Moving On UP

It’s official! After going back and forth with the powers that may be I have a new home. I live there. But, For you nerds at my doorstep I didn’t put Sudoku, Tetris or a Crossword up. Deal with it!
I did take the time to put a welcome note in there. It goes a little something like this, welcome to www.brandiworley.com ….
Ha! Got my own stuff! Yup! The children say, “Man, Ms. Worley is always fresh!”

Kids tell the truth.

Now, if I can just figure out a way to get my Book Release Party before my 25th Birthday Bash.

Let Go

He had always been a man’s man. Tough. Strong. You can tell by looking at his hands. They were thick, rough and hardened from years of outside work. Those hands had seen hammer to nail, bullet to gun, and rod to child, feed to beast, years of struggle.
Even on his deathbed at 86, James’ hands told a story. They showed his personality, always independent. He cut grass to stay in shape, which helped him stay well oiled.
Out to his last days, James wanted no one to cry over him, or to look with pity. At 86, he’d seen a many of things. His mom and dad went to glory. Friends gone. He’d already accepted his fate. He would go out like a solider. No help wanted.
Once a proud service man, he used to tell the little ones tales of his battle days. During that time he’d traveled around the world.
“I flew out from New York and (a few months later) flew into California,” he said. “I traveled by boat, train and plane.”
He’d come back home to the deep bayous to raise a full house. Generations came and went. Though educated to a mere secondary level himself, he was a master in sending several to school to get degrees. He pulled baby teeth. He taught the children how to ride bikes. He taught them how to sit at the dinner table. He did everything a man was supposed to do. So he’d almost ran his course. The family was grateful.
One day his only son came to see about him. The son held his father’s hand. He recited a strong, short prayer. Then son just continued to hold his father’s hand. If just to feel his warmth. But dad’s grip weakened. He struggled. Dad called. “Reggie,” he mustered. “Yes Daddy,” Reggie answered. Son leaned in close. The man’s voice wouldn’t carry far. A minute passed. His hands falling limp in his son’s grip. Down on his bed, unable to move anymore the old man took heavy breaths. He needed his son close. Son still gripped his hand. Dad gathered all his strength, and yet still weakly led his son’s ear to his mouth. Dad voiced (to his only son).
“Let. …Go. …My. …Hand.”


…After all he’s still a man.

In memory of my Uncle James.

Sunday Blu's

It started out innocently. It was a normal Sunday morning in church. Like everyone else I waited in the lobby while Rev said a prayer. When he finished, we walked in and just to be appropriate Brother Blu, an usher stretched out his hand to mine for a handshake. I politely returned gesture with a friendly, warm handshake. Quick. Then I leaned my head to the right and smiled. I hadn’t walked but five steps to get to my regular seat when a stench hit me. I prayed a prayer. Then sucked my teeth in disgust. After shaking Brother Blu’s hand, mine reeked of stale urine.
Now, I’d vowed before to never shake a man’s hand again. Or hug one, unless he’s my kinship or boyfriend for that matter. People sneeze. And don’t wash. People eat. And don’t wash. People use the restroom. And don’t wash. That’s about a million germs. Festering.
Brother Blu caught me off guard. I woke up feeling great and looked forward to service. I planned on being nice that day. Besides I figured that since I was in church it couldn’t have been that bad.
Yet, I sat upset in my nice, cream tailored suit. Not a string or button was out of place. The stitching was flawless. As the overhead fan spun my hair flowed in the breeze. I looked like I’d stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. I wore a light perfume to bless anyone who came close enough to me for the scent to touch them. I woke up extra early to prepare for church. Did all of that for Brother Blu to come and put a blemish on my design. I frowned hard. I was almost Heaven until he came along. Normally, I am cool. But when I made it to my seat, my hands started to perspire. Rev started to preach again and it would have been rude for me to get up and wash my hands. I sat stuck and disgusted. I didn’t want to hear anything Rev had to say. From time to time I’d smell my hand to see if the funk died down. It didn’t.
Then I took to looking at Brother Blu out of the corner of my eye to see who had sat next to him on his bench. It stayed empty. He nodded to the sermon. And clapped when the choir sang songs. The whole time he’s totally oblivious to his offense. Up until the end of church, a woman sat next to him. She was trying to sneak in, hoping no one saw her late so I guessed she didn’t care if Brother Blu needed a bath (with about a capful of bleach). She looked to be in bad need of one too.
From then on I’m a mean girl.
If you see me don’t shake my hand. Don’t even try to give me a hug. I don’t deserve it. Pass me over. I will not be upset. Just think, B is snobbish. I’ve got funny ways, only speaking and smiling to certain people.
And the meeting of a guy I hadn’t seen in a long time in Blockbuster made me write this blog. He felt dissed that I didn’t shake his outstretched hand. He shouldn’t be.
I just had a bad case of Sunday Blues. I had an unfortunate contact with Brother Blu.

I Am the American Gangster

Finally!

After waiting a full year of seeing the teaser previews I saw the movie, American Gangster. The events are based on (New York) drug-king pin Frank Lucas’ life.
Like everyone else, I wanted to see the action. I looked for entertainment. I am a movie buff and lately I hadn’t been satisfied with what Hollywood is doing.
While I was waiting, I read articles on Lucas. My anticipation grew as my eyes raced across the stories of him. I had to see what made Frank so potent. Frank’s haunting. He had a kill everyone and take never collect names attitude. I guess hard living made him that way.

When the movie came out I just couldn’t wait to drag my best friend along with me. Before the movie started I felt odd. I knew I probably was the only person in the theater (besides my bff) who was against Frank Lucas. I don’t care if he was played by Denzel.
Usually people cheer for the main character. For more than a year a lot of hype surrounded the movie. But, I think maybe people forgot what Lucas did. He masterminded the corruption of Harlem. That’s H.A.R.L.E.M. Ya'll They got flavor! I went once, and it will forever be in my heart. He killed a part of my city. …in the 70s, when everything was real. For once, I cheered for the white guy, who brought him down.
But this isn’t our fault. Hollywood is ‘the man’. And forgive me for being silly, but I forgot they do pick our Black heroes. Shout outs to Martin and Rosa, you know they were the only ones who saved us. Du Bois, Angelo, Langston and the gang never did anything for for the world. ...and I bet Denzel gets an Oscar for this one (any part currupt).
Now, You want an American Gangster. I am the real American Gangster. …getting up in the early in the morning to face my professors (who hold a key to my future), that’s gangster. …spending hours studying for that exam, then acing it (and I’ll never need the information again), that’s Gangster. Spending time in clogged traffic, without losing my mind, that’s Gangster. Respecting my elders, that’s Gangster. Paying my bills on time, legitimate, that’s Gangster. Going to the dentist and being cavity free, that’s Gangster. And I love candy. I’ve got a stash in my room, car, bags, everywhere. Having credit, that’s Gangster. Shopping for a piece of land and property at 24, that’s Gangster. Graduating as a Master of all Arts, that’s Gangster. Penning my own book, that’s Gangster! All of this is a small part of my Gangster!
Course though I ain’t gonna get my props. That would be too like right. They would give Frank’s idiotcrocy glory and more. While I’m the real Gangsta! Young, Black and Gifted. As for Frank, he needs to be under the jail.

Beggars

Within the course of a week, two beggars approached me. Fast. Like I was a magnet. Or smelled like money. The first came by foot and asked for whatever change I had. I sighed. Out of all the people outside the gas station he selected me. I saw men and women, older than me and probably with considerably fatter pockets.
He looked dirty and desperate. I guess he picked by age.
“Hey, do you have any change? …Please. I just need gas,” he said.
His old dusty red truck blocked the gas pump. I felt for him. Then I dug into my pockets and unfolded $5.
“Awww, thanks. God Bless,” he said then hustled off into the store.
I figured that the five would get him a little more than a gallon.
The second fellow came by boat. Literally. I stood on the Ferry when he approached me. He looked the part of a pauper. He wore an ill-fitted business shirt; dusty khaki pants with a hole bore in the knee and 1980-styled high-top dark Reeboks with the straps across the ankle. Under that get-up he carried a toned and sculpted frame, not from working out but malnourished. His hair hadn’t been combed or cut in months, and curled then matted to his head. Like he prayed to God before approaching me, I did the same. But mine went a lot different from his.
Me:
Dear God,

Please. Don’t let this man come bother me.

Bum:
Dear Lawd,

I jus need some money.

In that instant, he thought the words of a thousand men.

Phunky Blu

One thing though, you could walk into a crowded room and if its musty, its not necessarily everyone in the entire room. It’s really usually just one strong person. And it’s hot. So the funk from that gross individual has fermented under their hairy pits.
Under the pits, there are sweaty glands working overtime because it’s heated and the pubes hold in the funk, which festers in more germs. The cotton shirt on his back can’t retain sweat and funk too. That one person fouls up the entire room, making you think it’s everyone in the room moving. When in fact, it’s one culprit -- the guy having the most fun.