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Page 6 • SPELMAN SPOTLIGHT October, 1987
The Spelman Spotlight
presents... Dimensions
Mr. Right Where are You?
Can you make my jagged
edges smooth ?
Can you help me avoid rough
spots and lonely times?
Can you help me become a
rider of the night winds?
Can you help me realize that
Black is beautiful?
Can you put a sparkle in my
eye?
Can you make love like
springtime?
Can you shatter all of my
fears and inadequacies?
Can you give me the faith
and courage 1 need?
Can you help make my
dreams realities?
Can you walk on water?
Can You?
Can Yu ?
Can Yu ?
No, I didn’t think so!
Mr. Right, where are you?
Didn’t you know, he does not
exist!
Angela George
Last night I closed my eyes
for a moment
My body shook with a violent
tremor
My heart murmured like an
engine
Racing with thunder and
lightening
Last night I closed my eyes
for a moment
A quiet storm took over me
yet the wind embraced me
Arousing my sense of
sensitivity
Awakening areas that were
previously out of reach
Last night I closed my eyes
for a moment
This morning when I
awakened to the hum drum
of the A.M.
My mind backtracked
congratulating my conscience
My soul appreciating it all
Close your eyes for a
moment.
Tomika A.M.
. DePriest
Question
question—if a hand is
extended should i grab ?
question—if a tear falls will
there be a tissue?
question—ifi’m alone will i
still hear laughter?
question—can i count on
you?
Roben Triplett
SISTERHOOD
Not always obvious or
seemingly evident...
Found in a loving smile, a
helping hand,
a warm hug that says:
I love you, not because you
are
perfect or nearly so.
but because you are my Black
Sister—
PROUD, STRONG and
MOVING ON!
Kathryn Stanley
“Cycles”
Why must things always
change?
If things didn’t change
you wouldn’t be the person
you are
or
you won’t be the person you
are to become.
Why can’t the past be built
upon
instead of left behind ?
The past and its experiences
are tools with which you are
to mold a future that is
yours.
Yu have left nothing behind.
Yu have now only just begun
to realize
its meaning and
its value.
Yu cannot distinguish
between
past and the present
or between
memories and experiences.
They all remain within your
heart,
to use when you may need
them.
Never become greedy—
Never try to hoard them all.
Appreciate them for the
moment
and you will never question
where they have gone
because
they will never have left.
Keisha McClellan
“Traditions”
A Southern metropolis with
the
Southern hospitality of a
people with tradition in their
hearts.
An effort to maintain
memories,
re-enact reflections,
and keep reality a dream.
Silent emotions. Monologues
in the night.
I can hear the cries of my
past in another.
Delusion. And loneliness. The
tradition of a people.
Keisha McClellan
by Susan D. Mitchell
When I was twelve years
old, he was my hero. Honest
to God, I loved him as a young
girl who is on the threshold
of finding out what life is
really all about. He was so
cute, and his sweet voice
filled my heart with an inno
cent love, and my head with
puffy, pink daydreams. When
I was, oh I suppose fourteen
or fifteen, I truly believed
that the girl he so mournfully
called for in the lyrics of his
music was myself. I truly
believed that his message
was mine, and only I could
satisfy his longing. We were
soulmates. The only problem
that faced me was making
him aware of my existence. A
minor inconvenience in the
face of true love.
Then, when I was sixteen,
things started to change. I
was “going with” my first
boyfriend, and though I real
ized Michael couldn’t take
the place of Peter, they both
nonetheless shared a
common ground—my heart.
And when he would sing, all
the troubles in my young life
seemed small, inconsequen
tial. That angelic voice, so
clear, so lilting—it cleansed
me.
Even though he had
changed his nose, and his
hair always seemed to be
sliding around against his
scalp, I still loved him.
Even when “Thriller” came
out, I was still in awe, still
under his magical spell that
he had woven so effortlessly
around my heart. I mean, the
video was live! It gave me
Bottle Top Love
Bottle top love.
Fizz of joy,
Hip hop of happiness,
Bubble of my life,
Crystal of my heart,
Cool liquid to quench my
wondering thoughts.
Bottle top love,
Done fizzed, done fizzled,
done fuzzed out...
Roben Triplett
#1
the sweltering heat
forced my skin to peel
and the cruel rays of the sun
turned my beautiful brown
skin
blond and I cried.
Clarence Anthony
Michael
chills every time I watched it.
How he could dance! My
perceptions were not yet
elevated, and I didn’t notice
how silly the female looked,
screaming and running to a
haunted house, not to a car
or a bike like any intelligent
person would. I mean, he was
Michael. He was “BAD.”
And when his hair caught
on fire, probably because of
all that stuff that made it
slide around on his scalp—I
still felt bad for him and
wanted to comfort him.
Even though his skin
seemed to get whiter and
whiter, even though I kept
hearing crazy stories about
his wild animals, and his wax
dummies, I still loved him.
Even though a little voice
that grew louder still, saying,
“He’s losing it, Sue. Face it.
He is losing IT,” rang inside
my head when I saw him
hanging around with Brooke
Sheilds, wearing dark shades
and one glove, with that
“Webster” child in his arms
like some kind of toy, I still
remained faithful.
But things change, people
grow, people wake up. My love
started to become confused,
perplexed. Questions
stormed my brain. Why
would anyone want to buy the
remains of the Elephant
Man? Why doesn’t he realize
the money spent buying the
remains of a poor deformed
soul that needs to rest in
peace could enable Black
institutions of higher
learning to never worry
about federal cuts or bank-
It’s Over,
Confused
trying to understand the
incomprehensible
trying to touch the intangible
being drowned in my own
bizarre thoughts and
aspirations
seeking a greater love.
Confused
trying to see the invisible
trying to hear the inaudible
acting strong, feeling,
insecure
about what? I don’t know.
Confused
trying to avoid the inevitable
trying to be me
But who am I?
Sonya Brooks
,3
ruptcy? Why would a beau
tiful Black man change his
whole demeanor so irrevoc
ably that a girl who once
loved him with the innocent
love of a child could not,
cannot comprehend what
exactly it is he is trying to be?
And so I sat, disillusioned,
yet still carrying a miniature
birthday cake candle-sized
torch for Michael as I
watched his highly publi
cized video “Bad” on the tele
vision. I tried to understand
what it was he was trying to
tell all of the little girls who
love him as I once did. I tried
to understand why his face
looked so disturbing. I tried
to ignore the creeps that kept
running up my back and
neck every time I saw his
face, that caricature of the
being I once loved. Yeah, he
can still dance, and his song
has a certain funky beat,
even if it is somewhat
generic. But the fire is gone,
the love affair has come to a
tragic, painful end. I cannot
be inspired by him any
longer.
Perhaps one day Michael
will remember all the little
girls who love him so, who
look in the mirror and think
that their noses are too wide,
or their skin is too brown, or
their hair is too kinky.
Perhaps one day he will
remember his people, his
community that he has
forgotten as he winds down
that road towards self-
hatred. Maybe then I can say
the name Michael Jackson
without simultaneously
feeling betrayed and sad.
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