Wonderful time speaking at the Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Institute's After Afropolitan conference at the Weeksville Heritage Center in Brooklyn. I screened my film, and was on a panel with Binyavanga Wainaina, Farai Gundan, and Zola Dube, moderated by Sean Jacobs of Africa Is a Country. An amazing experience! --AL.

Earlier today at #AfterAfropolitan at @Weeksville Heritage Center cc @AlligatorLegs @YoliZama @BinyavangaW pic.twitter.com/2fC9u8fDvE
— AFRICA IS A COUNTRY (@AfricasaCountry) February 21, 2015

Check out my new Gawker essay! I submitted it on a whim, and am super excited they published it. Please comment, share, and spread the word! --AL.

"Last week, I attended a screening of Ava DuVernay's Selma about Martin Luther King, Jr. and the 1965 voting rights marches of Alabama. 

Desperate for inspiration, fresh off my second rejection from Sundance Screenwriters Labs—this time, unlike last year's form letter, a lovely e-mail from the program director praising my "empathy" towards the story's characters—I took the subway uptown to the Academy Theater in Manhattan. 

A light rain fell as I pushed my way into a modern building at 59th Street and Lexington Avenue, the East Coast home of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. In the lobby, a lone security guard manned the front desk while a mousy-haired woman handed attendees tickets to the post-screening dinner." 

-- Iquo B. Essien, Selma and the American-ness of the Academy

I recently read some letters by the late, great playwright Lorraine Hansberry on display at the Brooklyn Museum. She wrote lists of things she loved, hated, and regretted on her birthdays.

There was no rhyme or reason for which years they picked, but I found her writing so illuminating. At the age of 30, she liked “the insistent penetration of autumn sunlight” and also:
     
     the fact that I have changed
     have stayed the same
     have grown more self-conscious and -- at the same time --
     become less aware of myself
     mushrooms, out of the can
     The first drink of scotch
     the second
     the third

Today isn't my birthday, but I wanted to capture what I think right now about all these things. That is the thing about writing, it creates a time capsule of the present. :) --AL.

MY LIST

I like: Sneakers and jeans. More than I really should at my age. I like them because you can go anywhere at any time and be ready for anything that comes your way. I always end up running--to catch the bus or a train or just because. And it helps to have a good pair of sneakers on.

I love: Writing in my favorite coffee shop in Brooklyn. Sometimes in the afternoon when the place clears out and I'm really getting in a writing groove, a really good song comes on the radio and it becomes the absolute perfect place on earth. I also love to travel, meet new people, cook, sing, and to fall asleep on the beach when the sun's just right. And I love a good adventure, which gives me all the material I need to make art.

I hate: Violence. In all its forms. Especially the mundane, everyday forms of spiritual violence we inflict on ourselves and other people, like the ones we love. I realize that, no matter how much I hate it, sometimes I'm guilty of it, too. And I hate talking about my feelings, although I'm getting better at it as I get older. I prefer logic to emotion, because at least it's solid ground. There are simply too many feelings. I also hate celebrity. It's an insidious concept, that some people are better than others. It breeds classism and differential treatment. If I had the power, I would do away with it.

I regret: All the time I wasted being angry at my mother. It was only adolescence, but I did not know our time together would be so short, that she would die before I got a chance to tell her how much I really admired her. I think she knows now that she's on the other side, but it would be really great to hug her again. I also regret not becoming a musician, and all the years I spent feeling deeply unattractive. I look back and realize I never looked that bad, I just got teased a little bit and thought that meant something was wrong with me. And I regret that, though I've spent my life surrounded by people, I've also been somewhat incurably lonely. Lastly, I regret that I have so many regrets.

I am proud: That I've finally gotten up the skill, courage, and determination to finish this book, to put it out there, and become who I'm supposed to be. Lupita was right; inadequacy is seductive. I'm also proud that I'm almost done with my second degree. It's been a really tough road and maybe I should have given up a long time ago, but I think it means something that I stayed the course. And I'm never going back to school again.

I should like: New York City, but I've grown weary of this town after almost 10 years of living here. Sometimes I wonder where I'll end up next. I believe that people and places come into your life for a season and you should enjoy them, give and get the most you can, and then figure out what the next thing is. I keep getting stuck on my next thing, though. I don't really know where I belong, though, have always been a bit of a wanderer.

The truth is: I'm not really a writer. I mean, I can write, no question about that, but it isn't my heart's joy. That being said, writing has taught me the discipline it takes to create art. And for that I am ever grateful.

I am five (or six or seven) years in to this memoir project and just today realized what I am writing. I have been talking about the book for some time now, but it takes awhile to sit with it, let it marinate in your bones, and have an epiphany. What I realized is: There were the people who stayed after the Biafran Civil War, and those who left, like my parents. I am writing about the latter. It is an interesting kind of experience contextualizing it, understanding where I fit in. It somewhat blew my mind for a minute today, but I am glad to be able to articulate it succinctly now, having spent so much of my life on this project. Writing a book is hard. There is the writing that, for me, comes before the understanding, the organizing and consolidating. Then there is the process of figuring out what it all means. Then you go back and add in the context as best you can (at least, that's how I do it), once you figure out what the framework is, how to see your life as a push-pull of historical, social and political forces. Then of course you have to make all the inner voices you have been over the course of five (or six or seven) years sound like one. It takes a lot of patience and more wisdom than you can imagine. I am writing the beginning last. I had thought I had already written it, but I realized that I hadn't, so I am doing it now. And now I think it's really best to write the beginning last when you realize what is at stake. This is not a roadmap, these are just my thoughts. I applaud and appreciate people who know where they are going when they put pen to page. But I think if I had put that much pressure on myself and even sought to articulate the project in these specific terms before starting it, I may not have written the first word. So it is okay. The work is coming. I am here.

I am 10 the first time I remember being asked this question, Do you have a boyfriend? We are sitting at a church table for religious education on a Saturday morning. It is our first session and we are getting to know each other. The teacher tells us to write a secret about ourselves on a slip of paper and fold it up. I cannot remember what mine said, perhaps that I played the violin, or some such. She collects the slips and opens one at random: I HAVE A BOYFRIEND, she reads, and asks us to guess who wrote it. 

There are only two girls in the class: me and Kisha. Everyone turns to me. Do you have a boyfriend? they ask. I say no; they are surprised. I should have one, I am told, because I am pretty. I look at Kisha, who giggles into her palm. She has not come clean yet, and I realize they do not believe me. She has a nice smile, round cheeks that squeeze her eyes shut when she laughs. I wonder whether I am prettier than her. Is that why they all guessed it was me? No matter how much I deny it, my cheeks flushing red, the others do not stop peppering me with questions. Finally Kisha confesses. She asks me why I don't have a boyfriend, says I'm supposed to. 

It is the first time I remember feeling there must be something wrong with me because I do not have a boyfriend. 

More than 20 years later, I still do not have one. At times it is a badge I wear--single black female, like a rallying cry. I have a Bachelor's and (almost) Master's degrees, attended an Ivy League(ish) school and am well on my way to a brilliant career. For women like me, I am told, eligible men are an endangered species. 

Yes, in fact, I have been single for the majority of the past two decades. I am not emasculating or threatening, at least, I don't think I am. I just have never been in a stable, long-term committed relationship. There have been deaths and grief--frequently enough over the past ten years, beginning with my mother--that have greatly affected the way I relate to other people. I am always looking for the exit, for what's wrong with me or the other person. In all cases, I have found something that has made me leave. Then there is the knee jerk reaction, before birthdays and holidays, to get out of something I am in so I do not have to feel disappointment at what someone fails to do or say. 

I think it is hard, having grown accustomed to not having one, to have a boyfriend now. To meet someone you like, to get to know them, and keep trying even when they get on your nerves. What if they hurt you? Leave you? Die? With planes disappearing mid-air and buildings blowing up in Harlem, I have started avoiding construction sites. I will not date a policeman, fireman, or soldier. I will not date someone who climbs rocks or mountains or shoots guns, real or fake.

To make it harder, at my age, most people assume I should have a husband already. How does that work? I wonder. I have not had a boyfriend in years. When I have had one, I have picked the wrong guy, stayed for the wrong reasons, left for the right ones. I consider myself lucky that I knew enough not to marry any of the men I dated. I could have been an adequate wife to any one of them, just as I could have been an adequate doctor. 

But I am looking for something more.

I neither know what that thing is, nor do I understand what I mean by that. All I know is I keep meeting better versions of myself as I age. More confident, more self-aware and loving. I feel more beautiful, especially given that I never remember feeling that way as a kid. I am kinder and more patient, less selfish than I used to be. 

I am thankful to the handful of men who tried to be my boyfriends, to the ones who flat out rejected me, and those who were merely passing the time until someone better came along. I appreciate how much they taught me about how important it is to like myself, to not run around mad looking for someone else to complete me. 

All of that said, I am genuinely scared sometimes that I will never meet someone. Not because I have any trouble meeting people, or carrying on a conversation, or being asked out, but mostly because I am no longer merely happy to be chosen, as I was when I was younger. I should be with someone equally special who also treats me well. Sometimes I worry that I will never meet this person or, if I do, that they won't pick me to walk with them through this crazy world. 

I would probably be a good girlfriend now. And maybe, one day, even a good wife and mother. At least I no longer think there is something wrong with me because I'm none of these things. And I think that is a start.

Love,
AL.

(Disclaimer: I realize that this is a blog, but it is really a message to myself. I needed to send it into the universe, so thanks for reading.)

Elizabeth's Daughter: In Words and Pictures is a volume of essays and photos from my memoir about a would-be nun in post-war Nigeria who became my mother, and my experiences as her daughter, an artist, and Nigerian-American woman. 

Proceeds from sales of the essay collection will be used toward a broader project incorporating video and photography. Consider making a donation today to help me realize this vision. 

DONATE: http://bit.ly/elizabethsdaughter

(Pictured here, L-R: My mother Elizabeth and her friend Philomena as Girl Guides)

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light on blogs these days, turning my gaze inward. i thought, upon returning to new york, i might easily descend into apathy. haven't yet, at least i don't think so. tho it is unbearably cold and alternately snowy and rainy, and always gloomy. suddenly i can't remember why i live here, can feel myself outgrowing this town. the problem with the new york artist is we all live in a bubble. at a certain point everything becomes endlessly self-referential or irrelevant. i don't know what to make of it anymore. i'm not quite sure where this is going. sorry. what i wanted to blog about i don't feel like blogging anymore. ah yes, apathy. --AL.

Wow. It pays to google yourself from time to time. I didn't get the memo, but apparently I was a semifinalist in the 2011 PEN USA Emerging Voices Fellowship. Not sure what that means, apart from getting my name on their nifty web site, but it's definitely cool. I will most certainly apply again next year and, if you're a first or second generation immigrant writer, you should too! --AL.

"Emerging Voices is a literary fellowship program that aims to provide new writers, who lack access, with the tools they will need to launch a professional writing career. Over the course of the year, each Emerging Voices fellow participates in: a professional mentorship; hosted Q & A evenings with prominent local authors; a series of Master classes focused on genre; and two public readings. The fellowship includes a $1,000 stipend.

The Mentorship Project grew out of PEN USA’s forum 'Writing the Immigrant Experience,' held at the Los Angeles Central Library in March 1994, which explored the issues, problems and challenges faced by first and second generation immigrant writers. It was evident from the forum that many of the culturally diverse communities of writers in Southern California have special needs and are often isolated from the literary establishment. In the fall of 1995, PEN USA initiated Emerging Voices as a literary mentorship designed to launch potential professional writers from minority, immigrant and other underserved communities.

Participants need not be published, but the program is directed toward poets and writers of fiction and creative nonfiction with clear ideas of what they hope to accomplish through their writing. There are no age restrictions."

up late last night wrapping up this fulbright. man. i have put so much energy into this thing that i really hope i get it. but i think the lesson is learned anyway. it was a lengthy, and involved process of writing the grant proposal, personal statement, drafting the writing sample/script (i might share some of it on here since i had a devil of a time finding good samples online when i looked), not to mention getting the recommendations, affiliations, and transcripts. in the end, it amounts to a synopsis of my personal and creative development thus far. and with the word dredging i've been doing, it sort of feels like i'm excavating my life.

that's me, above, at my first birthday. today is my 29th, and i'm a lot taller and less weepy now, planning a grownup dinner party with friends and then going out dancing. i feel good. better than good. it occured to me yesterday that, if i had a million dollars, i'd be doing exactly what i'm doing now. so i must be blessed. and lately i've noticed that i don't care as much what other people think about me. showed up to my friend's traditional ibo wedding in queens last weekend in a dress slightly too short and low-cut, but didn't feel too self conscious about it. looking forward to more of the same--confidence, that is, not cleavage--in the coming year.

two days ago was my mom's birthday, and about a week before that the anniversary of her death. october's always been a tough month, but it didn't feel so heavy this year. i think the fulbright application was an engine keeping me going. it's now less than a week to my naija trip, when i'm supposed to work on some kind of memoir essay collection about my mom and me. to visit and revisit places that were important to her, to me. i'm not sure i'm ready to do that--in fact, it took a great deal of prodding to sit myself down to read the beginnings of the essays i already started--but i'm surrendering to the divine force at work. it will carry me there and back safely, perhaps will carry the muse also.

travel mercies.

i'm still working my way through the artist's way. this week, our main assignment is reading deprivation. (my cyberfriend msafropolitan mentioned that this was where she called it quits, or some such.) though i've contemplated ignoring this assignment, i am dutifully NOT reading as much as possible given that i remember how useful this was at hedgebrook, allowing me to access a deeper level of my inner thoughts.

and since i can't read other people's work--books, newspapers, blogs--i'm taking the opportunity to read my own, which brings me to the title of this blog. since there's not much else to do (no facebook status updates, no twitter, no cnn news crack), i am finally going over something like six years' worth of writing, which also involves organizing six years' worth of writing.

i am outing myself as completely disorganized (and i have it on good authority that i'm not the only writer out there who is). i've been wanting to get my shit together for some time now, so i suppose that this seems like a very natural progression. but it is entirely unnatural for me to be mining my literary archives for whatever gems lie buried there. to sit and read and assess with care. to try to figure out what i meant when i wrote this or that, where i was in my head, in my life, whether there is some usefulness to it or it belongs rightly in the scrap heap.

i think i've struggled to feel good about my writing my entire life. i've actually hidden most of it away from inquiring eyes. julia cameron, of the artist's way, calls it the internal censor--the inner monster who says This is no good, get rid of it and start over. mine has been rather overactive, but i am shutting him up now.

there are entire lives and families and mini-universes buried in my laptop. it's quite astonishing. at least maybe some of them, by grace, will have a life outside the notebook. i pulled some words from the pile above:

everyday i wish to
know and
stimulate
the ancient miracle of flow,
inviting the
lost muse
home.

--AL.

i have noticed, with a degree of surprise, that several of my recent followers have been devout Christians. so devout, in fact, that they have faith blogs. i am not against this; in fact, one of my favorite commenters is also a faith blogger. i am simply curious as to what attracts her and others to my blog.

though i was raised catholic, i have of late joined the scores of heretics who profess an amorphous "spirituality" untied to any religion or prophet. call me a lost sheep or the devil (and some have and gone to their knees in prayer), but i prefer to live my life this way rather than to suppress all my human (and, therefore, Godlike) urges for a higher calling.

there was a time when i thought about becoming a nun; in fact, my mother almost became one. but i now feel like some of my friends must have in the past when i ran around thumping a bible and quoting scripture. i am uncomfortable around catholics. and baptists. and muslims. and anyone who knows with certainty that their way is the right way.

all of this to say. this is a religion-free zone. i welcome people of all faiths and creeds, perhaps even those who dabble in the occult sciences (as i've always had a minor curiosity!). but as i said to a friend (this past weekend, on a long trip home after an open mic/house party), i practice creativity as my religion. i show up every morning and write. and when the words flow out of me, i know that God is real.

i imagine that i could have come to a different conclusion, that i (such a lonely letter) am somehow great and powerful, but i (there it is again) choose instead to believe in something greater than myself.

but please be advised that this is not a faith blog and there will be no proselytizing here. this is just a disclaimer, lest i be accused of misrepresenting myself. i do, nevertheless, welcome all your comments, questions and contributions in the quest for knowledge, truth and light.

last fall, after reading a short collection of speeches and correspondence by eleanor roosevelt, i decided to become a woman of letters. i figured that writers should really be writing everything, not texting or posting missives online.

there's a level of care and attention involved in writing letters that is unmatched in electronic communication. you have to think as you write (unless you use a pencil or erasable pen), cross things out (unless you use a pencil or erasable pen), maybe even crumple up a page and start all over again.

since my netbook crashed, and i've struggled to get it started again, i've returned to writing by hand and, despite the carpal tunnel, have fallen in love all over again -- with the anticipation of filling a blank sheet of paper, the certainty of the ink smudges on the edge of my hand. it feels real; while laptops and the internet, sometimes, feel so fake and empty.

so i sent a letter off to a college friend in Colorado. she is South African, married to a white Oklahoman, now relocated to Denver. the letter came as a total surprise to her, but she called me after getting it, very excited about the prospect of becoming pen pals. but she's taken awhile (8 months) to write back, and i haven't written any more letters since sending her that first one.

so. in the end, i have not been as successful at this endeavor as i thought i would be. but i am still trying. i think i will send another letter and see what happens. if i can get her to slow down for a minute, to pull out a pen or pencil and write to me.

how i would love to open up a letter and see her handwriting, perhaps a coffee stain, too, in the bottom corner. --AL.