Black Girl, Call Home
$17.00
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Description
A Most Anticipated Book of 2021 by Oprah Magazine • Time • Vogue • Vulture • Essence • Elle • Cosmopolitan • Real Simple • Marie Claire • Refinery 29 • Shondaland • Pop Sugar • Bustle • Reader’s Digest
“Nothing short of sublime, and the territory [Mans’] explores…couldn’t be more necessary.”—Vogue
From spoken word poet Jasmine Mans comes an unforgettable poetry collection about race, feminism, and queer identity.
With echoes of Gwendolyn Brooks and Sonia Sanchez, Mans writes to call herself—and us—home. Each poem explores what it means to be a daughter of Newark, and America—and the painful, joyous path to adulthood as a young, queer Black woman.
Black Girl, Call Home is a love letter to the wandering Black girl and a vital companion to any woman on a journey to find truth, belonging, and healing.“Lyrical, vivid.”
—Time
“Each poem is a meditation on a moment, a memory, and a history that guides the reader through the experience of Black womanhood in a way I’ve not experienced before. These poems both explode and glimmer on the page. They demand to be read, to be shared, to be revisited time and time again.”
—Clint Smith, #1 New York Times bestselling author of How the Word Is Passed
“[Mans’] lucid and lyrical lines are as undeniable as those of a pop song yet as arresting as only spoken word artistry can be.”
—O, the Oprah Magazine
“You are carrying in your hands a Black woman’s heart.”
—Jericho Brown, author of Pulitzer Prize winner The Tradition
“Read it in a day. Arresting. Beautiful language. Thoughtful examination of girlhood, Blackness, & queer identity. Bought a 2nd copy specifically for loaning out to friends. It’s that good! Read it!”
—New York Times bestselling author Phoebe Robinson
“A tender distillation of black girlhood. Mans draws together both intricate adornment and the unvarnished truth.”
—Raven Leilani, New York Times bestselling author of Luster
“Mans takes up the tools of Brooks and Sanchez into her good hands and chisels us an urgent and grand work, proving why she’s the favorite poet of all the girls in the back of the bus.”
—Danez Smith, author of National Book Award finalist for poetry Don’t Call Us Dead
“This book is a haven for all the Black daughters out there, hoping to make sense of the power and powerlessness in their bodies, the connection to others’ bodies, and the moments of everyday life that comprise so much of our identities.”
—Morgan Jerkins, New York Times bestselling author of This Will Be My Undoing
“Spoken-word poet Jasmine Mans’s gift with words is nothing short of sublime, and the territory she explores in this poetry collection—from waiting for her mother to get home from work and do her hair as a child in Newark to coming into her full as a young, queer Black woman—couldn’t be more necessary.”
—Vogue
“The collection is so steeped with tenderness, it feels intimate and wholly relatable.”
—Maisy Card, author of These Ghosts Are Family
“In a deft and breathtaking portrayal of identity, race, sexuality, family, and feminism, spoken-word poet Jasmine Mans explores the painful, joyous path to adulthood as a young, queer Black woman in America.”
—Marie Claire
“Mans is the kind of poignant writer who gives voice to the voiceless and reminds us about the need to care for others.”
— Shondaland
“Gorgeously precise…a timely and powerful book.”
—Publishers Weekly
“If your grandmother has ever surprised you by bopping along to trap music at a cookout you will love Jasmine Mans’ work.”
—Essence
“Delving into heartbreak, community, family, race, queer identity, sexual violence, feminism, and celebrity, Mans’ poems are startling and unforgettable.”
—Booklist
“Jasmine Mans pulls at all the threads of who she is as a Black queer woman from Newark, unravels herself, then puts herself back together via clear, precise language that brooks no argument…Black Girl, Call Home moves from vignette to cultural criticism to ballad to eulogy to memoir with grace.”
—Vulture
“Mans’ story feels universal in so many ways.”
—Real Simple
“Writing in surefooted verse, Mans refuses to allow our stories to be misunderstood.”
—Dr. Alysia Harris, Pushcart nominated author of How Much We Must Have Looked Like Stars to Stars
“This might be your introduction to Jasmine but it won’t be the last time you read her.”
—Medium
Jasmine Mans is a Black American poet, artist from Newark, New Jersey. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin Madison, with a B.A. in African American Studies. Her debut collection of poetry, Chalk Outlines of Snow Angels, was published in 2012. Mans is the resident poet at the Newark Public Library. She was a member of The Strivers Row Collective.
Bald-headed cabbage patch
ain’t got no hair in the back.
Bald-headed skittle diddle
ain’t got no hair in the middle
I Ain’t Gon’ Be Bald-Headed No More
I wore these braids for two
whoooole months, and tonight
Momma gonna wash my hair
when she gets off work at 7 p.m.
It’s longer than it was before,
and when I wear it out at school,
the rest of the girls
won’t call me bald-headed
no more.
Imma be pretty,
as soon as momma gets home
from work.
Momma Has a Hair Salon in the Kitchen
Wash
Barrettes
Twists
Crisscross
Braids
Beads
Cornrows
Wooden brush
Edges
Silk scarf
Nappy
Kitchen
Beady beads
4c
Coil
Ouch
SuperGrow
Straighten
Burn
Breakage
Drip dry
Split
Crunch
Grow
Cut
4a
Yakky
Bundle
Bleach
Chop
Short
Dye
Curl
Slick
toothbrush
Damage
Afro
Roller set
Shrinking
Ugly
Long
Thin
Thinning
Thinner
Weave
Heat
Press
Hot comb
No edges
Toothbrush
Nigga naps
Sheen
Spritz
Dryer
“Hold ya head still!”
Deep conditioning
Pretty
Bleach
Vaseline
Shrunk
Burn
Breakage
“Don’t make me pop you!”
Scalp
Fine
Just For Me
Poison
Natural
Pressed
Dry
Damage
Edges
Trim
“Be still”
“Hold your ear.”
Momma prays
like she’s talking over God,
and if God were to talk back
she wouldn’t even hear Him.
That Was Her Way of Showing God
We didn’t go to church on Sundays,
but my mother cleaned
the whole house.
Wiped from behind the toilet-
to inside of the oven.
That was her way
of honoring God.
Separating cloth
by color,
making sure
nothing bled,
onto anything else,
stretching pork
across seven days,
because even poverty
knows ritual.
Baptizing Black babies
in bathtubs
of hand-me-down water,
one, after
another.
A poor woman’s tradition,
but of its own abundance.
That was her way of showing God
that she had a servant’s heart,
that she was a good woman,
with all of the little
she had.
Macaroni and Cheese
“Macaroni and cheese,”
my mother says,
“. . . is all about pattern,”
and how well
you can harden the edges
without burning them.
Ma could count a teaspoon
with the lines on her palms,
could measure an ocean
and tell you how long it would take
to bring it to a slow boil.
She’d say
the women in our family
grated their own cheeses
bought their greens fresh
from the harvest farm,
and made sure the babies ate them
for a good bowel movement.
She wouldn’t let us lick
the whole batter,
but gave us the spoon.
She could remember Easter
when the rest of the family
forgot God.
She’d say
“You’ll sit there until
you finish your plate.”
Thought waste was the worst sin.
Told us about all the starving kids
in Africa who’d give anything
for her meat loaf.
She didn’t let things go bad.
She didn’t let anything spoil
in her refrigerator.
I know grace and mercy was raised
by the same single mother.
We Host These Variables
We try to leverage language as a means to a truth. We learn, on our paths, perhaps, that certain stories have no language, nor require one. There’s something I want to honor here. I want to honor the silent story, the emotions unaccompanied by human language. I want to honor the weight of the stillness. I want to honor the silent ceremony between mother and daughter. A ceremony of blood and becoming. Because, I know, we exist with a heavy and stubborn resemblance. I know the distance between mother and daughter. How we are many burned bridges, as well as, a wealth of brick and clay, ready to be made anew from everything unmade of us. I am learning my mother’s song, staring into her silence, as it stares back at me. Wondering of its depth, and wandering through it. I don’t know all of her pain, or if it can be held with two hands. But she looks back at me, with girlish eyes, wanting to be remembered for something I do not recognize her as. Daughters have questions for their mothers, questions made up of no words; we host these variables. A woman stretched her body for me, and I have no words to describe her in wholeness, but without shame, I want you to know her. My mother.
Speak to Me of My Mother, Who Was She
Tell me about the girl
my mother was,
before she traded in
all her girl
to be my mother.
What did she smell like?
How many friends did she have,
before she had no room?
Before I took up so much
space in her prayers,
who did she pray for?
B’Nai’s Three Babies
B’Nai had three children
C-sections with all three
two boys and one girl.
Each of them
would’ve stayed inside her
and she would’ve let them
because she loved them babies
that kinda way.
They gave her gas,
chest pains,
and sat right on her bladder,
but they were her babies.
Antione was the first,
the one that would usher her
into motherhood.
He was the baby
that made Tyrone
marry B’Nai.
The one she’d dress up
and flaunt around.
The baby that every aunty
had a naked picture of.
He was the baby
that got Aunty
off drugs. She tells
folks that God sent
Antione to save her,
and she let him.
Jasmine was the second baby,
delivered in St. Michael’s Hospital,
screamed when she was born
like all babies do, but didn’t stop,
a colic baby.
Cried like she already knew
how much pain
the world had in it.
Jasmine sent B’Nai
into a tired depression.
She gave up sleep
for that little girl,
and her job at the bank.
Said that she didn’t have time
to make anything else
of her hands, but cradle.
Sometimes the neighbors
would come over
and hold the baby.
These women knew
what it was like
to have three babies,
a working husband,
and to be left all alone
with the smallness.
LT was the last baby,
named after Tyrone,
the one they couldn’t afford,
and truthfully,
they couldn’t afford any of them.
Tyrone got his second job
when LT was born,
worked all seven days
out of the week,
because that’s what men
are supposed to do.
LT was the biggest
and still is,
weighed ten pounds,
when he was born.
B’Nai’s favorite baby,
the one that loves his momma,
has his nana’s eyes,
a happy baby.
The one
she fed turkey legs,
and pork bacon to.
The baby that sucked the chicken bone.
The one she’d hold on to
the longest.
The lightest, and most sensitive
out of the three.
There were three babies,
and a woman stumbling
into motherhood.
No money,
and an apartment
in Newark.
She learned how to cook
with those children,
learned what spaghetti
and meat loaf could do.
She prayed to God
for her babies
that they’d learn
the vocabulary
she didn’t have.
Prayed to God,
for him to spare her three
Black babies, when the plague came.
Because she was their momma,
and she was gonna do right
by each of them.
Period
Mothers teach their daughters
how to hide the blood,
how to wash out the stains upon arrival.
To pretend like the blood isn’t there, or theirs.
Mothers teach their daughters
to make sure the blood doesn’t have an odor.
To never let the stench rise.
Mothers teach their daughters
to be misleading about the amount
of blood. And the weight it adds to the body.
Mothers teach their daughters to never bleed
out. To not use the blood as an excuse, even
when the blood
is the only
excuse.
I resent my mother
for things she has sacrificed
on my behalf.
Treat Her Right, While She’s Still Here
When I hang up
on my mother,
Sabrina says,
“Must be nice.”
“I never had a mother
to hang up on.
I wasn’t old enough
to have a cell phone,
or an attitude,
when my mother died.”
Before my mother knew
I was a lesbian,
She prepared me
to be a man’s wife.
Momma Said Dyke at the Kitchen Table
Momma said,
so you gonna be a dyke now?
As if she meant to say,
didn’t I raise you better than that,
don’t you know
I ain’t raise no dyke,
don’t you know
you too pretty to be a dyke?
Why you gonna embarrass us like this,
you scared no man gonna love you,
you scared of men,
some mannnnnnn hurt you,
who hurt you?
Momma said,
so you gonna be a dyke now?
As if she meant to say,
don’t you know
how hard it already is
for women like us,
why you gonna go
and make it harder on yourself?
I don’t want you in that kind of pain,
this world ain’t sweet on those kinds of women,
I don’t want another reason to be scared for you.
Momma said,
so you gonna be a dyke now?
As if she meant to say,
I’m scared for you.
The First Time the Black Girl Calls Her Mother a Bitch
This is the moment
the Black girl unmothers herself,
when she refers to her momma
as bitch, and the word
settles in her mouth,
like a razor under
her childish tongue.
She will run away wearing
her womanhood, like a loose pair
of heels. Her breasts will sit up higher
than they were.
She will stand nosey
and act bigger than herself.
In this part of the story
she doesn’t have a mother,
But she does,
she always will.
Grits: 1967
Nana’s kitchen
is as old as the Civil Rights Movement,
sometimes she can’t remember
which came first,
the grits,
or the riots.
Birmingham
Momma said the bomb
wasn’t meant for me.
I think it was meant for Pastor Martin
because he be havin’ them dreams.
Maybe those white men didn’t know
that little Black girls
we be goin’ to church too,
and we be foldin’ our hands,
praying and we be taking communion
just like their daughters do.
Maybe if I wore my church shoes
the bad men would’ve never came for me.
I knew they matched my dress
but they always just be hurtin’ my feet.
I be thinkin’, did God christen the bombs
that exploded my flesh into sacrifice?
And do anybody be hearin’
those sacrificial scriptures,
spoken in tongues,
claiming Christ,
before everything went boom?
Before the smoke
and rubble
baptized these collapsing bones?
Maybe if they knew,
we were like the most beautiful flowers,
right before the wind and dirt
began playing tug-of-war
with the delicates
of our petals.
Momma said,
it only took one man
to die for the sins
of this entire world,
so how did that man
let this church tremble
on my soul?
And I don’t remember
there being enough holy water
to stop the smoke,
or to calm the burning.
Momma said,
some heartbreaks just be too hard
to swallow at communion,
some serpents
just be finding salvation
in baptismal pools,
some church mice
just be screaming
America’s dirty little secrets.
Momma said
some deaths,
just be too black,
and too white
to be labeled holy,
Some sacrifice comes without permission,
Some sacrifice comes without fair warning,
God can’t always protect you
from the boogie man,
so some baby girls will reach the pearly gates
and won’t be tall enough to turn the handle.
Momma said,
some men . . .
some men
will just be too guilty to claim innocence
with their own Christ.
But what did . . . what did I do?
I never wanted to play with the white girls.
I-I never asked for integration;
I wanted roller skates-
an extra piece of cake, after dinnertime.
Sometimes I just be thinking,
maybe God was too busy
trying to protect Martin
to think about us,
I ain’t never ask
for that man’s dream.
But momma . . .
momma be sayin’
that his dream
just been askin’
for me.
South 14th Street:
Nana’s House Smells like Cigarettes
Nana’s house still smells
like cigarettes.
Today,
Nana got open heart surgery
she still drinks Pepsis,
she still smokes,
she’s still strong.
But her heart
don’t trust her,
well,
not like it used to.
Nana smells like Newports,
it reminds us
that things caught smoke,
but never did they catch fire.
South 14th Street: The Attic Window
From Waiting
My grandfather died
in bed with my nana.
She said she saw
His soul soar
right out of their attic window.
He left his body
in that bed to remind her,
that even without breath
she could still wake up
to him.
She said, he left silently
didn’t want to wake her up
out her sleep as he got ready
to leave.
Kissed her on the cheek,
gathered himself
at the foot of the bed
and didn’t take anything
with him,
not even her smile.
South 14th Street: For Sale
Nana is selling the house,
the one on South 14th Street,
off of Clinton Ave.
The house she was married in,
the olive house
with the hunter green trim,
the house with the uneven
driveway, that skins the chin
of every car that tries to pull up,
even the nice ones.
The wood is just rotten, the pipes
need replacing, and Nana, she’s just too old
to maintain it all. The neighbors
ain’t like they were back in the day.
Things have changed
since poppa died,
and it’s different
without no one ’round
to take out the trash
and to shovel
the steps.
At Aunt Kawee’s House in Oklahoma
She woke up out of her
sleep, saw them, and
yelled to those angels
from the bottom of her
throat!
“get away from that bed!”
And those angels left,
empty-handed,
they left.
“And her voice was a drowning piano.”
Blame
I blame my father
for things he cannot control.
I blame my father
for things he can control
but chooses not to.
I’ve seen my mother
with a broken heart
before.
I blame my father
for all of my mother’s
broken hearts.
The Thing That Made Him My Father
I’ve never seen my father cry,
or speak of his mother’s death.
He doesn’t talk about his brother,
the one that passed away.
He doesn’t talk
about what he remembers
of his first father,
or his second.
He doesn’t speak of the story
that made him my father,
or a man.
Because I Am a Woman Now
Nana may have cancer,
and I’m looking for my mother
to tell me that it’ll be okay,
that there is no such thing as cancer,
that Nana is stronger than cancer,
that cancer has no place in our family,
or in her body, that we know prayers stronger
than cancer. But she won’t say those things
because I am a woman now,
So she says . . .
“We’ll see,
we don’t know,
but we’ll see.”
Nana’s heart sits between two cancers.
The left and right lung.
I have reason to believe
US
Additional information
| Weight | 6.6 oz |
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| Dimensions | 0.7000 × 5.0000 × 7.7000 in |
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| Subjects | books for black girls, black girl, homes, mindfulness for kids, poetry books, POE021000, black history books, african american books, poem books, feminist gifts, poetry books for women, black history month books for kids, best friend gifts, sister gifts, black books, black girl books, books for black women, black women books, poems, queer, lgbt, Emotions, black history month, poetry, gifts for women, POE005050, Black women, feminist, books for women, black authors, lgbt books, gift books, poetry book, black history books for kids, gifts for her |
