See kids? This is what happens when you get cocky.
Kuumba (Creativity)
To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.
I got stuck.
I fucking KNEW this was going to happen! On the one principle that I knew DAMN well I could handle with my eyes closed... suddenly, I sit down to my computer to write something fantastic...something incredibly Kuumba-like, and I turn to creative iron.
I..can't..move..my...arms...
Nothing...and I mean NOTHING would come out.
Ughh. If I hated Kwanzaa before, I REALLY hated it now.
Kwanzaa has managed to have the last laugh. Kwanzaa gave me writers block thus making it impossible for me to complete Kwanzaa. Oh...the irony.
And believe me...I tried.
I refused to open the novel I'm working on because I knew damn well I had nothing mind-blowing to add to it. (Fear.)
I also refused to open the screenplay I've been working on (or as I like to call it, the screenplay formerly known as a novel). I was stuck there as well and I had no gift to bring. Ba-rump-ba-bum-bum.
So what should I do? I HAD to get through Kwanzaa. I mean, now it's just about principal. (Well, not THE principle...I mean... (teeth suck) you know what I mean.)
Anyway, I decided to calm down. Got still for a minute and then, after a minute or two in the bathroom (think tank... ha-ha.) it came to me. But not exactly how I thought it would.
An inner voice told me to do something that made no damn sense.
It's something I don't mind doing, actually, I really enjoy doing...but couldn't really figure out how this was going to help me Kuumba.
(Another teeth suck.) Whatever inner voice. That's just dumb. What I NEED to do is sit my ass in front of my iMac until I get another chapter down thank you very much.
And with that, I tried to dismiss the thought again but it came back. It smacked me upside the head with the wedding-ring hand. (Remember that? OUCH. Why couldn't she ever knock you upside the head with the other hand? )
Hours passed. No Kummba. Just a blinking cursor. And there the word was again. Right in the front of my mind...
Inner voice: BAKE.
Yeah. OK. Whatever. Bake.
Inner voice: And don't just bake anything Nye. Bake a cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. If you bake it...it will come.
Sigh. I know what you're thinking.
Who the hell bakes a cake on New Years Eve? I'm supposed to be deep conditioning my hair, prepping it for a festive curly fro. I'm supposed to be chilling pre-party Prosecco, putting on the good drawers, sliding on the heels, practicing the dramatic smokey eye, locking down my final plans for later on so when the clock strikes midnight, I'd be at the right place, at the right time, with no regrets and looking, smelling, feeling... head to toe...the fucking shit.
Just like... like...
uh... never.
Ever.
And that's when it dawns on me.
Not one year has New Year's Eve been "perfect" for me. Not one.
And believe me, it hasn't been from lack of trying.
Starting from my very first New Years away from home. (Story time boys and girls...)
...
I wore this dress that looked like... wait...let me draw it...
Artist rendering
Don't judge me. En Vogue was the shit back then and when I saw it, I damn near heard "MMMMMMMM....BOP!" in my head. Besides, my "something-Teen" body was CRAZY regardless of my strict "chicken wing & biscuit" diet. (And don't judge my parents either. When they saw the dress, they immediately made me go back into my bedroom and change. However, I just rolled it up and put the dress in my pocket. Shoot. I paid a good $60 for that dress with my own hard earned dough! I was WEARING that dress.)
Oh. One more thing. Before I launch into this story, you need to know that I had ZERO style. I only wore baggy clothes, kept my long hair in a permanent ponytail and wouldn't know what to do with mascara if you paid me. ...Then The Gays got a hold of me and got to work. (Sigh. God bless The Gays.)
So off to THE New Years party and my very first gay (that would kick off my illustrious hag career) informs me that the DJ is 1) cute as hell 2) a good friend of his and 3) hopelessly straight, to his disappointment.
"Go get him Miss Naomi..." he smiles, ordering me to do his bidding like his own personal Fem-Bot. He peels off my coat and takes a final look at his creation. (He was with me when I bought the dress. Of course he was.) He swells with pride and shoo. Go.
I strut into the DJ room. I mean, seriously. What dude could be THAT big of a deal? I remember DJ groupies parting everywhere like the Red Sea (Never underestimate the power of a gay man's ego boost. Ask Beyonce.)
I spot the table and stand right in front of it. Dress ablaze.
He's hunched over the one & twos, looking very "DJ". He's holding one side of his headphones up to his ear with his shoulder, manipulating the mixer buttons with one hand and dropping a needle with the other.
"Are you Corey?" I yell above the music. Very lady like.
DJ Corey B looks up at me, then down at the dress...smiles slowly and confirms that he most certainly is.
...And this is when my "shit-don't-stink" act totally backfires...because DJ Corey B is effn' HOT and I have not been properly prepped as to what to do next. Oh man..he's like.. 6'5, with long, muscular basketball limbs, looking like Leon...but even BETTER. Then, to seal the deal...he has the damn nerve to have THAT smile. Perfect. White. Straight. DIMPLES? Jesus.
OK. So long story short...in my mind, that night should have ended with DJ Corey B and I kissing at midnight, slow dancing to "Make It Last Forever” which would historically be "our song". We'd fall desperately in love and our children would make vomit noises whenever they saw us slow dance every New Year's Eve to Keith Sweat, recreating that magical night. See? Mommy and Daddy knew they would make you.
But what really happened is I got incredibly drunk off of Strawberry Cisco (aay..I know...) sweated my hair out dancing too hard to "South Bronx" when Brooklynites tried to get too froggy about "The Bridge" and the gay guy ditched me when he hooked up with a guy at the party.
Oh. Did I mention it had started to snow and the gay guy had my clothes at his place?
Oh. He also had my money & ID. (No pockets and no purse. Dummy move.)
I got a ride close to my neighborhood, but still had to troop it through a good portion of The Bronx on foot, in the snow, in heels...drunk off of liquid crack.
I arrived home in the dress, to a mother who was on the couch waiting for me.
Dress. Drunk. Cold. Sweated hair. Past curfew. You know what happened.
Oh. And I got the flu.
Quantum Leap through countless "Not as great as I thought they'd be" New Years Eve's and we now arrive at my neighborhood market, with our thirty-something heroine holding a box of Betty Crocker Butter Yellow Cake Mix.
Thanks a lot Kuumba.
But while I'm here...why not get some "brunch stuff"? So I do. Don't know why...but I do.
...........
Text 1: Are you coming to Brooklyn?
Me: Nah. The weather is crazy. I think I might just stay in.
Text 2: Hey..you hitting that party tonight?
Me: Nah. I'm...making a cake.
(Uh...no. Hell no. I can't admit that. Delete..delete...delete... )
Me: Nah. I'm staying in. The weather is crazy.
And so on and so forth.
So the mixer is on mid-speed, beating the shit out of the batter. (If you want to know how long four minutes is get yourself a hand mixer.)
I'm watching the churn and it's sorta hypnotic...and it takes me back to my Mom.
When she'd do this, like I'm sure every other kid did, we’d lick the beaters and the bowl when she was done. I'd get to frost the cake.
And then, we'd all eat the cake... GASP... ON NEW YEARS! Wholly shit! How did I forget that?
We had cake...and my parents would let us sip a little champagne in a paper cup. Man. We thought we were so grown up (not knowing it would knock us out in fifteen minutes). And Pop would buy noisemakers. We threw confetti at each other...and when the clock struck midnight we went apeshit. Wow. That was the best.
And suddenly, that's exactly what I wanted to do. No dress. No smokey eye. No snow. No bullshit.
I wanted to eat cake, drink Prosecco and watch the ball drop.
Then the Honeymooners. Then go to bed.
And I started to smile. Suddenly...it was back.
Inner Voice: If you bake the cake, it will come.
I sat down at my computer and thanks to that picture of the Mende mask I'd posted my sister reminded me of the DNA project I'd promised my family years ago. I'd traced our lineage back to the Mende tribe in Sierra Leone, and promised to present everyone with something they could not only own, but also pass down for generations. Something original. Creative. Beautiful.
So I started working on that and then it hit me. Oh snap.
I'd finally started to Kuumba.
Epilogue:
The cake came out great.
The Prosecco was perfect.
DJ Corey B and I dated for two wonderful months before I found out he had a girlfriend who'd just given birth to their first child.
The gay guy dropped dime on him and urged me to break it off with him. (Hater.)
As for the dress...my ex-fiancé found it. And promptly threw it away.
Happy New Year all!
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