"CHAPO BA" to the people who love me

I wrote this piece on July 2nd 2005, one year after my unforeseen return back to the United States.

These words still resonate with me 4 years later while I am about to embark on a new journey. This crossing over may be called new if I interpret life as sequential moments added to make a whole. But life is a continuum, a range of experiences which are linked to each other, and a non-ending pilgrimage. There is never an old or a new. I am carrying on.

I bow to the people who love me.

To the people who love me

This year has been a year of great realizations, achievements and painful letting go. My birthday was associated through the years with some painful moments, the death of a dear friend in 1988 and of my brother in 2003. And through all of this I was never alone. Haitian history was shattered in blood when hundreds were shot on that same day in 1966.

In 1965, the sister I never met was also born on that same date. But I wouldn’t change a thing, I am glad that I was born on April 26, 1966.

For more than 10 years now, I offered myself a trip alone to some place where I would enjoy the pleasure of who I am. This year my transition has made it impossible for me to travel but I have never felt more loved by you, dear friends and spiritual partners. I guess I didn’t need the travel; I have been enjoying the pleasure of who I am all year long.

Having been a workaholic, it’s been hard for me to stay at home, to be a stay at home mom and a student. Having provided for myself since I left college, it’s been hard for me to depend on family and friends. Having fought and worked for my country since I was 16, it’s been hard watching it being destroyed by the day. But you know what; I wouldn’t change the experience for nothing. I got to be introduced to parts of myself that I didn’t know were there. I really got to love myself naked. Naked with no attributes, no fancy clothes, no title, and no big money.

I’ve experienced fear, hatred, frustration, anger, but more recently sadness and peace. I’ve numbed myself to the deep sadness inside of me and slowly released it to the universe. I’ve been mourning some dreams close to my heart.

I’ve reconnected to some of you, I’ve met new people, and I’ve deepened my existing ties to some of you. Some of you I had let go.

To the people I let go. I initiated it not because I ceased loving you, but because I needed to love you in a different way. From you I needed something you couldn’t give. I am sorry for needing…I am really sorry for needing….. I am in the process of understanding myself better and maybe come to the realization that I will never be fulfilled by just one connection. Maybe it will open the door for me to wonderful and unique connections.
I long for a new way of relating with you where love can flow freely.

To the people I met, I consider myself as a traveler, a baby, a learner. Please be patient with me when I stumble... I welcome these opportunities to get closer to Spirit. I truly cherish you, each of you in your own rights.

To the people I reconnected with, I accept your re-coming into my life as a treasure. You searched for me and found me. Some of you in funny/bitter sweet situations…I am so happy for this makeover, love and friendship edition. (Wow, I just got the name of my new TV show….lol)

To the people who never left, you deserve a standing ovation from the angels and the stars. Putting up with my bitchiness sometimes is a big challenge. Oh God, what wonderful gifts you are!

(Chapo ba means Homage to, bowing to)

Andrine, be smart!

I can now see where I've gone wrong in my search for a partner.

I've started by looking for people to whom I was attracted for whatever reason. When I would find one, I would try to fit her in my mold of what I was looking for.

The process should be completely reverse.

I should first meet people and establish a connection regardless of what my clit feels in the moment. Meet them, know them.

Does she correspond to what I want in a partner? All of my wants and needs are based on who I am today, my background, my life experiences, my struggles and my triumphs. Can I communicate with her at all levels of my being? Can she recognize me? Can she understand me? Can I see through her? Do I like her as a person? Would I enjoy her as a friend to just hang out, chill and share deep secrets?

I've put so much effort in building my own career and my family life. I've been smart, strong and determined.

I am now choosing to be smart too in two areas of my life: my health and my relationship. Eating right and exercising. Loving myself, my body. Using my skills and my intuition to gauge who can be a journey partner when the time comes. And trusting Spirit......

Be smart my dear. You are sacred.

your first love,

Andrine

A journey partner

A journey partner
Not a girlfriend
A matriarch to journey with

An Intimate
Not a lover
Intimacy here and way over there
Intuitive Palpable


A conversation connection
Not a date
Communion revelation

A partner
Not a significant other
To grow with
Consciously spiritually

A journey partner
This is whom I want
This is who I am

Why I love Butch Women by Skye

There is something about being in close proximity to a butch woman that makes me go a little fluttery inside – kind of melty and shy, and occasionally, bold. Perhaps this is accentuated by the fact that butches are becoming rare and precious in my particular corner of the universe, but when and wherever they cross my path, something within me sits up and takes notice – because I share the other side of the secret. I know the special magic that happens when female yin meets female yang, and the opposite polarity locks us together like magnets caught up in each other’s sway.

I’m beginning to see a trend, where lipstick lesbians and glamorously androgynous sirens rule. Many of the women that I meet definitely trends more towards feminine women seeking the same. Believe me, I appreciate that dynamic. I’ve been there, and still, on occasion, find it lovely country to learn and love and grow in, but for me – it’s not quite home.

I am a femme lesbian who desires butch lesbians. I derive from this identity, from this dynamic, a sense of satisfaction, of completion so sweet that I can hardly begin to articulate it. And yet, from time to time, I hear this complex, richly diverse way of relating boiled down to something like, “If that’s what you like, why not just date a dude?”

I don’t pretend to understand my preference for women on the masculine side of the gender spectrum anymore than I understand why I am attracted to women in the first place. It just is. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, “this is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your problem.”

The musk of good cologne clinging to curves does wicked, wicked things to me. My particular cup of tea happens to be butch tops, which, as a group, have elevated the art of pushing a girl up against a wall and kissing her into senselessness to searingly electric new heights.

I love the confidence, and if you throw in the occasional moment of innocent bashfulness, that melts me to my core. I love the smirk. But that confidence thing, that phantom butch phallus thing – that slays me. And I’m not just talking about sexual head space; I’m talking about a particular kind of masculine energy residing in a female mind and body, and the way that turns traditional conceptions of what it means to be a man or a woman upside down. I’m talking about the underlying strength of character required to live and present as a butch woman not only in mainstream society, but also in a gay community that all too often fails to appreciate them. I’m talking about the power that comes with unabashedly just being who you are, even when it’s not the popular thing to do.

I love the way a butch can walk into a room and command the attention of everyone in it. I love that uniquely self-assured way of moving through the world and the safe haven I’ve found again and again in those arms.

I don’t think there is anything sexier on the planet than an intelligent, articulate, well-mannered gentle butch, who knows when to take, and when to yield – the perfect marriage of hard and soft, before I ever enter the picture. I love butch women and the ways, in which they define themselves, describe themselves, manifest out in the world as women who embody butchness only serve to further pique my interest, my esteem, and my longing.

Maybe I’m just looking for Prince Charming in a woman’s body, heart and soul, but the point is, I’m rewriting the fairytale to fit who I am – my strength to match hers. We compliment each other, coming from different sides of the spectrum, reaffirming our very identities in simply wanting one another. We meet somewhere in the middle, and make of it what we will. And in an L World that all too often seems to offer no place of honor, if any place at all, to my beloved butches – consider this testament a love song.

(Skye created the ning network Black Lesbian Friend 40+ at http://blfriends.ning.com/. I am thrilled to have her piece published on Deyes Karayib. )

Left Behind (Finished for Now)

Left Behind

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

No

Not in that same place-

the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace

Not from that place

where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)

not in that place

of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams


not from that place...

where I laid

naked

in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...

...that I gave

under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies

I gave

the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak

in a word: all of me

In Miami

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre

There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.

Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.

The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.

I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.

This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.

Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.

And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.

When You Cry

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre

It came like turbulence from a butterfly's wing. She barely realized it had been a kiss; if it were not for the mango and slight metallic woman taste left on her lips and in the air exhaled into her space, she would have just assumed it, this was all a dream.

Her brow furrowed, afraid to open, while stinging tears punched their way from beneath her lids. A slight breath, almost a hiccup, almost a moan, not quite a yelp, fought for existence outside of her throat. Her eyelashes turned pitch black from the moisture as her nostrils flared and her bottom lip and chin quivered.

She wasn't sure, in the way of picking between two pairs of decidedly black shoes, in the way of choosing between equally ripe fruit, in the way of giving to this now or giving into it later. It was not even really a matter of choice, it was more like a matter of small realizations and resignations that this was happening and either she held on for the ride or she got off... for now. But much in the way of all things, some thing had to happen.

The rustle of clothes or movement confused her further and before the wave of indecision could subside, firm, hot lips pressed onto hers, then backed away, then came in more gentle; not demanding her lips part but not taking her non-reactive 'No' for a definite answer either. Those firm lips brushed ever so gently, prodding ever so slightly with mango/metallic scented tongue, which captured her top lip and tickled it feathery soft. What was there to resist?

With nothing left to do she opened her lips, loosened her clenched jaw and let go of a dry sigh that managed to escape captivity from her chest. She felt it then- the warmth of hope, the nervous heat of desire married with abandon. She flinched.

I cannot do this! I cannot do this again - Oh God! OH GOD!


With eyes finally open and through a blurry haze, she focused on the woman before her. Backing away, she spied the heavy sad drops that rolled down the cheeks that were in such proximity to hers. Those eyes though were closed. Those lashes though were golden and dark with tears. She saw the well worked hands reach up and wipe away their owners disappointment.

"I was hoping..." The words whispered onto themselves, almost lost to sound.

She gazed before her, trying to beat the emotions that had eviscerated her speech, into submission, trying to find one more justification, one more phrase that didn't sound like 'I'm Sorry'. Because she wasn't - not for sending her away or brushing her off. She wasn't sorry that this woman in front of her kept on coming back.

But she was sorry that her hardness, that part within her that would not relent, made this woman cry. What heartless beast had she given birth to in her chest? From what fount of self-loathing or hate did she nurse it? And worst of all, why did she keep it so close to her heart?

This isn't just about Ano'i... it's about Me too, what I want. The small needful space within her pleaded. I matter in this, I have a choice... I-

She placed the heels of her hands on Ano'i's thighs, inching closer to the crotch of her jeans. Ano'i kept her eyes half mast, daring not to move in this moment. Nava leaned in closer, rubbing her nose against Ano'i's, running her cheek against her's, putting their foreheads together. She closed her eyes and absently found Ano'i's lips. Tentatively she kissed them, pulled back slightly, forwards again she took Ano'i's bottom lip between her teeth, then let go, kissing this time with more intent.

Without asking permission, small mournful moans bubbled up from what felt like the seat of her yoni. She couldn't stop them, couldn't quell the plaintive sounds that accompanied each kiss. Ano'i seemed to be responding in kind - her own moans sounding like small whispers of ...oh..., apologetic, reverent, honored, coy - like a well pleased partner, proud.

Then the sobs came - from Nava. She pulled away from her kissing and put the back of her left hand to her lips. Overwhelmed, she did not expect that it would feel like this, even now. Her body shook with the need to be touched again, to be pleased again, to be loved. But she didn't know that it would be like this, this vivid smell of sex and wanting, fear and fucking. She fully expected to be detached, just enough to get through the entire thing not to actually enjoy and want it.

Ano'i responded with more kissing, on her cheek and neck. Reaching beneath her blouse she felt for Nava's smallish breasts, kneeling between her legs, she pulled her bum forward on the chair cushion and kissed her belly, burying her nose in Nava's pant crotch when she was done. Looking through star struck eyes she inquired:

"Is this what you want? Is this okay?" Her voice seemed to dip an octave, adding fuel to Nava's already mounting fire.

Nava let out a small yelp of a yes before leaning all the way back in her chair and letting out the sobbing within her soul. It was long and low and primal and left her breathless. She reached down to her thighs and pulled Ano'i up the length of her body; their breasts touched through the fabric of their clothing, Ano'i's knee came up between Nava's legs, forcing out a satisfied whimpered.

"I would have waited for you... no matter how many times you sent me away. I would have waited..."

"I know. I know."

Nava kissed Ano'i deeply, as she felt the weightless shift from the comforts of her chair to the nothingness of the air in Ano'i's strong arms, then finally resting on the bed.

"I will cry through this... " Tears already lining up at the corners of her eyes.

"It doesn't matter. As long as this is what you want, it doesn't matter."

She realized this was more than what she wanted - it was what she needed. Like rain spilling through sun-cracked ground, she needed this loving. It wasn't like picking shoes or fruit, it was more like air and breathing. More like finally choosing to live rather than die.

I Don't Know

© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I Don't Know
... that I would be human if I didn't miss some of these things
some of these touching things

but I do

miss the way you smell after a shower
that clean sweet scent
of Dove and your skin

but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

how I miss the
feel of your skin
against my palms
as I contemplate
how your hair between my
fingers will be both wiry
and soft

but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

I miss those moments
in general

but not with you
not like that
not with you
not now

finally
your face has been
replaced
by this
all loving
all caring
place marker, in my mind

she has replaced all that
you never allowed
or conceded to,
and like that
I am realizing that I don't need you

to be those things
I've been so heartbroken for
those things that youth and living
have convinced you don't matter
after all

when they do
but you won't know that now
won't understand the
wealth that passed through
your hands
like gently held wind

but I am alright
with knowing I won't be there
in that 11th hour moment
for you

not like that
not like
you'd think
not now

cause I've finally
recognized the strength
in walking away.

Control

How do you think I make me feel?

When I throw myself at you like warm spaghetti clinging?
Only to slide down your wall of disapproval.

You think I don't know that there aren't enough plugs to fill the hole in my heart?
You think I can't feel that your kiss doesn't moisten a child's dry swollen eyes
or lips cracked while trying to get scream for her parent's attention?

Do you think I'm not reminded in every hug
that I can count on one hand every moment I've ever felt truly loved.

I slit my wrists and judge you for not knowing how to sew with no needles.
I jump off ledges knowing that the impact will probably kill us both.
I let you see me smile, laugh and dance like the Goddess invented percussion to the tune of my thighs

Knowing you won't be able to resist me.

I LET you objectify me
I LET you make me question my beliefs
I LET you make me
Over and over and over again
I LET you make me

Hoping that one day you won't rise to the occasion
and maybe, just maybe, I'll feel strong enough to walk away

Sacrifice - Another One from the Archives

(I tear every time I read this one...)

You ARE life...

I barely knew you
Yet I mourn your life
As if my own
were being taken
Instead of yours

I looked into my own eyes
And felt your essence
pulse in my veins

I loved you
As much as i love you
And you always knew the difference

Blessings and Love

This might not be good poetry
But it's honest

Grey - An Oldie but Goodie (I Think...)

When we first met, I thought you were the most beautiful shade of grey I had ever seen.
I mean, you were the perfect proportion of black to white
Of day to night
Of blind to sight
Of wrong to right

And I just wanted to be a single pixelation in your makeup
But little did I know how easily thrown off you would be
Before you threw off me
And made your retreat

See I saw you in color and you saw me as imperfect.
A reflex I had thought to help you grow out of
But despite my best efforts, the fight ended with me hurt
And you moving on

And now your grey is covered in shades of delicate pastels and hues
that turn me green cuz i was supposed to be that person
and you are trying to paint another me
And it hurts in a way that I never expected it to

She isn't supposed to have the same thing as I do
we transcended mere conversation
You were a part of me as I was in you
And none of those parts equaled a third

I needed you to need only me for certain things
I needed others to fall short every damn time
Cuz no one could see you in all that matter

besides me