Hey Ye.
I have never spoken to you,
never met you on the streets,
but I've been grooving to your beats
since Get Well Soon in 03.
Nobody knew you then,
you were just one of many men,
hit 'em with something genuine and
the people went feminine.
Do you remember, now, brother
how it felt to leave the rough
and wrap your hands around the mic
because rhyming there was enough?
It wasn't about the crowds and it
wasn't about the covers.
It wasn't about the Twitter and
wasn't about your lovers.
It was music as you met it and
you said you wouldn't forget it but
other hands got in the mix and
derailed you.
We gotta fix it.
Ye,
when we lost mama
everybody bowed their heads
like we had lost our own mothers
because to us
you like a brother.
We saw the darkness choking you and
sisters was on they knees
not to please you but to be you
before God Ye,
we were pleading.
We watched you drift away like
a bottle upon the Nile
surrounded by crocodiles
and species we don't even know.
You,
struggling to find the lyrics to
address what you were feeling and
sinking into a dark place and
breaking down in your spirit.
Ye,
we never stopped praying and
we never stopped playing your music
cause we were waiting for your breakthrough
and wanting you back home...
Remember your first fans and
remember the first man that you were
when you were rhyming for
purpose and not hoes.
Ye,
somewhere in your heart
is a man connected to truth,
is a man connected to music,
a man that looks more like you,
and we waiting to see the proof.
You can put down your masks
change your clothes and pack up that castle.
You know that we'll take you back boo.
We family.
We still own you.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, April 27, 2018
Thursday, April 26, 2018
"Equal," A Poetry Post
It is because we are equal
that you can stand, planted,
nose to nose and
return my hard stare.
It is because
we are equal
that
you can hear the
music in my head
and
dance to my
rhythms.
It is
because
we are equal
that
you can withstand
the onslaught
of my hard truths.
Your equality,
cooling and fierce,
offsets the steady burn
and turns a
frightening hot blaze
into a
productive simmer.
Your equality,
a diamond emerging from
a deeply tempered
earth-baked coal,
unaffected by
late flames or the
burning rays of the
world's hot suns.
Your equality,
the emboldening force that
allows you to
reach for my heart
and expect an response.
And so,
when I see you,
I am humbled by your integrity.
I can lower my chin,
curtsy my body,
live out my grace,
and extend my hand
knowing
that when I turn away from the watch,
another set of eyes
is watching.
-T. D. James-Moss
that you can stand, planted,
nose to nose and
return my hard stare.
It is because
we are equal
that
you can hear the
music in my head
and
dance to my
rhythms.
It is
because
we are equal
that
you can withstand
the onslaught
of my hard truths.
Your equality,
cooling and fierce,
offsets the steady burn
and turns a
frightening hot blaze
into a
productive simmer.
Your equality,
a diamond emerging from
a deeply tempered
earth-baked coal,
unaffected by
late flames or the
burning rays of the
world's hot suns.
Your equality,
the emboldening force that
allows you to
reach for my heart
and expect an response.
And so,
when I see you,
I am humbled by your integrity.
I can lower my chin,
curtsy my body,
live out my grace,
and extend my hand
knowing
that when I turn away from the watch,
another set of eyes
is watching.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, April 23, 2018
"Permission," A Piece for Jasper's Children
My children,
my absence is
not permission
for you to
quit.
It is proof
that I am
human.
It is proof
that when I feel pain,
it hurts,
just like yours does.
When I am disappointed,
it burns deep in my soul,
like you have felt
so often.
When I am sad,
it festers and swells
and must be flushed,
like your sadness.
And being human,
I am subject to
all the laws of humanity:
sickness and health,
wealth and poverty,
and eventually death
(like you).
Life occurs in seasons,
ups and downs and sideways,
alley ways and valleys,
mountains and long tumbles down,
shouting and violence,
silence and tears in dark rooms...
It is all true.
Yet,
that is not permission
to lay down and
believe that
there is no hope
for striving.
You can't see me
striving,
but this is my guarantee.
I am tricked out in hospital gowns,
and keeping my face clean,
and taking medications,
and waking up with expectation each morning
because sickness
is not permission
for me
to throw in the towel
and forget my life's purpose.
Just as you couldn't see me
heartbroken when your hearts broke,
weeping bitterly when you wept,
angry when you got angry
(because a leader must be cool),
you cannot see me now,
but you can see my heart.
You have learned more
in my absence
than I could have ever taught you
sitting pretty at my desk
or walking your sidewalks.
Sometimes,
life hits you
hard
and in the back
when
you're
not expecting it.
You are not allowed
to look up at God
and complain
that the strike is unfair.
You must anticipate
strikes
from all directions
because
no one is exempt.
You don't get
permission
to ride life out
without challenges.
Challenges
grow you.
You are not allowed
to settle
for whatever is left over.
You must fight for
your rightful inheritance.
You must
raise up yourself
on whatever
strength
you possess
in the time of your struggle.
You must
let others love you
when
you are not sure
of how to love
yourself.
Finally,
you must stop pretending
that you can stop life
from striking you first.
Me being away is just proof
that nobody gets a free pass,
and I refuse to let you think
that my absence
is my abuse
of some cosmic hall pass.
I am being schooled right now,
and I have to keep showing up,
like you.
Nobody
is
letting me out
early.
-T. D. James-Moss
my absence is
not permission
for you to
quit.
It is proof
that I am
human.
It is proof
that when I feel pain,
it hurts,
just like yours does.
When I am disappointed,
it burns deep in my soul,
like you have felt
so often.
When I am sad,
it festers and swells
and must be flushed,
like your sadness.
And being human,
I am subject to
all the laws of humanity:
sickness and health,
wealth and poverty,
and eventually death
(like you).
Life occurs in seasons,
ups and downs and sideways,
alley ways and valleys,
mountains and long tumbles down,
shouting and violence,
silence and tears in dark rooms...
It is all true.
Yet,
that is not permission
to lay down and
believe that
there is no hope
for striving.
You can't see me
striving,
but this is my guarantee.
I am tricked out in hospital gowns,
and keeping my face clean,
and taking medications,
and waking up with expectation each morning
because sickness
is not permission
for me
to throw in the towel
and forget my life's purpose.
Just as you couldn't see me
heartbroken when your hearts broke,
weeping bitterly when you wept,
angry when you got angry
(because a leader must be cool),
you cannot see me now,
but you can see my heart.
You have learned more
in my absence
than I could have ever taught you
sitting pretty at my desk
or walking your sidewalks.
Sometimes,
life hits you
hard
and in the back
when
you're
not expecting it.
You are not allowed
to look up at God
and complain
that the strike is unfair.
You must anticipate
strikes
from all directions
because
no one is exempt.
You don't get
permission
to ride life out
without challenges.
Challenges
grow you.
You are not allowed
to settle
for whatever is left over.
You must fight for
your rightful inheritance.
You must
raise up yourself
on whatever
strength
you possess
in the time of your struggle.
You must
let others love you
when
you are not sure
of how to love
yourself.
Finally,
you must stop pretending
that you can stop life
from striking you first.
Me being away is just proof
that nobody gets a free pass,
and I refuse to let you think
that my absence
is my abuse
of some cosmic hall pass.
I am being schooled right now,
and I have to keep showing up,
like you.
Nobody
is
letting me out
early.
-T. D. James-Moss
Sunday, April 22, 2018
"Black Girl Candy Striper," A Poetry Post
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please bring your
caddy of manicure supplies
to the Nephrology ward
and clip your sisters' fingernails.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please come through
with an assortment of
black-fist-ended hair picks and
natural hair moisturizers
so the girls in Oncology can
pick what they have.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please bring in some
Brazilian Remy wigs
for the sisters
with no more glory
to shake
in this place.
Bring us some
deep, moody nail polish and
punctuating lipstick
for those who can
still
moisturize and
paint their lips.
Sister,
come and
sing a song
about hope
in here.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
bring in
your scripture
and your smile.
You don't even
have to wear that
funky
peppermint outfit.
This is the modern world.
Come in your black slacks
with a backpack,
and we will
receive you.
You don't even
have to be
teen.
Just pop in after work
for a half hour,
twice a week.
My candy striping Sister,
bring
a little of your
fly
to the ward.
On the ward,
sisters need it.
-T. D. James-Moss
The Art of Suffering, A Blog Post
I thought, as a child of the ghetto and the illustrious American welfare system (in the 80s, before the coveted food stamp swipe card) that I understood suffering. Ducking bullets, keeping side eyes on prostitutes and drug dealers and falling down in snow drifts without socks can teach you a thing or two about the struggle. But I have learned that there is an art to suffering that is specific to situation. When a new brand of suffering appears, you need a mentor to talk you through it.
My late husband, even in his absence, has taught me a lot about suffering through sickness. It is one thing to adapt in order to sustain one's self in the presence of external, aggressive danger. It is another thing entirely to adapt in order to sustain one's self when the body is the aggressor. So, what does it mean to suffer well when your own body is on the attack?
The first thing is to accept, not deny, what is happening to you. Though my husband had Sickle Cell Anemia throughout his life--since age seven--he was not diagnosed with avascular necrosis until shortly after we got married. We were sitting in the room together when the orthopedic surgeon broke the news via x-ray. In essence, once all the medical jargon was removed, the doc explained to us that all of Lawrence's joints were going to decay, starting with the hips (where we were) and continuing through the knees, elbows, shoulders... It was a lot to take in at once.
We sat down to discuss it when we got home, and I just threw out all the medicalese and broke it to him straight: "Eventually, you may not be able to move at all. You will need many replacements."
A man could have responded many ways to such news: rage, depression, extreme anxiety, bitterness... but what he said was, "Okay. Let's do what we have to do to make sure that Chad [our son] is okay." We decided to fight it, lose a joint, replace a joint, to keep Lawrence here as long as we could so he had time to fulfill certain goals for the family. He set out to improve himself without end, one career to another, until he found something that stuck: home health (ironically). Most importantly, he started explaining to our little boy, age seven or so--a little at a time--that he was dying.
I prayed for God to heal Lawrence, for many years in the beginning and much more at the end, but He didn't, so we had to ride it out, which leads us directly into my diagnosis for Lupus. Unfortunately, Lawrence wasn't here to hold my hand, but his investment in suffering was. I am in the hospital now, writing this blog entry, when just yesterday a team of doctors asked me, "How do you feel about all of this?" At the time I was writing my answers on a clipboard because the ulcers in my mouth were so bad that I hadn't spoken for three days. But, I knew how I felt. "This is what it is. Why should I panic when this is what has been dealt to me. If God does not heal me, I must ride it out."
The second thing is to accept the level of illness. This must be done before you can really defend yourself. I am typically terrible at assessing my own needs, so it took me weeks to understand that the referral made for me (set for two weeks after I arrived here at MUSC in Charleston) was too long to wait. I had to do what I did for my husband: find the best specialist for this ailment and go to his or her practice. That is how I ended up sitting in MUSC's Rheumatology department, and that is how they identified my immediate need to be admitted into the hospital. I can't say I decided that on my own, since I thought I was already defending. I changed my diet. I prayed and fasted. But, I hadn't really decided to defend at all because I hadn't asked for expert help. I looked like a fighter, and I felt like a fighter, but I couldn't be... I wasn't prepared to fight such a bout without the right counsel.
The third thing is to fight the fear. With a devastating diagnosis comes the fear: fear of the pain, fear of the consequences, fear for your family, fear for your child(ren). None of these fears are going to help you fight at all. They deplete you and put you at a terrible disadvantage because you need your mind to engage the disease. In order to find your new normal (if that is required), you will need your whole mind, your whole self to do it. The gaping ulcers in my mouth made it very hard and painful to swallow, but I had to swallow water. I had to swallow needed medicines. The fear of the pain of swallowing could have kept me from doing what I needed to do, but I had to do it. I couldn't let the fear stop me for completing the course.
Also, I'm going through some sort of career evolution. I don't know WHAT that is going to look like; it is a struggle. But, I have to moderate my stress levels. I have to make changes. I can't be afraid of that. It must be done.
Finally, call your people. You might be surprised at who your people are. There are going to be people that you call that you SWORE would show up in your time of distress, and they won't. Then, there will be people that you never knew loved you so much. You cannot live out the struggle of illness on your own in prideful isolation. Say your apologies and call for help. You need it. You will need it. Your suffering is already public. How much more public are you afraid it will become? You are sick. It's pretty obvious. Call your people. Let them love you while you fight.
These are certainly not all of the steps, but herein lies a good number of them. I realize that I haven't quoted any scriptures here, but if you want one that has always motivated me, here it is: "Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ," II Timothy 2:3. In my mind, it plays like this: "Endure hardness like a good soldier," because life is hard. Don't let anybody fool you. Some things happen that will require all of your resources--financial, mental and spiritual--to survive. When the hard times come, you have to show up to the front line with your "Hurrah" in your mouth. Decide ahead of time that your "Hurrah" is with you. I believe God is with you. I realize that some of you don't believe in God, but at least try out some of those Biblical principles. I assure you, they work for nonbelievers too. That's why they become believers. ;)
Love to you from a hospital room in Charleston, South Carolina. I hope this moves you.
-Terri
My late husband, even in his absence, has taught me a lot about suffering through sickness. It is one thing to adapt in order to sustain one's self in the presence of external, aggressive danger. It is another thing entirely to adapt in order to sustain one's self when the body is the aggressor. So, what does it mean to suffer well when your own body is on the attack?
The first thing is to accept, not deny, what is happening to you. Though my husband had Sickle Cell Anemia throughout his life--since age seven--he was not diagnosed with avascular necrosis until shortly after we got married. We were sitting in the room together when the orthopedic surgeon broke the news via x-ray. In essence, once all the medical jargon was removed, the doc explained to us that all of Lawrence's joints were going to decay, starting with the hips (where we were) and continuing through the knees, elbows, shoulders... It was a lot to take in at once.
We sat down to discuss it when we got home, and I just threw out all the medicalese and broke it to him straight: "Eventually, you may not be able to move at all. You will need many replacements."
A man could have responded many ways to such news: rage, depression, extreme anxiety, bitterness... but what he said was, "Okay. Let's do what we have to do to make sure that Chad [our son] is okay." We decided to fight it, lose a joint, replace a joint, to keep Lawrence here as long as we could so he had time to fulfill certain goals for the family. He set out to improve himself without end, one career to another, until he found something that stuck: home health (ironically). Most importantly, he started explaining to our little boy, age seven or so--a little at a time--that he was dying.
I prayed for God to heal Lawrence, for many years in the beginning and much more at the end, but He didn't, so we had to ride it out, which leads us directly into my diagnosis for Lupus. Unfortunately, Lawrence wasn't here to hold my hand, but his investment in suffering was. I am in the hospital now, writing this blog entry, when just yesterday a team of doctors asked me, "How do you feel about all of this?" At the time I was writing my answers on a clipboard because the ulcers in my mouth were so bad that I hadn't spoken for three days. But, I knew how I felt. "This is what it is. Why should I panic when this is what has been dealt to me. If God does not heal me, I must ride it out."
The second thing is to accept the level of illness. This must be done before you can really defend yourself. I am typically terrible at assessing my own needs, so it took me weeks to understand that the referral made for me (set for two weeks after I arrived here at MUSC in Charleston) was too long to wait. I had to do what I did for my husband: find the best specialist for this ailment and go to his or her practice. That is how I ended up sitting in MUSC's Rheumatology department, and that is how they identified my immediate need to be admitted into the hospital. I can't say I decided that on my own, since I thought I was already defending. I changed my diet. I prayed and fasted. But, I hadn't really decided to defend at all because I hadn't asked for expert help. I looked like a fighter, and I felt like a fighter, but I couldn't be... I wasn't prepared to fight such a bout without the right counsel.
The third thing is to fight the fear. With a devastating diagnosis comes the fear: fear of the pain, fear of the consequences, fear for your family, fear for your child(ren). None of these fears are going to help you fight at all. They deplete you and put you at a terrible disadvantage because you need your mind to engage the disease. In order to find your new normal (if that is required), you will need your whole mind, your whole self to do it. The gaping ulcers in my mouth made it very hard and painful to swallow, but I had to swallow water. I had to swallow needed medicines. The fear of the pain of swallowing could have kept me from doing what I needed to do, but I had to do it. I couldn't let the fear stop me for completing the course.
Also, I'm going through some sort of career evolution. I don't know WHAT that is going to look like; it is a struggle. But, I have to moderate my stress levels. I have to make changes. I can't be afraid of that. It must be done.
Finally, call your people. You might be surprised at who your people are. There are going to be people that you call that you SWORE would show up in your time of distress, and they won't. Then, there will be people that you never knew loved you so much. You cannot live out the struggle of illness on your own in prideful isolation. Say your apologies and call for help. You need it. You will need it. Your suffering is already public. How much more public are you afraid it will become? You are sick. It's pretty obvious. Call your people. Let them love you while you fight.
These are certainly not all of the steps, but herein lies a good number of them. I realize that I haven't quoted any scriptures here, but if you want one that has always motivated me, here it is: "Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ," II Timothy 2:3. In my mind, it plays like this: "Endure hardness like a good soldier," because life is hard. Don't let anybody fool you. Some things happen that will require all of your resources--financial, mental and spiritual--to survive. When the hard times come, you have to show up to the front line with your "Hurrah" in your mouth. Decide ahead of time that your "Hurrah" is with you. I believe God is with you. I realize that some of you don't believe in God, but at least try out some of those Biblical principles. I assure you, they work for nonbelievers too. That's why they become believers. ;)
Love to you from a hospital room in Charleston, South Carolina. I hope this moves you.
-Terri
Friday, April 6, 2018
"A Conversation About Lupus," A Poetry Post
I got the results today.
What did the doctors say?
They say I have Lupus.
No. That is for me.
I'm going to bind that.
I'm sick honey.
Can you love someone with Lupus?
Why now?
I have loved you since I met you.
Hmm.
Don't you worry.
The Lupus is for me.
What concern does God have with Lupus?
We will bind it,
and you will live
and declare the
goodness of the Lord
in the
land of the living.
-T. D. James-Moss
What did the doctors say?
They say I have Lupus.
No. That is for me.
I'm going to bind that.
I'm sick honey.
Can you love someone with Lupus?
Why now?
I have loved you since I met you.
Hmm.
Don't you worry.
The Lupus is for me.
What concern does God have with Lupus?
We will bind it,
and you will live
and declare the
goodness of the Lord
in the
land of the living.
-T. D. James-Moss
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