Tag: Miss Mayas’

(Talking about Miss Mayas’ [Angelou])

You’re a smart cookie.

—  I managed to get out of bed around 2:30ish around here, and decided to lounge after feeling good about “Poe at 13.” Thinking about vacation and lazing, and of course I got ‘up decided it was time to get to work. Grabbed my unfinished meal and went with intentions to finish it off a la help from the microwave. The black soldier fly in my house made lunch. It’s always a risk; I did not digest. Hardly picked at my food. There was no coffee made, I don’t know why I am always hopeful towards this sentiment when I’m the only making coffee and the I’m the only making coffee I like in this household. 

I decided to see if there was any of those 3-in-1 packs. As I’ve been running on fumes and ice water for the most part, I wasn’t sure if my stomach could settle on only coffee after a never-ending marathon delight. So instead I thought of some matcha, and grabbed the last in the plasticbox-sealed-bulk-pack of my favorite Green Tea 3-in-1 with cream/sugar. I was reminded of how that was my Miss Mye’s favorite Green Tea 3-in-1 as well. Miss Mye was already on my mind while I was still taking a breather before I started. Miss Mye was the first to show me Miss Maya Angelou. 

Now, I had to work at that. I had been seeing Miss Mye for years on my trek down the 4-story flight chipped, crackling concrete stairs from 1 Level on my way down to the ice cream truck. Sometimes an elote, you could get at the crack in the wall underneath the white spray painted, frosted plexiglass panel. Stayed Was 10 cents for the longest, eventually 25, by 2005 we had hit 50 cents – innocently and ignorantly thinking this was egregious to afford on my budget of working flea market stalls and tips from door-to-door makeup sales. At least a few were kind enough, I had to drag the broken-wheels-that-don’t-roll-no-more case up and down and all around those concrete levels, down the stairs to the 4 foot embankment of smooth concrete before you hit the asphalt parking lot eroded in pot holes and flood during El Nino. 

So eventually, I got my glasses, then my cochlear, and I could actually hear now that Miss Mye would and had always greeted me. Miss Mye is not her birth name, nor was her legal name, and she was commonly referred to as “Miss My-oh-My-oh-Mayas, whatcha doin’ today skunk?” Miss Mayas never really declared her age, but her lived-in recap fortale’d of a dime, not a ditch. I’ll tell ya that. She always offered to buy my Drumstick cone, sometimes she’d sneak one into her palms when I catch her making her legs up to 4 Level. Not a “hi” just drop the cone in my hand and keep walking, and wrap herself in her charcoal grey blanket. She told me it was her first blanket ever, and she’d started gathering old worn slouch hats and sewed them together herself. No one could come by fabric, but “plenty of fallen hats” could be found. That’s why it wrapped around her so cozy from the start and by the time Miss Mye became a regular in my life, -even cozier. 

Eventually Miss Mye needed a cane. After a long day at flea markets in 100 degree heat, I decided I deserved a drumstick cone. I was walking back up the flights, and now, every Miss Mayas’ I’ve ever met has hated when they got the point of doctors’ orders’ having to hold on to a cane. Though- she hated it. I had fown Miss Mye fallen. Scarred, cracked, up, gravel on the knees and every crevice it could reach. Her knees were soaked in blood. Not my Miss Mye!! 

So I got her up and we made the trek back up the flights to hers on 1 Level. She was cleaned up. She said “Now, I aint met the woman of your household, I’ve said “hi. J-” to your diddy’ but he waves me off with a hey-an-a-wave tryna ask about you everytime so- so I’m gon-a tell that woman she can come on over to my house. I’ll grab her favorite box of wine she always eradiates and aromia-nates the whole damned block of – but you can’t come in my household until I get a hay-or-nay let alone a “Hello Miss Mye.. you know my name right..?” That was also the day I learned she was Miss Mye, not Miss My-oh-MY-oh-My Mayas; the spelling came later. 

Eventually all that good and holy happened. By the time my mom took the invite, she brought along my twin sister and my two older brothers that were about a decade older than the others’ of us. Miss Mye said I was a smart cookie too – now she can hear and see when I’m talking to her. Not grinding them gears of dat ancient old brain up in there – acting like a gerbils running it!! My abg Filipina Mother did not get this analogous jokey-joke, but I did. Which led to subtle stark loo-o-ks for confirmation that what I thought was funny – was actually deemed funny. At least upon Miss Mye’s chord. And she looks over to me and says “Miss My-OH-Myia-oh-mE-o-of-ol’-Sam-i-AM! Now I her’ know you wasn’t seeing and wasn’t hearing for that little speck of time you’ve been alive. But that ancient soul of yours is crumbling with filth, and I just re-a-d’ yo’ behind. You’ve always known humor Miss Samantha-of-the-Sam-of-all-that-is-holy-and-virtuous in this concrete-leveld’-hole.”

Dinner went over well, My Mye brought a bottle for my mom as the guest; she gave me a lesson on the ethics of bottles later as well. This had initiated many “sombern-suppas-wit-sum’hin-ah-liol-sweet” right before tea-before-supper. Miss Mye taught me alot of things, amongst all the rest dead or alive, she played a vital part in my initiative to expand in my reading comprehension, and nourishment my lil’ written escapes, I’d get to peruse from time to time out of sight. 

It seems she legged-ahia-me-up through the way. Starting out with “Green Eggs and Ham” and “Sam-I-Am-on-dAcorRnaH-of-daBlock-reading-at-it-again” was as close to as anyone knew about my name at that time, if they knew my as “that little asian, her moms is filipina, maybe mixed, spanish? Maybe, she could be iberian-perhaps the caribbean. I think greek?..” only to go on and the individual would usually settle “yO! Lil gal with da glasses reading on the curb, Whatchu doing today? Flea Markets? Makeup? Or you got the day off?” The others with a hustle mindset of daBlock trying to get past the block, were kind enough to offer me some coins. They knew I had already been dreaming and chasing The City in my minds’, and I need shorted the small stuff only with notes of odes of what I considered “delicacy” in order to leg up to the big move, for the lil-shorty asian girl that was no more than 2ft tall by the time I left. 

Miss Mye seemed to have similar sentiments but of surface-level different background(s) {the s is plural, “cus ya’s gotta stick around a little longer if you want to swim under the iceberg, and don’t do no damn swimming to survive..” per Miss Mye. So a kismet soul, spanned apart by generations while I was moving up and she was on her outs, willingly, joyfully, relieved with happiness it was all starting “de-wrap-up.” So we had our Green Tea 3-in-1’s, biscuits of all sorts imported, and “these heare nawh are right-diddly-die-the only righteous no to come of the south, biscuits of the south!! !” God, her country was too damned good. Near sinful, how she cooked, filthy in flavor but cleaaaayen in the cooking process. 

So we got through some Dr. Seuss, she asked me if I was bored. It told her “It’s not that I’m bored.. I’ve just read all these already. I’ve memorized them, I could probably recite them if I tried. I want to challenge myself so I’m ready and I feel ready by the time I get to school.” So she brought a Sleeping Beauty disney princess book with pictures. She asked me if I liked it. I told her “I love Sleeping Beauty, it’s one of my favorite movies. We have it on VHS… I just don’t identify, nor, really agree with the notions of “Disney Princesses” they always call me Mulan or Pocahontas.. I hate telling them that’s not all of me, I got more than just one, I love Mulan and Pocahontas too, even if it feels like the stories have been.. Changed? Corrupted? You could say, when I read about them on the computer in the library, one day when I got to go. The real stories. I don’t want to identify with princesses when I don’t look really like any of them, maybe a combination? Of a lot of the, definitely Mulan and Pocahontas – but that’s not all of them. My Ita-Lolo won’t tell me everything when we talk on the phone.. My mom won’t answer any questions even when I ask her what time does work start or if we’re eating breakfast in the morning…” I started to close up. I went non-verbal, feeling the spotlight of an answer weighing back down to nobody-nothinggoodaboutya-and-not-right–just weird-thats-all-there-is-to-you. 

Miss Mye cooked breakfast for dinner, we listened to some records. I didn’t know the name then but I could recognize it like the front of my hands’ typing. It was “Little Child Runnin’ Wild” by Curtis Mayfield, the same song that I opened my app to paused-at-aquarterhalfwayskip-drop.beat into being paused, and I hit play when I finally got writing out this reply by 15:23. I remember when I closed my laptop shut and felt bad for pausing it; not that I haven’t listened to music since then. It felt like her hand guiding me, the same way my short self on the step-up-stool needed, back-then, when I started to warm up the water for my-the last packet of my Green Tea 3-in-1 cream/sugar and inevitably chose my backline-of-defense of my mugs in the cabinet and went with my small black cauldron shaped one that says “Witch, Please” with starry details. Miss Mye would also say “Witch, Please” every time I wasn’t sure or wasn’t confident to express I knew the word or meaning including the first time I told her I felt the disney princess stories “were corrupted” and I told her I saw it in the dictionary at the library while I was reading about em. She wanted to know how, she found out. She wanted to know why, I told her. She wanted to know when, couldn’t remember by then. She asked “What for?” I told her “So I know, just-in-case I need it again.” Then she said “What do you mean by that?” and I told her, I’ll need it in school and to learn how to communicate properly. 

I didn’t understand as her marvelous, always shinin’ like lights-onem’ cheekbones and coupling jawline started to emasse to thiss sort of ballon version of a face and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Shaded her faces for a moment with the grasp of her hand, kneading those cheekbones like pizza dough. Took a breath, said she needed 3 more. Then starkly iterated “Go grab Ma’dame Merriam. . …” -I was confused. My Auntie Miriam wasn’t here yet, how could she have known she was bringing her kids over for dinner because her husband is deployed and so is my d-aad? How could she have known that? I displace this to her. She, nurturing, calm, and intimidating over goes “You don’t know Ma’dame Merriam? .. Alright, Sam, it’s about time you two meet. – This! ** -is who Ma’dame Merriam – is. . You two haven’t met yet?” I told her I’ve never seen one without the pages ripped out before, or her name hadn’t worn off yet.. All these excuses. Ultimately – I had never gotten to hold hands with Ma’dame Merriam yet. So we met that day. She said “Ma’dame Merriam is going to be your best friends. She’s much warmer than a webpage, much more nourishing, insightful, has much-mucho-mas-eenebre.sinfina-proulicalo just oooodeessss, and THe ode of personality; just hard to read. Harder to keep up with. Impossible to truly figure out. Just like you, Sam.” 

So I met Ma’dame Merriam through Miss Mye.. and Emily and Scott and Dickens and various Charles, too many Georges, some rancy guy named Nabukov, utterly more vague and confusing Tolstoy, Whitman for claps, and Twain to ride away chaps.. We firsted started with the Brothers’ Grimm – I told her “..these stories are decrepit and lacking in soul, monstrous murders and melancholy for life and they call them Fairy Tales?” It’s just not even sad.. It’s evil. These stories are evil and they say these are the root of all Fairy Tales? I know this edition (b&n special edition hardback, decades(s) old) is very expensive and in pristine condition – I feel evil holding this. I don’t even feel guilt when I read Dante, I just want to understand, though I don’t want to believe. It, Dante, doesn’t feel evil to me, but I think these so-called Fairy Tales are.. What a sentiment of life.. It took good money to buy this, at least what’s good to me. That’s what I’ve been told is the “root-of-all-evil-” Why would you own this?” She said “.. I just wanted to understand why I was chasing Fairy Tales my whole life, that I only got to read once I came into some money by my 50s. Things are different now, but I choose to live where I live, not where I’m blocked and imprisoned. The Block doesn’t feel that way to me. It’s still classed up from my origin(s). I hope you understand, Sam, I wanted to understand too and felt the same horror that seemed much worse than Dante could ever portray. So – in the end. “I understand HOW; I do not understand well.”” “That’s from one of the George’s isn’t it.” “Orwell.”

So after I made all these wonderful friends and otherwise through Miss Mye, the most joyous day was when I met Miss Angelou. She let me look at it first, then she started reciting “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” and I followed along. We finished that. We read many of Miss Maya’s Angelou’s works.. Then I got to understanding about The Miss Mayas’ of the World, then I got to know about why I called her Miss Mye, and not any other. 

It was a sad day when I told her I was leaving soon. Don’t know when, where, what, how, or why.. I had no reasoning. Dad’s orders hand’t came through yet but they were in the works.

So we got to her favorite, only this time it was my turn to read aloud, and eventually it was my turn to recite. Chapter by chapter, place the index card once the rusted orange streetlights came on. 

I grabbed my copy of her favorite. She said “You’ve read the best, now it’s time to read the rest – you gotta find your own favorite and this is mine:..”

Gather Together In My Name  by Maya Angelou [Miss Mye would’ve wanted it formatted this way, she didn’t believe underlines looked ugly, nor merely obsolete because there was other new options now (then)  – they were statements. Wiz-tech at the computer even if she preferred ink and whatever could be concluded as parchment]

I grabbed mine off the shelf that symbolized the works I read of my early childhood and term(s) in school.. Whether I like every single one of them or not, disagree, am a fan – I’ve read it before and I wanted to hold hands again with old friends. Even if it’s been a long time since I reached out. I read that last page, but she always told me to read the last two pages. My copy has both pages presented as the last two, then space blank. She was right. I read the last two pages. Then I went back and read the first one. Then I went back and read the last two again. 

Got settled for the lunch I nibbled on. Digestivos of all kind including the Green Tea 3-in-1 cream/sugar. I took a risk even and sat on my front porch. Too scared, too visible. The yard is riddled with purple dead nettle, not all purple on the petals quite yet, litters of meadowweeds spreading, couple daises, and almost all the blossoms of the dogwoods of the street are gone, done already turned into leaves. My dogwood tree in my front yard was the first to bloom less than a week ago. Short time to see, and it’s been at least a year since I sat out there. One day at the job I returned to for the 2nd time, before I quit without two weeks notice’ on the 3rd time during my Advocacy leg. I got off- -shift after a callout and extremely busy day, that wasn’t supposed to be busy during the day nor time of shift. I got home around 2:30am. I was sitting out on the curb by 5:55am for my next shift. No ride-shares available at the time, and had to call a taxi, hoping I wouldn’t be late. It was still dark out almost 3 hours into my shift. It never ended. I didn’t go to sleep. 

Bad connotation for the stoop-kid that can’t always find the time to persist to take a breather and sit on the stoop again. Still concrete, but now some ol’ red bricks for a little pizzazz, framework, and detail. So I sat there and vaped instead of smoking a cigarette like that last time. My “Witch, Please” small black cauldron mug holding my Green Tea 3-in-1 sat in the corner, behind a flower pot. Just enough sunlight to bake the handle in warmth. I usually sit on the corner, usually aim for shaded, but this time- -I was the one catchin’ up all the rays of warmth. 

Then a breeze from the Southeast-South reckoned and cut, between the white-wooden-pillars that need a splash of paint and a new bottom holding firm between the little oblong-with-an-uneven-foundation porch and bricks that fell out and we just superglued back in and the ceiling that also needs a splash of coat-falling out like concave dimple from the water damage with wasp nests in every corner. I can’t bring myself to knock em down, they do nothing be greet my kindly 2 ft away from my face, a little buzz-zz-buzz-zbuzz of a convo between the two of us, and then they leave my space the few times I leave my own. Ultimately, when that Southeast-South breeze cut – it was cool. 

The light shone on me and I was warmed. 

And I found balance, 

When I looked to flowers turned bloom of the dogwoods, 

And i reckoned with guilt, 

The stump that fell when I ventured away to Ol’ Dominion 

And the eye came to base

And my parents stayed

The cats relayed, traumatized – I couldn’t bring me to stay – and I couldn’t bring myself to go 

-without em, and relied on their grandparents to keep them 

In place. 

I sojourned North and time kept a’

Calling, 

The cats meowing

I deem riots of low volume as a favorite

Upon collection of the obsolete physical 

And I thought of the underline

Deemed obsolete from new options

And I evoked with wrath – – towards my-self-.

And I had felt un-whole, there was no wholesomeness here now

When I came back and saw my dogwood fallen, 

There was no pair through, 

Later in years

The other half of the tree

Fell 

And trump in tact, 

I got it all wack, 

I was scared – my-

Environment would on without the hol-

-iness of which I try to evoke. 

When I knew there was redemption in me

For me

Knowing I left my babies

Cats, all the same, 

And I played the blame game, 

When my children could not look in my eyes

When they’d run and skitter and skatter

And they would not let me hold, nor soothe, 

And I saw the little girl again. 

I do to them – to evade the storm.

I don’t blame them for their bad experience with their grandparents, 

While mommy cried for safety, 

And in my haste – forgot I locked my door. 

Evacuation mandated 

I flew with a friend that proved flighty, and much longer now, no friend of mine

I found kismet indifference, adventures 

Abound, 

And I too found another set of adoptees like Miss Mye- 

But my children needed their mother, and she flew away in the storm. 

I plead safety and prayers when I had not held the rosary in years and I carried it in my pockets and I burned tealights and I burned incense and I meditated and I hoped and I prayed that grandparents would do alright, while mommy was away. 

Cats, or not. 

I thought I was having so much fun, 

It was evident they wanted us to stay, 

Woman without a car, nor license, 

Identity revoked by the systems 

That stamps paper

For admission into 

Existence. 

I had never paid taxes before, 

I never had no “real-job” before

Not round the likes of here

When that parent paper

Came without signature

And I was blocked

We had long left the black 

Centirin ago. 

Why would it matter now?

I can’t leave the house without the same fear it took to sit in the shade as that Southeast-Southern breeze from the direction too, 

The tropic winds, yet – no!

Basqued! mE! In. Cool.!

So I drove the though away, and in some starry shade. 

Miss Mayas’ are not through with their work, and subtle shade is not tolerated. 

Even when I sit on the corner aiming for dark – 

It’s stark, because the ray of light hits on top anywhere. 

The shine beckons every time I turn on light, 

And prism glimmers, as it’s in  my sight, 

Even when my back is turned

Peripheral epiphany, 

I never read this copy, 

I got for 10 cents

Working for peanuts worth less at 

A thrift stored 

1-of-3

I could not afford that matcha latte like my other married coworkers, 

I drank 

Coffee. 

And I said – ToDaY! – is the day I skipp caffeine – – – and I – choose –

Green 

Tea 

3in1 

Sugar/

Cream

And “Gather Together In My Name” 

Sits on the rest 

Oof the left 

Of the only rest of me

I got left. 

I got in me. 

And I turned through notions of my friends – Curtis, the Femmes, distant echoes of Depeche but in 2022 chose to say “bulu” after they nam-named their bread with “Answers” and the honk-honk where I reckoned was only defeat, turn the music down, wash your mouth out, watch it too otherwise, and repeat, aNd I — heard in that notion, the syncopation of time fore-talled – someone wanted me to turn the music up. SO I DID. And greets of “Hey Angel” screamed and washed the hand of my own other in my “Savory” taste and my Jawbox dropped. Then “Ready or Not..” screamed with the Delfonics sound!! The haste of waste is all about abound. ANd noW! Post-haste did I come to frown of a rainy day song of “Bus Stop” beware as I felt holly-hocked with distant smears of hate and rage and my love that looses and return, I say it reminds me of you but a dude named Carl who amplified and startled The Miss Mayas’ of the world where even the saccharine star knows she’s up there in sentiments crying for “A Brave and Startling Truth” and comments blew through my mind, and I was humbled upon sight, with tears in my eyes as I recap as I type -now- living on this mote-of-matter and I thought those comments were “of the highest honor” only for Jim and morose vain, brained, thick skin, of deceptions oded to “Strange Days” a favorite crate, and yet I don’t find, and remember when Miss Mye taught that mote was indeed a different word than mode and that was the first time I found Ma’dame Merriam. While another song replays! Somehow after, Curtis, I was told to “Kiss Off” and I just wiped the tears of my cheeks that shine brighter now tear-stained like Miss Mye always said was just my reflection showing itself without the mirror, when we would write infront of the mirror and my eyes hurt because of the rainbow on my hand, aND SHe! Miss Mye tells me – “that’s a bouncing off point, that’s the rainbow you’ve created. See there is no rainbow, with the prism, I learned that through the Cosmos shows with Carl our friend. And I learned with mise, that Miss Mye preferred her name spelled with “Y” as opposed to “I” because she “..could never look at I, and when I did- -I was always asking w-h-y Why? So instead of asking WHy? I don’t bother with the I, and prefer to be Y, One learns more about themselves that way when they ask WHy? Instead of Who-for-; Who am I?  I won’t bother with that, while I’m busy with my wrap- wrapping it up these days. Even if I don’t understand WHy, I am, I already know who I am, and even now – I see HOW too.” 

My sentiments in memories, as she nourished 

To the notion

Of the many names I’m known – – orotherwise: 

If you called me Sammie, I would not spell with a “Y” as is seen in my words right now, today:

I chose (i.e) 

“That is” Samantha

But no one knows Samantha as she never knew herself

And Sam is the regular, but for this usage – you must work –

For – I, to permit solution

Because if you call me Samm- with a Y, I will deny

Miss Mye may have inspired, I know why, I didn’t want WHy?

I wanted to be I. 

So I chose “I, that is, Sam.”

And have closed the book on the days of wistful amalgamations of “Sam-i-AM-reading-on-the-curb-of-the-corner-of-daBLock” 

The cage still holds, but I expand elsewhere. 

“Traveling Light” of the zen descendant of Abraham

Told me “You shine so bright, my fallen star.” 

And I chose to be the saccharine one, as many times as I’ve heard his stalls

When I finished the poem that demands its introduction and provides it with kindness

Gentile niceties – 

Enough to evoke 

“7 Words” by my friends of the chino-latino eastside-and-county-hood,

That I choose to describe with fields 

Of dandelions and daisies that I 

Never stopped foot

To touch grass

For fear of persecution 

Of interest

Of decadent divine respect

For the “mote-of-matter” 

On our “pale blue dot” 

And I chose to be the astrologist, 

Not the physicist or cosmonaut, 

Even if I too dreamed that once before, 

In spirit I am nourished, 

The “Teachers” told me this so, many times 

Before

And I sit in a room

I called a “failed annex” 

I choose to gather the wispts of my territory 

I stand firmly grounded, 

Not slanted, 

Like the superglued bricks of 

My front porch

As the black soldier fly

And their over-salted lunch rambled

On of “you’re an embarrassment to this house”

And I later answered the door

And found an accommodation company man answer

“Sorry to catch you off guard”

Rebellion music tee from 2016, 

When the little speck of me

Living with regret

On this pale blue dot

Knows I spent

Too far

Too much

No matter how many times I’ve

Gone and left 

And know – 

-Relief. 

It’s 18:42, 

The stonehenge of the dogwoods that lasts but seems 

A mere 8 minutes, shines down on me

Now. 

The Prevailing Westerlies, have taken up the tune, 

As I rock the street that seemed garnish the inception

Of bloom, and only whispered through 

To the other trees, you too- should bloom. 

Eastside-and-county reckons

As I moved from the west of the west of the continental

The border of “every down south” 

No retreat to the mountains for my first bounce

That my ancestors seem to know is retreating

Wherever the rideline be, 

I sit on the coast, tho I’ve been seen the beach. 

It took a centirinee before I even caught a glimpse

And the “brown, yellow, olive skinned girl with red cheeks that sing with blush like the pimento cheese that accompanies like the leaves of- -of the dandelion in the cracks and then some..” 

Hermit-holed had turned alabaster

Unforgiven, like some concubine of another country’s ancestors

The Motherland(s) have showed 11 of 11, I’ve been on a lucky streak 

As “”Poe at 13.”” ended on the final dash line 

Of 

Master Number 

11. 

I never wanted a dozen, only to be ashamed if an egg would break

When the 2 ft tall girl struggled, 

Limiting, hoping, breathing into the air – 

“Please, please, please don’t see me fuck up.” 

And this Miss Mayas’ 

And all of her distant crown lineage and glory, 

Turned up the tune, and settled into 

The disosnance and echo of Loathe and “I Let It in and It Took Everything…” 

I thought my dogwood stonehenge was going to filter out, 

As the room turned dark, 

Now my hands bask inthe cut of light. 

Through all this, and spirit alive, 

Of a speck, 

That encourages the light, ..these days. 

I think I’ve done enough.
I’ve got no more to write,      on this one.