Scheherazade Washington Parrish

September 19, 2017September 11, 2021

Every Child Is A Classroom (draft)

It is a challenge of will and discipline to write, daily. To not know what to write about.

To work, without reward. Maybe, a grade.

And what if you don’t like writing? What if, writing is not easy for you?

If, numbers make more sense than words. Or, perhaps, photographs are the first language.

If, handles, crossovers, buckets or dunks are the parts of speech I understand.

But they don’t have a class that measures intelligence based in creativity.

It’s not fair. The teachers like things like this. This is what they do. They don’t care about what we do.

They don’t even ask.

Me? I don’t wanna write. I’m better at saying what I have to say. I know people–

especially the teachers–

think I’m dumb because I don’t want to write.

They think that I can’t write

just because I don’t. I hate that.

At the same time though, I love it.

I love to see the looks on their faces when I share what I do.

It’s always a surprise to them and I always wonder

what you expected. Like, why is it a surprise that I have good thoughts?

I’m used to it, and I know exactly how to deal with them so I don’t get pissed.

I piss them off. They talk to me like I’m a child,

so I act like one. My grandmother always says, you get what you expect. and

I always expect to enjoy my day, giving people what they expect.

I especially like to throw their assumptions in their faces–

Lady, I said I didn’t LIKE to write. I didn’t say I couldn’t write. That’s on you.

CRACKED

This is how I leave most o the faces I interact with. Cracked, as in onomatopoeia.

They’re supposed to be teachers, and the only thing I learn, is that the older you get, the more you lie.

What I mean is hypocrite.

What I mean is do what I say, not what I do

What I mean is, I can’t call him dumb, but you can treat me like I’m dumb.

What I mean is the way you roll your eyes when I walk in the room.

What I mean is I see you. What I mean is I know you

talk about me. What I mean is, I don’t like to write.

What I mean is what’s right for you isn’t right for me.

What I mean is, I’m not you. What I mean is arrogant–

What makes you think I want to be anything like you or what you think I should be?

What I mean is who do you think you are–

Do you know what I mean?

I can’t write it, because it’s not school appropriate.

So I’m dumbed if I do, dumbed if I don’t.

You want me to want to write what you want me to write.

Write it yourself.

You want me to make you feel better about yourself, while you make me feel guilty for breathing.

You want me to do your work for you, right?

I can’t.

I can not be the pillow of your good night’s sleep.

I am not your comfort.

I am not your story.

August 25, 2017September 11, 2021

The Detroit Neighborhood Guidebook

Yesterday was pretty awesome.

The long awaited anthology The Detroit Neighborhood Guidebook launched. Tons of Detroiters. A few transplants, but hey…

Big thanks to Aaron K. Foley, for the opportunity and for the platform to showcase Detroit’s many voices.

If you missed the reading, here’s a peek of my piece. If you want to see the other ones, you’ve gotta get your own.

Good thing for you, books are on shelves now!

What Wikipedia Won’t Tell You About Delray, Michigan 48209

You can smell Delray

from three different cities.

In the summer, Delray smells like the shit that burns

and under the I-75, it rains exhaust all year.

The skies are streaked yellow during the day, and

someplace between steel and sewerage

the smell of pancakes, fish and grits

wakes a household.

In the miasma of waste and Zug

a grandfather calls his granddaughter Shank

and teaches her to sow New Year’s collards

in the front yard.

Someplace, between Yale and West End streets,

that grandfather’s daughter remembered him

in beds of mustards, and tomatoes. She teaches

her daughter that onions are lilies.

Someplace between funk and rot, folks

are tired of not being able to breathe in the day

tired of not being able to sleep at night.

My father lives there, still.

Some nights, if you listen closely

you can hear the neighborhood hum

something between stench and haze

between song and secret.

August 2, 2016September 11, 2021

Ten Things I Did Today…

… when I wasn’t on the Facebook:

Woke up and baked the son biscuits.

Rather than fuss at said son for the state of his bedroom, spent some time helping him make his bed.

Made my own bed, picked the clothes up off of the floor, and put them in the hamper.

Enjoyed an afternoon in the sunshine. I mean, really felt the sun on my skin an’ thang. Thought about how noon used to be the hottest time of day, but now, it seems to be between 2 and 3.

Filed and painted my nails with sister-friends.

Cleared out more of the back space in my apartment, chipping said paint job, but getting closer to actually utilizing the space in my open plan kitchen for more than a holding space for crap.

Washed and hung a load of clothes.

Instead of posting a status about how much I loved her, I called talked to my sister for her birthday. Found out that my dogphew, Plinko Aloysius in all his “Iain’tnoponkbiatch-ness”, managed to knock out two teeth in what my sister thinks was a bark and charge the fence battle with the much larger, neighboring dog.

I planned my next vacation.

I Wrote.

This is Day 2.

Oh. So I realize that these blogs post to my “official” writer Facebook page.

This app allows me to see comments and reply, though I’m not sure if they transfer to the Facebook, or just on the blog.

Oh, oh. Please do subscribe to the blog. The link is under that great photo of me, shot by Lamar Landers.

If I make it this two weeks, who knows? I may do two more.

My nails look nice. I could get used to this.

This is NOT the photography of Lamar Landers.

Xo,

August 1, 2016September 11, 2021

Breaking Up Is Hard

After several series of unfortunate events, I’ve decided to get out of a longstanding, toxic relationship.

First time, it was my marriage; then, cigarettes. Now, it’s the Facebook.

We all know the list of reasons why:

It’s too time consuming
It disconnects us from real life engagement and experiences.
It fosters false sense of community
It breaks up relationships (friends, family, business and intimate), as
It is a field of ego and misunderstanding.

Some of us have mastered the Facebook as a marketing tool. Some in kind, have mastered using the Facebook as a platform to spread their mission. It’s a fact that you can reach an audience of millions, with a single click.

And then there’s me. I use the Facebook as a something to do, when I could be doing something I should be doing. A distraction. My personal email substitute. A journal.

To date, the Facebook has been the single most comprehensive method of journaling for me. I go there and write something, daily. When I wake up, I ‘book. I scan and scroll. Search hashtags of interest and share to my wall, things that either catch my interest, or resonate with me, or hell, make me laugh.

This is my justification.

I send my friends inbox messages that say “you’s a brilliant, fine-ass muhfucka, just in case no one else reminds you today”, because we all thrive with acknowledgement. I’ve sent complete strangers messages in response to a status that says “you are extraordinarily brave for sharing your story. your voice is necessary. i’m here if you need to talk”

I can look back through years, and know the stories behind each post. Sometimes I share the stories. Most times I don’t.

All the while, I’m working for the Facebook, for free. (This is a tangent I’ll revisit another time.)

And still, roughly 24 hours ago, I did it. I deactivated my account.

But not before I had to answer questions:

The Facebook: N’Zinza, Tylonn, Sydney, Makeeba and 1,312 others will miss you!!

Me: They’ll be fine.

The Facebook: Why are you leaving?

Me: Because I spend too much time on the Facebook!

The Facebook: Well, we have filter options that allow you to customize the content to your page. You sure you wanna deactivate?

Me: Yes.

The Facebook: Oh. Sorry. You can’t deactivate your account because you are the primary developer of apps associated with your account. You either have to delete those platforms, or, assign someone else to be the developer.

Me: Fine. Delete the platforms.

The Facebook: Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

The Facebook: Oh, sorry. You can’t deactivate your account because you are the primary administrator of groups and pages on the Facebook. You either have to delete those groups and pages, or assign someone else to be the developer.

Me: Fine. Delete the groups.

The Facebook: Well you know, if someone else in the group decides to claim administratorship over your group, when you return, you’ll have to ask them for your admin status back.

Me: Fine.

The Facebook: Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

The Facebook: Before you go, it’d be really awful if something happened to you while you were

away. Have you considered choosing a beneficiary for your account, in case tragedy strikes?

Me: Uh, sure.

The Facebook: Would you like to send them a message, explaining this honor and ask them if they’d

like to talk about it? You may want to keep your account active for

their reply!

Me: Nah. I’m good. She knows.

The Facebook: Well if you’re sure. Good luck. You’ll be back. Until then.

The withdrawal was instantaneous. Within the first hour, I’d picked up my phone to check my

timeline.

Six. Times.

If I were to be generously honest, I’d say probably 10 – 12 times.

And just when I thought I’d eased into a comfortable space within the discomfort:

My goal during the hiatus, is to direct more energy into writing and sharing. Making consistent use of this space that I have paid for and played around with for years.

This is, for now, my substitute for the Facebook. We’ll see if I can divert my focus into quirking and musing, for myself.

I’ll also be chronicling the bat-shitness that I anticipate with the waves of withdrawal to come.

And this, is Day One.

Xo,