Category Archives: Self Love

In Search of My Own Gardens Podcast: Episode One – What is Voice?

Hey Speakers! The In Search of My Own Gardens Podcast is HERE! Check out episode one, and tune in next Friday at 5pm for episode two! Make sure to follow!

 

Love Always,

 

Damali Speaks Xx

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The Contours of Voice: Meditations on Vocal Revolution

I’ve been a reader all of my life. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t read or didn’t pick up a book intent on sopping up the words written inside like a giant sea sponge. Books helped me to understand voice. As the descendant of enslaved peoples who were forbidden from reading as well as a grandfather who only went to 6th grade because he was needed to work on the farm but read the New York Times every week, my mother insisted that we read instead of watch television. Reading was revolution and believe me, we did it well. 

 I remember reading Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye” one summer. I was 13 and had just gone through a traumatic rape the summer before. Unlike Pecola Breedlove, there was no unexpected pregnancy to broadcast my shame and I hadn’t told anyone, not even my mother or best friend. I remember sitting with this book in my hands and feeling as though I could escape to a better world. Was it true? I still don’t know. What I do know is that books have saved my life. In high school through to college and even now after “entering the real world”, I find myself caught and enthralled by the words of black women writers. Audre Lorde and Toni Morrison, Alice Walker and Ntozake Shange, Toni Cade Bambara, L.A. Banks and Mia MacKenzie. 

What is it about black womxn writers? We’ve found a way to save ourselves, to continue to use our voices even though to know your own voice is revolutionary in itself, and to transmit that voice is power. But lets back up, because as usual, I fast forward when I talk about black womxnhood because I get excited. 

Reading is one thing, writing is another. I’ve never really been a good writer in the conventional sense. I hated writing papers but I’ve always kept journals from childhood to present day. Something about academia and the way it sought to stomp out my individual tone rather than build it up gave me intense anxiety. I am a procrastinator by lack of spirit at the right moments and while I intend to to do things in a certain fashion, if inspiration doesn’t hit, well then I’m stuck there in front of my computer wishing and waiting for the writing gods to bless me. I don’t do well with deadlines and finality. But isn’t consistency, key? In the polarities of life, how am I finding my voice?  

Voice changes. Literally. Our vocal capacities change with time. It’s proven. Sometimes our voices get heavier with time, raspier, etc. As our voice changes literally, does it change with perception as well, our artist voices a mirror of what our physical realities offer? Reading young Maya Angelou is very different from reading the seasoned woman. If we continue living, our views should continue changing right? We continue to adapt to the world around us or we die. I keep finding myself in states of aporia, where everything I thought I knew is actually what I don’t know at all. I’m constantly back to the beginning. I may not be a huge fan of old Socrates, but he was definitely on to something with the method of Socratic questioning that he learned from his African predecessors. Yes, I had to sneak that in there. 

Learning my own voice is a constant state of questioning. Nothing is final. What I love today, I might despise tomorrow. Everything changes just as the seasons do or don’t. #ClimateChange. But seriously, what is my style today? Who is it that I am today? What helps me to find my voice? In the midst of a world in turmoil, how do we, black womxn and on a larger scale, human beings find our voices? How do we reach those who need the physical help, and soul soothing needed during times of pain and struggle? 

Love Always,
Damali Speaks Xx

In the Quiet/In The Closet/In The Space: On Thoughts of Self, Success & Androgyny

“If you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it” – Zora Neal Hurston

I don’t really remember the moment that I knew I was queer. I just know that I knew. I had a crush on Josh* and Helen* and I liked them both equally. I wanted to be close to both of them always, hold them always, play “Duck Duck Goose” during recess and all the other cute things that children desire to do with crushes. I remember being asked if I had a crush on Josh* and never being asked if I had a crush on Helen*. Queerness in whatever form it came in seemed to be something that was silently made fun of and only okay if you did it on the terms of straight people, if you adopted their ways, if you picked a side of either masculine or feminine presentation. I remember those silent and unspoken rules vividly.

I’ve always dressed weirdly. Kudos to those who find true expression. I love the feel of clothing, just as I love the feel of removing it. Clothing is expression to me. I’ve always loved the idea of androgyny and the reality scared me. I’m not shaped like a boy and most of the views of androgynous people that I see are with those who have a very “boy-like” shape. But my androgyny exists outside of those boundaries. I love experimenting with what my breasts do in mens clothes, and just how I can both accentuate and disguise my hips and ass in various wears. MY androgyny is based in inclusion and experimentation. Just how many new ways can I find to fuck up the binary?

The other day, I sat with a family member who asked me, “Why can’t you be Queer quietly? Why do you have to broadcast it?” In the moment, I rationalized the sting and said something rehearsed, but I also thought to myself about why I do “broadcast” my Queer, my Polyamory, my Self. Well, because that’s who I am. It is just as much a part of me as is my sex, my skin complexion, my eye color. Who I love, how I love is important because love is what makes the foundation for a world worth living in. Frankly, I’m out, because I can be. I love myself enough to be all of me, whether that’s privately or publicly.

With the invention of internet and apps, we have much less privacy now than we did 10 years ago. What’s your personal threshold? How often do you broadcast your life and what do you choose to keep to self? It’s a constant wondering for myself. I don’t like to put out all my business but I do choose to display some of it. Is there a right and wrong in that? Does it matter?

I’ve always been a creator. I would create clothing/crafts/songs/poems/plays/ etc. as a child and it all seemed to carry over into adulthood. I occupy space in this world as an actor/dancer/singer/director/designer/singer/songwriter/advocate/activist/writer/etc. I am the slash in a world where the slash is confusing. But isn’t that the fun of the all? How do we manage? How do we fall? How do we choose to fly? Confession: I have not gone a single audition in months. I have no desire to. There’s nothing that grabs my heart and truly makes me want to be a part of it. I am not just an actor. I’m an artist. I want to create space where there is no space. I remember being in school and being taught how to manage and maneuver auditions because it would be “so much of life as an artist” and I wanted to vomit. If Nina Simone had spent all her time auditioning, would she have written Mississippi Goddamn? Maybe, maybe not. Let me make this clear, I am not judging those who choose to audition frequently. I’m simply stating that for me, it’s not the way.

Currently, I’ve done a lot. I released an album, finished a play, started on two projects, got asked to do a few more with some wonderfully talented artists and am simply living, teaching and learning. I’m content with the world and growth that I see from my life. I can see a pattern, a place, a space to occupy. As a millennial, I feel that I have to make the space. I not only don’t want to, I am not willing to endorse the system that doesn’t work. If it’s broken, don’t hop on it and try to ride. I’m not here to apologize, to be nice, to participate in so far as abiding by rules that are clearly messed up. Be bold in seeking your truth. Be brash. Be loud. Make mistakes. Make corrections. Find new ways to love both yourself and others. I’m here to re-frame, to burst through, to hold space, make space and take space.

To all my wonderful fellow beings,

I see you. I support you. I live you.

Love Always,

Damali Speaks Xx

 

Meditations for Loneliness & Other Ills That Can’t Be Cured with Simplicity

I don’t like sleeping with (fucking) straight men.
I have never liked sleeping with (fucking) straight men.
But I pretended to, because that’s what was “right”.

I’m attracted to them in so far as they intrigue me, much like a flower grown out of concrete.
I like to watch them when they don’t know I’m looking.

I see the planes and plateau’s of their voices.

I see the way they hold patriarchy and misogyny as loaded guns to be fired.

I see how they smile with pearls of white and eyes of black and how it can make my knees weak.

I see how they grow and change with muscle and dream.

I see the stunted way that emotions are squashed further and further down to Alice’s rabbit hole.

I cannot see a future with them, being who I am right now.
Who am I?
I am sexually female.
I have a vagina and a working uterus, breasts and hips, a round ass and I secrete estrogen and testosterone at certain parts of the month, sometimes year.
I enjoy wearing tight dresses and loose jeans stolen from my brothers’ closets.

I’m attracted to people alongside and without the binary.

I love differently. 

But…I don’t feel like a “woman” because gender seems rigid even though I know that it’s wide and open, still something I could never quite starve myself into. Womxn…all inclusive.

Let me make this clear. I am not transgender.

I am balanced and I still need to explore what that means for myself.

Being called “Queen” used to make me feel good and now I hear it and want to vomit. I am not royalty. I am spirit.

It feels like a cage I don’t want to be stuck in. I want fluidity.

I hunger for satiating sex. It’s been so long, too long, forever. Bare in mind that I said satiating, not just sex. That, I had…last month. I wonder when, why and how but honestly, right now I just want to let go. With kisses deep and limbs entangled touching every part of me. I hunger for depth and someone that I won’t later regret. I guess that’s love. Is it? Maybe it’s just sex. I’m horny as fuck, pardon the pun and I do love sex. So good. Like real and deep and no matter how cool I am, a moment doesn’t lie and heat is telling. Good sex helps me focus like masturbation but lasts longer before I need another hit. I’m twitching.

I love touch. It’s essential and overrated at the same damn time. Where did I get those expectations? Explanations? I explained them like I expected them to be who they were not. Still, I tried didn’t I? Do I get points for that? Oh, this isn’t weight watchers. Yet, here I sit on this late night train with tired thoughts and mourning brain wondering when my body will be good enough. Strong enough. Thin enough. Thick enough. Held enough.

I guess the perfect feminine forgot about me, or maybe I refused to tag along. I got bored of always being too much of “something” and not enough “no-thing”. Now I’m rambling. I suppose that black, womxn and feminine couldn’t co-exist outside a lovely box so I made something up. Made believed it fit. The truth is that what you find sexy about me is the exploitative. Or the balance. You like my truth. But my masculine sneaks through when you least expect it and unleashes countless amounts of venom. This small book can’t possibly contain all my truths. I’d need more ink. But since this train is still going, I might as well too.

I’m having an existential crisis at 25.  My soul feels more like 2500. Years. Old. What am I doing here? I was told once that I have books in my eyes. That someone could fall deep into them and never want to come out. I laughed at the reality with diamonds in my throat. My soul is too old to comprehend Cubic Zirconia. Some times, all the time, fake isn’t better. Last night, I spent hours on the beach engaged in my books, my oldness, my youth, my wombanness in that my sex is female and I can create life from a womb and I stood with water tasting my toes on a warm and well lit night. I thought “Wow, this shit is wild and so am I. Who the fuck will get me? Does it matter? Am I one that gets got?”.

I continued to miss intimacy, not sex because I figured out that post my achieved orgasm, I want to try to be held. Something different than my usual vanish and disconnect. That gone girl happens when I sleep with (fuck) straight men and don’t come for various rules of patriarchy require my orgasm be to his own liking. With anyone else, it’s different. Without “straight” as an elephant in the room, I want close, I want to try. Maybe that’s maturity, growth or just loneliness. Maybe it’s some or all. I’ve been interested in the pattern of breath lately. The rise and fall.

How alive am I?

 

Love Always,

Damali Speaks Xx

Travel & Triumph: Thoughts on Traveling to the South and Selfhood

As I am right now, sitting in a coffee shop in the heart of New Orleans, I always imagined myself much like Baldwin or Cleage, writing something that would challenge the male ego or enlighten the ways of queerness and my attraction to women, men and those outside the binary. Here I sit, grown as I know how to be, with no money but a $1.50 tea warming my hands. The air is sticky with new smells of rain, Wynton Marsalis plays in my ears and life seems oh so simple. Free Spirit and Artistry inside, life is wonder full. Everything comes in it’s own time and travel shows me so much more of my self. This Saturn year isn’t so bad, after all.

It’s been little more than a week since I left New York City with it’s tall buildings and teeming centers of human beings with uptight energy that propels one forward. For the first week, I found myself in Atlanta, Georgia with a collective of queer people of color as we embraced what might seem odd. For me, I always feel odd, even with queers and people of color. My identity has always been just different. I don’t like clinging to a label in the queer community. I’m attracted to men, women and others who reject the binary. My ancestry has roots and branches from all over the country and world. I am a young, black, queer woman and I hold a certain comfort in being able to maintain fluidity.

I now find myself in New Orleans. We drove down from Atlanta, a small queer group of us. The heat of the south is different. In New York, it almost knocks me over with it’s force and humidity. I sometimes can’t breathe as it engulfs my senses and threatens to destroy my will to want to live through the moment of all encompassing heat stroke. The south has a fluidity to it. It’s hot, but not unbearable. I sweat, but not in buckets. I suppose it is a lazy way of being. In moments like this, I remember just how little time I’ve spent in this body on this earth. How little I know, how big and at the same time small the world seems. I remember my mortality. I hold it close to my chest and take a deep breath in. I am here. Today, maybe tomorrow, and I want to be here. The world holds so much surprise and culture. The unexpected seems blessed. I don’t need much. I can and do actually go without a lot. I don’t have much money and though I find myself worrying about it in intervals, right now, I’m not at all bothered. I planned this trip for a week and I have so little clothes and yet, I’m so incredibly comfortable. Life without a lot of materials is actually quite freeing in its’ organization of need vs. want. I’m a minimalist by nature and so living with few materials isn’t ever a surprise to me and feels in a way refreshing.

While here in New Orleans, I’ve been the utmost of a tourist and yet, I somehow feel my ancestors with me more now than ever before at this juncture of life. I’m the only black queer person in our group and that never before bothered me until today. My ancestors speak so loudly and there seems to be no one to share it with. I feel them at my back, my front, my sides, below me and above me. While here, I’ve gone to visit a plantation. The Whitney Plantation, originally named The Haydel Habitation. This one being different than others that are restored in the area because it focuses specifically on those enslaved here in it’s operational duration. While on this ground I felt all kinds of things. I felt anger, fear, helplessness, hurt, joy, etc. The heat felt welcoming and warming as the sun beamed down in an oppressive way. I sought remembrance. I didn’t seek peace or wholeness, just remembrance. In my blood, I remember a time when this, the enslavement of my people was normalized.

Alongside the great pain, I’ve found great pleasure. Moments of feeling seen and held by art. I’ve gone to visit an exhibition called StudioBe by artist Brandon Odums. The exhibit is an a huge warehouse with painting and artwork all throughout, dedicated to blackness of all kinds as well as to New Orleans. In the beginning of the exhibition, there’s a huge written work called “Ephemeral, Eternal” and he talks about those two ideologies as inspiration for this entire piece. Ephemeral is fleeting. The love you feel for a short time, while Eternal is everlasting. What does it mean to be both and a little in between. Human life for me is just as much about the short and the long, the close and distant, the journey and the destination. It’s in the center of all that I find my grounding, my home. Home is me, where and how I occupy space. It gave me pause. I want a big warehouse space with which to do my art. An impossible goal. How do I go about accomplishing it?

Writing in a new place, existing in a new space, brings with it such an air of separation and truth. The question I’ve been asking myself, “what are you worth, darling girl?” I’ve always called my inner little girl, “darling girl” and as she and I continue to deconstruct and learn more about the inner workings of my heart and soul, I find that she answers in mysterious ways. Worth. What a strange idea and reality. How is it measured? If I was not defined by my interactions with others or through my capitalist existence, by the art I create or the way spirit flows through me, what would I be worth? What is my worth on this earth? Why am I here? I could spend time answering it, but to me, it’s more about the journey than the destination. So ask yourself. What are you worth?

Love Always,

Damali Speaks Xx

Learning Liberation Week 4: On Love

” Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Corinthians 13

It’s so cheesy of me to take this passage that so many people use, but I went to an art display recently and I found it staring back at me and as someone who is not religious at all, but very spiritual, I find that there’s a little bit of truth in everything. Welcome back to #BlackWomxnWorkThroughTrauma’s last week. This week, I wanted to focus on Learning Liberation surrounding “Love” not as an idea, but as a reality.

When I think of the word love, what immediately pops into my head is what I’ve been conditioned with by society. Films, tv shows, ads, church and familial expectations, peer pressure, etc, these all help to inform my personal view of what giving and receiving love looks like. One thing I realize is that up until this point in my life, I’ve been searching for love but never really established just what love is and looks like for myself. It’s one thing to know what love feels like and to know especially, if you’ve experienced some sort of abuse, just what love is not. What about what happens when love looks and feels like abuse because that’s what we’ve been taught? I am not a fan of gender roles or traditional relationships in the form of monogamy, because I really do believe that love should always be free, honest, and communicative.

I put 1 Corinthians 13 up there because I realize that through this month of #BlackWomxnWorkThroughTrauma, I’ve been working through each week myself as well as with you all and what I’ve come to realize is that the definition of love starts for me with how I choose to love myself. Just how do I affirm my selfhood? Am I patient and kind with myself? How do I protect myself? How do I trust myself? How do I guard my truth? If I can’t answer those definitively, then I haven’t been truly loving myself as I deserve. I deserve the highest amount of love from myself. We all do. Love isn’t the superficial. Love is depth.

For the last post of #BlackWomxnWorkThroughTrauma: