I Stand

I stand in my blackness

My skin, hair, lips and nose

Uniquely mine

But all the same

Familiar

The face of my elders and ancestors

I carry the burden
I stand in my womanhood

My breasts, hips, thighs and vagina

Carrying life

For generations to come

Queen

When society claims rights to my body

I carry the burden
I stand in my voice

My cadence, tone, color and warmth

I scream

For those who can’t 

Silence

When the oppressor dares me to speak

I carry the burden
I stand in my power

My strength, presence, tenacity and light

A warrior

Fighting for my life

Pride

In myself. For myself. And others

I carry the burden
I stand in my love

My kindness, loyalty, creativity and purpose

The truth

God is within me

Always

I ache for those who choose hate

I carry the burden
Karen L. Mosley

August 14, 2015

Why We Rage

We rage for our ancestors; those captured and transported from their homes and lands, to parts unknown. 

Our ancestors who were beaten, battered, bruised, raped and murdered…who had no voice. 

Our ancestors who built this country with the skin on their backs, the dirt on their hands and the sun in their eyes. 

Our ancestors who gave birth to the slave master’s bastard child only to have that child ripped from their arms to be sold off like cattle. 

Our ancestors who were treated not as human but as commodities.
This is why we rage.
We rage for our elders; who were present during the height of the civil rights era and saw their communities ravaged by savages who sought to ensure their demise.

Our elders who were beaten, battered, bruised, raped and murdered…who had no voice. 

Our elders who carried the burden of blackness…who had no place…while “knowing their place”. 

Our elders who had burning crosses placed in their yards; who were intimidated and terrorized. 

Our elders who hung from the sycamore trees.
This is why we rage.
We rage for our future. For the hope of equality and equanimity. 

For the hope that one day, just maybe, we won’t have to attend or send our children to impoverished schools where they must share old and outdated text books and where the school teachers are inexperienced and uncaring. 

For the hope that our neighborhoods and communities do not have to wait for gentrification to take over and set in in order for the government to flood resources into the very places they are needed in the first place. 

For the hope that the systematic executions of our sons and brothers, our sisters and daughters will end.

For the hope that our wounds will be cared for and tended to.
This is why we rage.
Karen L. Mosley

April 29, 2015

He IS

He IS
As vast and luminous as the moon and stars

The entire Universe resides in his soul

As magnificent and bold as the Earth’s sun

To be amongst them is his goal
He IS miraculous 

The ancestors are proud
As powerful as a lion

The protector of his pride

He carries the weight of the world majestically

A gentle and wise lioness at his side
He IS royalty

The ancestors are proud
As mighty as the moss covered oak trees of Savannah

The branches reach high to his purpose

The melanin sowed deep within the roots

His loved ones hold space on the surface
He IS everlasting

The ancestors are proud
As perceptive as a prophet

The seer of the truth

The voice to be heard by those near and far

His conviction the required proof
He IS connected

The ancestors are proud
As brave as a warrior

His rod and staff in hand

The conqueror of consciousness

He guides us to the promised land
He IS worthy

The ancestors are proud
Karen L. Mosley

August 12, 2015

Blackness: Damned if we do. Damned if we don’t.

I am a Black woman. I came into this world with a mother and father who were married. I came into the world with two parents who were both employed. When I was 12 years old, my mother and father divorced and my father moved to Berlin Germany. While it is true that my father was absent, he did not fit into the socially constructed profile of a “dead beat dad”. My father paid my mother child support on a monthly basis and was present during my high school graduation. My mother, while being a single mother, maintained two nursing jobs, ensured that we had adequate and appropriate childcare, always had food, shelter and utilities available, and did not flaunt her womanhood in her children’s faces. I had a decent childhood. I never resided in public housing or needed free/reduced lunches at school. I had access to decent education and made and maintained excellent grades. I am college educated and received my master’s degree from a nationally known institution. I have no children and I receive no state supported benefits. I have access to transportation and I have safe and secure housing. I am privileged…to an extent.

My Priviledge is not to be confused with White Priviledge.

I tell my story of perceived “black Priviledge” to make a very poignant point. My Priviledge does not protect me from my blackness. My Priviledge does not protect me from racism.

At one point in my life I was employed at the local welfare office in a rural county in North Georgia. While there, I provided social work services to some of the county’s poorest and most vulnerable population. Make no mistake about it: there were white folk in that Food Stamp line day in and day out. I visited the homes of white people who resided in dilapidated and unkept homes. I visited homes where the Confederate Battle Flag was flown proudly. I had an uneducated White male point a rifle in my face and was told “get your black ass off my property”.

My Priviledge did not protect my black ass…

On the whole, I felt disenfranchised and displaced. I had people of power who were both pleased/displeased and shocked by my blackness. I was told more times than I can count “Wow! You are so smart!” This sentiment greatly confused me…am I not supposed to be smart? Am I not supposed to be well spoken and proper. I still don’t quite know the answers to these questions. My guess is: HELL NO! Apparently my Blackness is supposed to prevent or slow my aptitude.

I equate my experience as a master’s level social worker in that North Georgia County to the experience our President must endure; on a much smaller scale to be sure but not at all different. I am extremely sensitive and at once outraged by his plight: The plight of black brilliance. You see, if being brilliant, well spoken, a good father and husband, a thinker and a problem solver does not protect the President of the United States from racism, it damn sure won’t and does not protect me.

Blackness: Damned if we do. Dammed if we don’t.

The Narcissistically Neurotic Artist

“The Narcissistically Neurotic Artist”
I am neurotic as hell….I have uncontrollable fits of emotional meltdowns, I have anxiety attacks that leave my body covered in hideous hives, I hide my jealousy and insecurity in bouts of “whoa is me”. My internal clock is constantly going haywire. I reduce myself to a blubbering puddle of emotional waste in the blink of an eye. I am the emotional equivalent of a speedy tornado on an otherwise uneventful day (seemingly from out of nowhere and over so fast it’ll make your head spin). I am definitely not for the faint of heart. I have a particular and keen knack of pushing people away and then pulling them back in. I am at once charming and insulting, exhilarating and tedious, beautiful and ugly. My charisma is only matched with my spite. I exhaust myself.

Now imagine all of the aforementioned character traits paired with the daunting task of being an artist. Picture me sitting before a blank canvas and before I even choose a subject I have ripped my idea to shreds and condemned myself to a life of eating ramen noodles from dirty bowls. There are tears, butterflies in my belly and a slew of curse words. There is an almost God like adoration of myself. The shit storm of pendulum-swinging thoughts are endless. I sit. I stand. I play music and dance in circles. I lay on the floor of my studio. I chain smoke menthol cigarettes and drink lukewarm coffee. I look out the window and talk to the birds, the trees and the occasional stray cat who hisses at me for intruding on it’s lazy afternoon stroll thru my back yard. That cat is extremely bold and territorial. She is my muse. I am at once lonely and comforted. Only in this solitude (and in the company of lively and unspeaking nature) am I to create. My visions become clear and I begin painting my latest masterpiece. I am a brilliant, life changing and life affirming artist! Or is it all in my head??? No! I am amazingly bad ass!! Or am I?

I am at the dawning of my art career. I am a baby. I am talented; this is true…but is talent enough to break into the industry? Is the world prepared of a chunky, black, kinky haired, lesbian artist who paints in a predominately white male dominated abstract expressionist genre? Am I ready? Do I have what it takes to make the kind of noise I feel is needed in my community and the world? I can go on and on with my questions and answer them all with a resounding YES. I am at once narcissistic and self loathing. The plight of a narcissistic and utterly neurotic artist….damn.