stage left

My chariot awaits.  Heroes are supposed to save but Superman has wounded me.  I am his Kryptonite.  He was never comfortable being weak.  So he rode off into the sunset and star-crossed nightscapes.  He thinks this will fix everything.  He thinks this will help him forget me.   He thinks he knows what’s best for 2 beings.  He is trapped in his restrictions and rigidity.  At least I’m free to bend and yield and compromise and change.  He will be as he was yesterday.  Not I, I will grow.
I feel no better for knowing.

[Act Two]

(Scene1:)I am facing my door.  The keyhole seems so small.  I don’t fit here anymore. His shadow covers everything.  My home was our place.  He has desecrated my sanctuary.


The curtain closes.
I am home.
This is where I fall apart.
No applause, just tears.
The audience can’t hear.
The audience isn’t here.
It’s just me, The Isley Brothers, and a bottle of wine- Hello, it’s me.

“I take for granted that you’re always there
I take for granted that you just don’t care
Sometimes I can’t help seeing all the way through”

We’re over. Continue reading

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[for the Red, White, & Bruised]

It was not about us, the future…
It was about them, the past…

It was a night many thought impossible or a seed they would not see come to fruition in their lifetime.
It was the cleansing of a stain that has blemished this nation for hundreds of years.

It was shackles.
It was public humiliation.
It was lashes and salted licks.

It was barking dogs
It was Jim Crow.

It was poor wages.
It was bad housing.

It was discrimination.
It was profiling.

It was indecent healthcare.
It was inadequate school systems.

A healing of a wound.

It was the hope that the invisible scar, the older black generation carries, would not be inflicted on their children.
That finally, the future, can live a life filled with the same ambitions as other Americans.
We have been doctors, teachers, masons, lawyers, policemen, and more.

But now, we too dream America.
And the little ones now say, “I want to be president when I grow up”.

Kimberley Gladney©

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Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful …

So, singer/songwriter John Mayer felt it relevant—among comments that objectified his ex-girlfriend, homosexuals and Black people as a whole—to align his latent sexual preference with the former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan? This following Dateline, a TV news magazine, feeling the need to do an in-depth investigative report on why so many professionally successful Black Women are single. Conservative talk shows with largely white male audiences, continuously go in on mythical Black welfare queens, Michelle Obama, and women in general.

How is this news? Furthermore, why the need to create a colorful, off-color metaphor to illustrate how supposedly undesirable Black women are? Often, mainstream American media uses Black female sexuality as a thematic device to work out their own neurosis and scapegoat for insecurities, and this is no different. Once again, the Black Woman’s role is the  “mule of the world

(props to Sister Hurston).

Could it be that, despite being so deeply maligned throughout history, Black women still have the audacity to believe we are fabulous? The rude and completely out-of-line criticisms of Michelle Obama and her daughters, amount to so much thinly veiled jealousy. How dare we live in the White House? How dare we have the nerve to love ourselves and believe we deserve to live life to the fullest? Why should single black women “settle” or develop “more realistic” expectations? The reality is those who have fought the odds to achieve educational, professional, and material success should reasonably expect to have a romantic counterpart that is compatible in at least some ,if not all, these respects.  Every other population in modern society is socialized to believe this.  The “American Dream” nuclear family is built on this very concept.

How dare we be human? How dare we feel, think, live, and love?

  • We may be loud at times, because we have a voice to be heard.
  • We wear weave, rock our hair nappy or locced up while flashing long acrylic nails, bright colors and funky styles that accentuate our dangerous curves, because we appreciate beauty and express ourselves in adornment.
  • We have attitude because somebody has to tell the truth, and yes we have high expectations of Black Men. We recognize the same courage, tenacity and ambition that fueled our achievement is inside of him, too.

Now, (apologies aside) contrary to their motivation, what the detractors fail to see is their ignorance and negativity only serve to make us stronger and more positive.  The bombardment of negativity, mischaracterization and maliciousness will roll right off our backs, as it has since the beginning, and we will continue to be our beautifully human selves. As Katt Williams and Jill Scott have both taught us, haters are a necessary barometer and evidence of how great a job you are doing.

Black women must be doing something right!


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Lions, Tigers, Bears, Oh MY!

Jazmine Sullivan has a song that states she’s not scared of:

Lions, Tigers, & Bears

… with her lying ass.

What black person do you know unafraid of those animals!? I’m afraid I can not support or like the song because it’s simply not believable. It’s not called Mosquitoes, Flies, & Gnats.  If she had been Caucasian, I would’ve found that statement slightly credible. They do so love owning man eating animals or as they refer to them, “exotic pets”.

That song planted a seed of thought for me. Lately, I’ve found myself watching Human Prey on Animal Planet. It shows re enactments of individuals being attacked by wild animals. After two weeks surveillance, I’ve come to realize African-Americans are not attacked by wild animals…

After further reflection, I now know a profound truth black people get attacked by stray neighborhood dogs. This is only relative to youth, unless one is a crackhead who roams the streets in ghetto environs.  White people, on the other hand, get attacked by:

stray stingrays
stray sharks
stray penguins
stray zebras
stray lions
stray beavers
stray wolves
stray coyotes
stray bears
stray tigers
stray moose
stray kangaroos
stray snakes
stray crocodiles
stray cougars
stray jellyfish
stray alligators
stray possums
stray pigs
stray chickens
stray elephants

and stray dogs

which is tragic since they so love animals as apparent via their love for talking animals and animal animations. They love Lassie, Mr. Ed, Care Bears, and Simba. Disturbingly mistaking this fantasy world for reality- Poor Lil Tink Tinks.  They are brave and fearless where we exercise caution. This was evidenced to me as I watched The Haunting in Connecticut. Those little white children courageously played hide-n-seek in this house of Satan, demons, and evil spirits. I know your black mind assumes they hid together. No, their first feat of bravery was to split up and hide alone. They hid in dark cupboards and scary attics.
As a child, night time became the time for my sister and I to bond. This is bullshit for we were scared and did shit together. She went to the bathroom, I did. I went in the kitchen, she did. We did everything together. If EVVVVVVVVER we heard a noise that was unnatural, it meant an immediate field trip down the street to my grandmother’s house. This is bullshit for we ran out the house without locking a single door and hightailed it down the street like the hounds of hell were nipping at our heels.

Somehow, black people, lost that curiosity gene. We do not think, “let’s investigate”. Our minds say “Fuck that shit”. I think we were once enterprising curious beings.  We said, “What is that big boat? It is so massive.”  It led to our enslavement in America. And as the years passed, we learned to curb our inquisitive nature.

The moral of this note is “Curiosity killed the Blacks”.

by Kimberley Gladney©

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Fatherless Girl

I wish I knew my father. I wonder how it feels to be Daddy’s Girl.
Growing up, I always told myself and others who asked (which they
always did ask) that No, I didn’t know my dad or miss him. I would
quickly point out ALL of my uncles provided the fatherly love for me.
My favorite reasoning was “You don’t miss, what you never had”.

Coping Mechanism.

Mama said be strong and taught us not to cry. She would get upset
when I cried for him. She taught me very early to always be strong
and not cry. If I fell and hurt myself, she’d say don’t cry. If we
didn’t have food and hunger pains kicked it, don’t cry. If our lights
were cut off, don’t cry. To her, you did not cry over things you
couldn’t change. You focused on getting through it. As a single
parent, this is likely how she maintained her drive and sanity.  For a
child however, sometimes I just wanted to cry.

In time, I learned to not cry and be strong…like mama. No matter
how rough or bad things were, I didn’t break and I survived. I began
to wear my lack of tears like armor and felt invincible. If I didn’t
cry, I could always make it.

But now I’m older and realizing single parents, women, make and raise
mixed genders.

 

 

I was raised to be a daughter and a son. To wash dishes and cut
grass. To sweep the floor and take out the trash. Change my own
flats… the oil. In time, I even learned how to fix the dryer when
it went out. I cleaned and beheaded raw fish and skinned the fresh
meat we got sometimes as well as shucking peas and corn. No time for
ickies or worrying about messing up my hair, getting sweaty, chipping
nails, or ruining my clothes.
I never have or if ever I did, it must’ve been brief or driven out by
mama’s sharp reprimands. We do what we must. Single mothers raise
superhero daughters. Independent, self-sufficient women who hate
being vulnerable and associate girlishness with being weak. Even now I
feel self conscious and insecure with my femininity. Clumsy with men at times.
Why? Because it forces me to be aware of my womanliness and it’s an uncomfortable skin.
Inadequate when I do something in their company that’s “girly”, almost
waiting to be ridiculed as a fake.

I wish I knew my father.
He would’ve let me cry. He would’ve said it was okay being weak and
held me while I sobbed. Ironically, in the end, it takes a father to
teach a girl how to be a woman… just as he teaches boys to be men.
He says “No, you can’t do that. That’s for boys.” or “young ladies
don’t act like that”. It is his love that teaches her how she is to
be loved and accept love. I’m crippled.

I wish I knew my father. He would’ve shown me how to bend… how to
be open. But all he left me or gave in his absence, are these
handicaps.
A Legacy of Kryptonite.

So I’m yielding and rebuilding my ideals so I can be Mary Jane or Lois
Lane. Cry without feeling ashamed or validating my tears… feeling
like I’ve let my mother down. That I’m frail.

Truth is my uncles are, my uncles. My cousins being their pride and
joy. They never went home with me. A lot of my friends had very active
dads in their lives or lived with both parents. And I watched them
and yearned and turned that yearning to indifference.

But tonight when I finish you, entry, I’m going to cry for me. I’m
going to cry for the little girl I was, the teenager I’d been, and then I’m
going to cry for the young lady I am… and me.
I’m going to cry for us and the salt of my tears is going to sting
those old hurts and waken those sleeping giants. And it’s going to
sting but I’m going to do it and Heavenly Father will come and he
will hold me while I break and sob.
And the Father will stitch those wounds up with his love and his grace.

I think he has been here all along, waiting for me to have the will to
heal. Sending emissaries with his message and today I finally heard.

A good friend said, “Everyone needs to cry, K”

She was right.
I will.

Kimberley Gladney©

 

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Blow Me

Love is a drag
and I’m inhaling….
Know it ain’t good for me, but I can’t quit.
Addict…
said I’m addicted.
Puff
Puff
Pass
treat it like my last pack
Greedy
Needy
I ain’t sharing.
Hog it all…
Hog all the inhalation
the sensation
taste it on my lips
my kiss
and all my clothes
but I’m quitting.

Going cold turkey.

by Kimberley Gladney©

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