Roma

We stopped on a bridge
You know the famous one?

And the fires lit up the sky

And we drank and we laughed

And we knew

That god wanted to show us

His love

Venezia

The world cracks and turns here, and we sway and we rock. The moss grows up and over the steps, they hide secrets in between the places the sunshine disappears.

There's a rhythm, there's a beat.

There's the march of the measured steps.

The pulls and pushes of that ignorant moon.

The cadences that only the past knows.

Lord, only God knows.

And we rock the boats and they lilt from side to side

They jostle and roll

A languished chest. Pounding. A giddy desire.

A slow and dredging, heart. beat.

And breathe.

And we throw our heads into the vulnerable breeze.

Into the spirit of things.

The stone, and the statues,

The bridges and the pillars.

The balconies, the spindly roots,

The swell of wine and the seasons that all feel alive.

And not a drop to drink.

Washing clothes in that white washer. Making coffee. Drawing a bath. Hand washing (soaking) a blouse.

Oh the wealth.

Oh the disregard.

Oh the presence, of the Lord.

Water, water.

Water.

Of us

I've had blue nails since I met you.
And if I hadn't had been there, and wanted to.

The night that it was,

And your quick conversation.

Your staggered wit and measured steps.

I watched you light your cigarette and rub your knee.

Watched your knuckles slide over and around the side of the bench you held up.

I heard myself laugh

And I knew

That I loved, the this stuff

These things, of us.

Even though we're not at Bonnaroo ( 6-16-2013)

Dear Dude,

It's not only about how much fun we have. How you're my favorite person. How we crack each other up. How we share our days when we walk through the back alleys of Birch Street, drinking Mavromatis swill and taking a minute to guess (and check) the exact temperature outside.

It's all of those things. But it's none of them too.

It's how you set a standard for my life.

As a father, as a friend. A husband, as a dreamer, a visionary. As a hard worker.

An eternal optimist.

A glass overflowing sense of humor

A brother and a son.

An intellectual.

Full of grace and humility.

Selfless and ever so devoted to your family.

I'm not scared of how high the bar is. Because I know I'm worth it. And I know it's out there.

That never settle for less joy.

That find comfort in God's love.

That love all children with abundance.

That seemingly endless enthusiasm for play.

That wake up, grateful for the day.

You. And all the skills you've given me.

A roadmap. And the foundation for it.

Happy Father's Day.

You are SO loved.

Dizzy.

Oh sigh (relief)

I write and I write and I write and it all comes out. There's no way to tell if anything that's up for grabs is any good. If all of it. If none. It comes out and I lay it on the table. And I want to be read.

I read. And I can't breathe in enough of the stuff. I want them all to be my words. Not that I wrote them, or maybe I did, but I own them

And I know them.

There's too much all the time.

And I'm it too.

There's no way, just no way to tell if it's any absolutely any good

But I hope that isn't the case

I write,

All of it,

Out on the table,

And I hope it isn't the case.

June

The decision to quit. The one to try. And that amorphous thing. That aching and aging in your wrists. In the bottom of your belly. In the twists and turns of the sighs and whispers that summer brings. This is the growing up. These are the matters at hand. The hot eyes and sticky lashes. The burning mornings. And all of the music.

Ha!

Traffic lights in Haiti are optional. And it seems lanes are kind of fuzzy suggestions as well. Cars weave and drive directly down the middle of the whitelines. Turn indicators seem to be non existent, and I'm yet to find someone who wears a seatbelt.

The honking system is also an enigma. A move out of the way, I'm changing lanes, I'm coming around the curve, I'm accelerating towards pedestrians, I'm hopping a curb, I'm dodging two motorcycles to avoid falling in a pothole.

And on Sunday night, I drove myself from Petionville to Fermathe.

ME.

Horn blaring, almost killing us only a couple of times.

Life.

Always a gamble.

And worth the experience.

If only to say,

Gadé, mwen té di ou sa.

Take that.

Junior

Steve

Josephine

Dieuford

Jean Rodaine

A lullaby

Anvan lannuit fini rivé

Nou konnin nou peche anpil, Bondié papa nou. Pou nou kapab dômi trankil, padonnin nou.

1. Anvan lannuit fini rivé, Bondié papa nou
Nou tout isit nou rasanblé, pou priyè ou.

2. Nan linivè ou sé sèl Mèt, Bondié Papa nou. Sé ou-minm sèl nou rékonèt, nan péyi nou.

3. Ou té banou yon bon jounin, Bondié papa nou. Fè nou pasé yon bon souaré, protéjé nou.

4. Ou té sékouri nou byin vit, Bondié papa nou. Tankou manmam fè pou pitit, mèsi bokou.

5. Lajounin-a pasé byin vit, Bondié papa nou. Pa kité nou mouri sibit, nan somèy nou.

6. Lè n-a mouri, tanpri souplé, Bondié papa nou. Fè n-al joui nan létènité, pran nou ak ou.

Language barriers won't keep me (our hearts)

He just keep calling me a liar. Rete la. Izabet. I said I was leaving at 4 and he grabbed my wrist to look at my watch.

You live here, zibet.

Monti. You lie. Bi monti. You're giving me lies.

Rete la.

Izabet.

Yon ké pou ou (a heart for you)

Ecri sa la. Izabet renmen Steve. Pou tou ton.

And then one thing.

Izabet.

'Map cry.'

Crea.

'I'm crying.'

Me too, Steve.

I love you.

'Pale.' (Don't go)

A big door

'And this is the key, elizabet.

Are you listening?

Because it's not a small key.

It's a big, big key.

How can I say?

It's a huge key?!

Like the biggest you will ever meet.

To love.

To really love.

Someone.

Some place.

Jou apre jou.

I don't know so well how I can say this an anglais.

I'm not always sure white people meet this kind of love.

Oh, I can say, to love like this, day after day, after day.

It's a big project.

To build a house. It's hard. It's really hard.

But to come to work.

To work all day, every day,

On that house?

It's not hard.

It makes sense.

If you're building a house, you never stop working on it.

And we think, because we build pieces of love, that we are complete?

It's not true.

Are you ready?
I have the big key for you.

Try and love. Better than you did yesterday.

Everyday.

This is what Jesus wanted for us.

And he knew we would try.

And he said he would help us.'

-Alcindor June 5, 2013

Yes!

I got a note from one of the employees here. They recommend that I date one of the teachers.

Juvenile, silly, and sweet.

But here's the fact of the matter.

I could read

The entire thing.

Sweeter than honey

In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun.
It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
like a champion rejoicing to run his course.
It rises at one end of the heavens
and makes its circuit to the other;
nothing is deprived of its warmth.

Psalm 19 v. 5-6

Respect, man.

I don't miss hot water anymore. I'm sure I will, once I remember what I'm missing.

I thought I would.

For a long time.

But I think it's like the ocean, like the beach.

You pass over that final stretch of bridge, the air smells like salt and sand and the sun turns the little hairs on the back of your hand white.

And then you're there. The dunes burn your toes and the reeds whistle.

Ahh, you missed this place.

I don't remember what it's like to go out and expect to stay clean.

I splatter the back of my calves with mud, and I sweat and stumble from the moment I think about leaving the house.

I don't remember why I have more than one of the same thing. Why I'd buy a deodorant when there's one on my dresser. Why I'd walk outside and ruin my socks, thinking I'll just get new ones.

But I remember small pleasures. I don't doubt I'll always want them. And I'm not convinced they're a bad thing.

Pedicures and walks with my dog.

Special dresses for special occasions.

Intentional. Purposeful. Use. Of the blessings I have been provided with.

I don't want to be a lazy haver anymore.

If I'm going to have, anyway.

If I'm not going to walk away from all my earthly possessions,

I want to know it. I want to deal with it. Every day, all the time.

Consciousness.

You are blessed.

And I'll remember this place.

The handshakes and the earned nods of appreciation.

Affirmation.

You are here, with us,

And finally,

That's ok.

What's in a name

My father has always called me Dizzy. In fact, I can't remember the last time he addressed me as Elizabeth. The only time I hear my name is when he is speaking to other people, and it always rings so formal.

'Yes, my daughter Elizabeth...'

And so on and so forth.

Sometimes I hear it in passing and it makes me wonder, who is that person he is describing?

But I'm not Elizabeth to him, I'm dizzy.

And bless my sweet momma, but whenever she meets my friends, there will always be the inevitable: 'leuhzbuth'

'Oh your mom calls you lizbeth, that's a neat name.'

'No.'

'Oh, I just heard her say that.'

'No, she said Elizabeth.'

And while neither of my parents call me Elizabeth- there's always the inevitable conversation with new acquaintances.

'Oh, so you're Elizabeth.'
'Hi, nice to meet you.'
'So, do you go by Liz or Elizabeth?'

To which I always think, but hold my tongue (now), we've spoken three sentences and two of them were introductory phrases in which I said Elizabeth...

For years, people have made me feel like my name was an inconvenience.

Like it simply took too much time to say, to go through the whole rigmarole, and for Pete's (not Peter's) sake, why can't you have a shorter name.

Staunch and authoritative in my 7 year old personality, I hunkered down, and prepared for the fight. I was named Elizabeth, dammit, and whether or not I liked my name, was going to keep it, at any rate.

And so, positioned severely in opposition to this three letter whisper of the name that Elizabeth could be. I felt an urgency and a rebellion. Not Liz. NOT Liz.

And that's nothing- absolutely nothing against the name Liz. It's simply a decision- a different name, and not mine.

But of course, there are also the people who don't ask at all. You find yourself introducing yourself as Elizabeth and five minutes later an IPA is being slung down the bar for you and someone in a group of your 'new best friends' saying, hey everybody, this is Liz...

Different than having called me by the wrong name.. 'Hey everybody, this is Sarah,' this hits a nerve.

Not only did you hear my name when I told it to you, you heard, and went on to make an executive decision that either you, me, or both of us prefer that my name be Liz, so let's just skip the details and have a beer.

But in spite of having this profound aversion to my being, well, renamed...

Nicknames have followed me my entire life - some adamantly against my will, and some I grew into with acceptance.

Dizzy, Eliz, E-girl, Biz, Bita, Eli, Whit. Little Bit. Beth. Lizzy, Biff, Eliza Jane, (thank you Uncle Tom)

And in Haiti some colorful ones.

Queen (Elizabeth). Elizabet, Isabelle, betta, and so forth.

Names are such powerful things.

And it's not as if these names have come and gone. They grow. They're how I'm known as to those people.

And I, well I'm such an Elizabeth.

Named for my family. Proud of my name.

Never shortening it or changing it myself.

Always Elizabeth.

And all of these nicknames?

All the ways people call me?

Our relationships, our stories.

Nick names, and loved ones.

I think names are important things, maybe one of the most important things.

And maybe you can change them yourself,

but maybe you're always who you were named, and you're always who you are-to the people who love you.

To the people who call you.