Scent

There is another woman's scent in my nostrils
on my upper lip
my tongue - inadvertently

See it was a hug
and I was caught off guard
between the squash chicken noodle soup
and the Tropicana grape juice

She came from behind

hugging me

and I
turned head first into the crook of her neck
into the pulse of her body
into the belly of her scent

and it lingered

that touch of perfume or cologne

it lingered,
though I wiped it
it remained

on my person

her scent lingered in my memory
causing me to
speak to myself
in the middle of the day
out loud

of how my belly
quivered
from her scent

and how all I could do was lament
the fact that it was not you
that I had turned
head first
into...

and I can appreciate
why a man
can chase anything
in a skirt
with boobs
and curves
and woman-ness...

What I can honor now
is knowing
one day,
I will be able to fully love you
with the same intensity
that I cherished
that scent
of another
woman...

© 2005 Sandra Jean-Pierre

My divine woman

I had not touched a woman …yet
When I have been called
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
Word of one hundred thousand evils
Word of isolation, desolation
Lonely nights, hand stuck between my legs

I had not touched a woman … yet
When my short hair would send the message
About my desire to caress a breast
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
In the corridors the sound of their mockery
Would aggravate me

I had not touched a woman...yet
When my fight for justice against injustice
Had got me the name of
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman
Any woman who dared to neglect house chores
And chose to protest
Was doomed

I had not touched a woman…yet
No, stop, what am I saying?
I had touched a girl
We were both eleven
Hiding in a closet.
The smell of her pubescent vagina
Never left me all these years
And got me the name of
“Madivine woman”
My divine woman

After the Revolution

for D.P.

I’ll write for you
not of familiar revolutions
or emptying liquor bottles
laced with full gun barrels
in dizzying cahoots over which won’t take your life next…

InsteadI’ll write of after…
when hot showers
make the revolutionary blood stains
on your skin
more than wet

as healing Mother drops
wash away the stench of white devils
in deft swirls
racing down the drain…

and how given a choice?
you’d do the same again
and again and again

Just so the children will sleep at night
just so the women
will find their way
from darkness into the light…

But me?
I’ll write for you
of after…

as you sit in meditation
clearing your mind for the next days work
charting your path through
dense jungle
corporate bullshit
and
new world births…

my words will capture your pause
as you take your meal
served in deep rounded bowls
humbly
just like the girls
who you saved and handed them back their souls…

I’ll write about the chaos that explodes
behind your closed doors
the traumatic night sweats
that wake you fully bearing arms

the quiet moments when nothing makes sense
but the raging storm within
that fuels your passion
to rip down the front door
and keep going till
every injustice comes
to an end…

But Me? I’ll write for you
always of after…when no one’s around
when the door is locked the phones’ off the hook
and the rage has subsided …

for that one moment
whenever it is
that the tears come
sadness speaks
or despair threatens to break …

I want to be looking in your eyes
to let you know
that in all this fighting…

you
are
not
alone.

© 2004 Sandra JP

to my Haitian sisters

To my Haitian sisters, young or old, I don’t pretend to know the truth about being a Haitian lesbian but I do know what goes inside of me, this is my truth, my experience.

We never learned from anybody the way to be a lesbian, we just are, we never learned from anybody the way to love a woman, we just love them. This is our truth, this is what we know as a fact when we look and act upon the desires inside of us.

We belong to a minority, we belong to an oppressed group and as such we react sometimes in unreliable ways. Too many times, we cut ourselves short of who we truly are. We accept or promote periodic hidden sexual encounters, we deny ourselves the right to love, and we embrace the right to fuck. We degrade ourselves by choosing a life of sex without love. We become prostitutes, porn addicts, mistresses, second-class lovers. We never allow ourselves to love and commit. We fail to defend the ones we love; we fail to build a life for ourselves.

A homosexual relationship in so many ways is not different from a heterosexual relationship. It involves labor and commitment. It involves being there for the ones we love, waking up in the morning together, facing daily challenges together, working toward a common goal, providing shelter and assistance. Just as if we were married to a man, we would have acted with love and respect, we need to commit ourselves to a better quality of life with a woman. There is no difference whatsoever in these two kinds of relationships, the only one being the sex of the person we love. If we think a homosexual relationship is better or worse, then we are biased in our judgment. It is plain love between two people and because of that, it is both beautiful and challenging. Some days we will feel like a million dollar woman, other days like s…, but that’s the beauty of relationships. They raise us to our higher levels, they lower us to our darkest sides.

I am not saying that we all go out on the streets and march to demand respect or recognition, I am saying that we need to start acting with respect, choosing relationships over lust, choosing love over porn sex. I am talking about two women being together for better of for worse, as a couple. I know it can be frightening and difficult, there is no place to go and learn. Let’s just listen to our hearts. Let’s create our own ways to existence, let’s build a network of women with dignity and pride….for ourselves and the future generations.

New York, July 18, 2005

life is queer

Life is definitely not straight. It goes beyond or away from what we expect. We can never be sure of its paths and tracks….It sometimes goes by its own rules, defiant of the norms and the more we try to conform, the more we end up hurting ourselves.

I’ve never experienced life as a one-way street, neither a steady companion; it is strange and unveils unpredictable turns on its way.

I look at myself, I look at my plans….and sometimes I see life as a spy who hears what I want and presents me with the opposite. I chose to make it an ally but it is not as simple. How do you wake up one morning and find out that all your plans have been shattered by others? How do you wake up one morning and realize that life belongs to the strong? You might believe that the good always wins the bad...it is not true. So many unanswered questions, so much pain, so much unfairness.

And I identify with this queerness that refuses to settle down and bow to say yes. I identify with the non-dogmatic way of life…my voice is queer, unheard…and my only constant partner is my solitude.

The Mic Is Censored Tonight

So some archeologist in Nevada find some “black” artifacts in a “black”owned
saloon, way out west
which leads them to believe that
“blacks” were more than just maids and slaves

and I have to be amused
‘cause it’s just now entering their consciousness
that the brown-shade “animals” taken from a foreign
land are actually intelligent

and isn’t that ironic
since the nation of these states
were built upon the production of the backs
of blacks who were made to do nothing but produce

so why wouldn’t we be capable of making something of ourselves?


…but I’m not talking about that right now
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…


so maybe I shouldn’t even get started on this war
and how it has nothing to
do with my freedom or
your freedom
but the Bush’s freedom
to make that paper
that none of us
of color are ever really
supposed to have – think forty acres and a mule…

and I guess they’re supposin’ that
we all won’t be intelligent to scope
what you really don’t need a third eye to see

that this fightin’ just ain’t right…
since the majority of people out there fightin’
on the front line are any other shade besides white…

and I’m not gonna talk about that right now
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…


but I was talkin’ to this friend of mine
about how any great leader
we’ve ever had
hasn’t managed to make it very far beyond go
and how any agitation of resistance
has been met with indifference
until it threatens to upset
the living rooms
and class rooms
and neighborhoods
that we’ve only been allowed to clean and mow and nanny in

–can someone get me a glass of water ?
‘cause I’m dyin’ of thirst from all this hypocrisy
of equality
when there’s nothing equal about earning less for three times
the work Jane does at one-forth her pay.

Hey and they say we don’t need affirmative action…

but don’t get me going about that
‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

and when taught behavior
becomes learned behavior
becomes classified as the way
“those” people are
don’t be offended
when we break out the shackles
and become who it is that you be

‘cause accusations are only
projections of all the things
that your mind manifests into being…

but I’ll stop right there
and I’ll go no further‘cause the mic is censored tonight…

© 2003 Sandra JP

No More

It was like it always is: seething agony touched with desire. The faces changed or the perfume was familiar, besides that, it was the same. Except this time, this time there was no giving in, not really. Not until it was the right time or the right place, if ever the right person. Ashes fell in swirls, covering her eyelashes in gray soot and I kissed them, transferring darkish splotches on my lips. She only laughs like she does and I am taken. The soot is gritty between my teeth but I am slow to grind it further into dust, now mud as it mixes with my saliva.

" Carolyn... Carolyn..."

" Yes, I am sorry. "

And I give her my far away look; the one that always makes her ask me where have I been and all I can tell her is no where. But all she ever manages to do is come closer and kiss my lips, like kissing me is going to make it all go away.

I stir the beans on the side range and turn the ribs over on the grill. I wait until she goes to see about the desert before I squeeze half a lime into the mariade sauce. There are still some things that she doesn't understand. I am stirring and hearing the metal spoon scrape against the bottom of the metal pot and I am mesmerized. I barely notice she has placed her open palm in the middle of my back and she still doesn't understand why I hate when she does it and I can't understand her compulsion to make me uncomfortable.

" Please STOP! " My voice sounds shrill as I resist my urge to turn and fight back.

" You never listen when I tell you." Tears mix with the smoke and I have to get away.

Even as I wash my face in the kithcen sink to clear my mind and give me space all I can remember is a similar hand against my back, my face against a roughed wall and no air to breathe, no strength to run no choice in crying.

She is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with her hand on her hip, waiting for an answer. I screw up my face because there is no answer I am ready to give, much less admit. Blood rises in the back of my throat and I want to heave it all in the sink, I bite my lip instead and head back to my barbeque.

She never asks me anything when she has to pin me to the bed in the middle of the night. Maybe I just don't give her the space to say anything. I've caught myself before, screaming:
" Ke tem! Ke tem!! KE TEM!!!!"Language she has not heard me speak, that she doesn't even know that I know." KE TEMMMM!!!!!" And I go limp, surprised that I am in our bed, in our house. I stare at her paniced face for recognition and she kisses my forehead, hugging me close.

"I am fine... go back to sleep."

Now she is looking for answers and there are still none that I want to give her. My justification is that I am not of her and she is not of my people so she will not understand. Her white America, middle-class, lesbian supporting family would not understand me. Not my reddish brown skin, not my un-permed hair not my fragmented pieces. So if I remain a mysetry, we will all be protected. But I am beginning to wonder from what.

"Your mother called... she said she wanted you to call back." No, not really, I think. She just wants to badger me about not being close to home and that I never make an effort to visit and that I am not really lesbian and that if I don't stop I am going to go to hell and she won't be able to say enough prayers to have God pardon me. She doesn't understand that I am not going back and that Milo is the one who needs her prayers because I have been wishing him to hell in gasoline draws since the day he beat me till I thought I didn't have any blood left to bleed.

" I'll call her... later." I know I won't, I will just tell Lana that we have another phone number and not to give this one out. Especially not to my mother.

Milo was my mother's answer to late nights at Christie's and sleepover's that lasted for weeks before she would think I was no longer her daughter. She hated that relaxed look I had when I would come home: like nothing could be finer than life how I had it. I would give her that look that would make her ask me where I had been, only this time I would smile and leave her unanswered. I knew I had been lost in folds of warm flesh. Tight pink openings and desires hot enough to make me cum with my clothes still on.

Then there was Milo. Arrogant, self assured Milo. Kiss my mother's ass and wish he could have been good enough for me Milo.

" You don't have to love him now Carolyn... that can come later." And she would smile her worst saccharin smile making me sick to my stomach. She fed me lies about how good he was and how much we would have in common. Just like she fed him snakes to make him mean, to make him know that he had to change me, to make him grow to hate in me what he didn't even know.

And it began with a date. It began with my parents out of the house that night. It began with me only being seventeen. It began with his insistence, my refusal and blood... every where. Blood in my hair and on my jeans and in his nostrils, smeared on his lips kissing me... blood.

" KE TEM!!! KE TEM!!! Leave me!!! Leave me!!"

My mother noticed the bruises. Not particularly how quiet I was or how clean, clean the living room had been.

" Where did those come from?!"

"We were roller skating and she fell over herself. Pretty clumsy thing to do huh Mrs. Maxil?! I'll make sure she is more careful tonight." Appearing out of no where he seemed to be everywhere.

" You better not have told your mother anything!! I swear you won't breathe another breath if you told her!"

And his palm rested in the middle of my back, shoving me against the alley wall, taking more of what was never his.

"Stay still!!" My breasts pressed the cool brick and all I longed for was Christie and her tenderness, her gently coaking me to climax, her beautiful words of encouragement. But all I had now was Milo. Devil incarnate Milo.

" What's going on over there?!"

I collapse wanting to give up and die but I find myself laying in some hospital bed getting the morning after shot, giving police statements, wondering if Christie knew I still loved her.

" What did you do to make that boy mad?! You better not press charges... just tell them it was a misunderstanding. You and your lesbian shit! You think that girl would want you now?"

Scowling eyes barking me orders, my mother.

Two weeks of recovery, six months of therapy and I was gone. No looking back or small town rumors, I was gone. Sleeping in box cars, hitching rides across the desert, I was gone. Five years in some obscure town that I never bothered to learn the name of, two more moving to keep myself up-rooted and finally I find Lana. Wonderful Lana, sweet beautiful Lana and all I want to do is keep it all behind.

" You were gone again." She stares at me annoyed.

I know we may not be together much longer and I look her in the eyes. I look her in the face and I feel it's time to get moving again.

© 2003 Sandra JP

Kòman nou ye?

Hello Caribbean Goddesses,

Being born in what is called " the poorest country of the Western Hemisphere" doesn't give a clue about what it is to be a lesbian and to live as one. But this "disadvantage" doesn't prevent us from loving women with passion.

I like to believe that my story is not unique. Many of us, either expats in the US or living at home had to confront our fears and allow ourselves to be and exist. The main issues of discrimination and isolation that we face as Caribbean lesbians are not different from the rest of the lesbian commuity. But our own cultural context and shortcomings add some elements to the picture that make our stories even though universal but quite original.

We have very few role models...maybe none. Few stories have been written by us and about us. There is no women center in the Caribbean dedicated to lesbians. In some of our countries, the word " lesbian" can not be pronounced without the fear of being killed.

So I thought it would be a good idea to open a space to Caribbean Lesbians, where in the middle of our rice and beans, ackee and salt fist, and curry goat, we could talk and share about our journey thru the blissful and bumpy ride of being a lesbian.

Feel free to post your story, articles, poems, comments...anything....