When Love Strikes

What You Didn't Realize

As a child you are taught to be happy go lucky, never interrupt and always, always say please and thank you.  

Mind your manners my mother would tell me.  And it drove me crazy.

I didn't want to be someone cautious of everything, I wanted to be me. Nothing more, nothing less.  

Admittedly, I behaved when around my mother and had my way when she wasn't near.  

The, put your morning vitamins in your mouth but really under your tongue  kind of girl and spit them into the bush on your way to school.

But if I only knew then what I know now.  

I remember that trip to that large black glass building, smile on my face not knowing what was to come.  

Smile on my face as you exited through the wooden doors,

shocked as you walked past me and my brother leaving us alone.  

Him, being 12, five years my senior knew what was going on.  Seven is a tender age.  

Was a tender age.  For me, it never existed.

I spent years hoping that one day, you would realize that I am more important than the chemicals you allowed to cloud you mind and your judgement. 

Addiction is more powerful then one may think.

As I got older my rage grew stronger.  That rebel I wanted to be built a person of brutal honesty.

I find it to be much easier to not sugar coat, and get straight to the point.  

At times it can be mistaken as being a bitch with people who can't handle the truth.  Like yourself.

Remember that time you contacted me asking if you could be let back into my life, shocked when my answer was no.

What you didn't realize is that I am no longer that seven year old girl who had been let down by the very person who was supposed to protect me.  

What you didn't realize was that through years of fighting my inner demons,

I came to the realization that you were damaged goods too.

What you didn't realize was that I had accepted a long time ago that I was better off left with no contact from you or anyone else from that life.  

What you didn't realize was that at the age of 19, 

your title was conveniently changed to the women who gave birth to me.

You are not a mother, you are not my mother.

However, you are the women who helped me to realize that I am thankful for your courage to give me life not once, but twice.  

You see, I've learned that that moment you went into that large black glass building,

you had decided to willingly give up your parental right in hopes of getting clean and one day being reunited with your children. 

But what you didn't realize, was that someone else would love me just as much as you did.

At the vital age of twenty-four, I am a better person for my past.  

I am wiser than most my age, I am realistic and remained a dreamer. Most importantly, I am me.

As a child you are taught to be happy go lucky, never interrupt and always, always say please and thank you.  

Art! It's Simple.

An artist is never satisfied.  Everything has to be bigger, better, more emotional or more dramatic.  Art is not for everyone.  My art was not and is not made to make you happy.  It is made for myself, for my inner peace.  Some people have food, drugs, alcohol or binge reality television. I, have this.  My ideas will not please everyone, nor do I care to.  I am simply making art. 

-Markeetah A. M. Anderson

Don't Over Think It.

Arthritis event at Massage Envy !

The Catch Up (R.I.P)

This past Saturday was a day of reckoning. Almost anyway. I received a message from my mother wanting to give me critical information. It was a surprise to say the least, but sent a world wind of thoughts in my head. My eldest brother had died. However, to understand this situation, we need to go to the beginning.

  On January 5th 1991, Markeetah Alexzandria Hill was born at St. Joseph hospital in New Jersey. A city filled with poverty and hope. Growing up, I had two half brothers. One produced by my mother, a name that will not be mentioned, and one from my father Raymond. David, on my mothers side was the greatest brother a girl could ask for. I mean, I lived with him, ate with him, I wrestled with him (possibly the reason I was so strong), and in the end, I hated him. I grew up oblivious to my surroundings, and at the age of seven, thrown into the world of another family and the "system". I couldn't understand at that age why my mother had gone into a room and came out walking past me and leaving. Or maybe I didn't want to. Ironically, the home I had been place in was a 5 minute walk to where my mother had reside with her youngest daughter and only son previously. One day, figuring that rules were meant to be broken, I visited her and paved my way to a new home. A miserable place even as I had been surrounded by family. Well, my fathers family. Without him. Even so, I had forgotten about my brother Derrick from my fathers cells. Those four walls built my anger, blocked what had been and a young girl embodied the ability to take it out on whomever was around, regardless of their guilt or innocence. Everyday had turned into a mission to hurt others the way I was hurting. Catching on, my school sent me to our resident social worker. A women who would show me that the world was much bigger then the struggle, pain, anger, and hatred I had been hoarding. She ultimately saved my life.

In the summer of 2000, I had been picked up and moved to a suburban up bringing in Union County. I spent the rest of my early years learning who I was and what I wanted in life. I had visitation rights granted to my biological mother and saw her on a regular basis. However, my visitation would not last long. It grew to be an on off cycle of promises and regrets from my mother and brother alike. By the time I had hit high school, I decided that I wanted nothing to do with them and their antiques. I t was a one time shame on you, two times shame on me situation. And will never get the chance to happen a third time. I had given up on them. Fully aware that they did not know the worth of my being. I would never let someone drag me along only to crush me, bruise me, scar me. I had ultimately given up on them and their life choices and as a result, wanted nothing to do with the town that had birth me and the blood that bound me to my biological family. But there was one person whom had not given up on me. Derrick. Nearly two to three years ago, faith intervened and he found me on Facebook. He wanted to know how his little sister was doing, wanted to be assured that I was safe and well taken care of, wanting to let me know that he loved me and missed me. At that moment, I informed him of my gratitude and of the fact that I did not want to associate myself with anyone from my past, not particularly just him, but more so the idea of being strung along to be heartbroken. I did ask about our father and was informed that he had passed. Being fair, I decided that I would not cut off all ties and would stay in contact with Derrick, but on my terms. We would not communicate everyday, he would not receive my personal contact information, and I did not want his as well. But for those days that we just wanted each other to know that we cared and was still there for each other when needed. Quite frankly, recently, I had been thinking about reaching out more. Always telling myself that even it wasn't today, I would have a day to tell him everything and patch up our relationship. Hoping that one day, I could meet his children and become their aunt. Hoping to hear how proud he was of me for fighting for what I wanted while making it through my years of high school and college life with a degree plastered with my new name yet same blood. Life once again, had a different outcome.

  Getting in my car, realizing that my mother had sent me a message of urgency. Over the speakers of my KIA, I was told that Derrick had passed away. It was, what we later learned, to be the cause of a heart attack. I could not let myself feel pain because really, we were not close. But the more I thought about it, Derrick was the only blood relative, even if it was half, that I had been wiling to give a chance to and was excited for our possible future once I had gotten to a point of complete and utter forgiveness. And life has once again taken something away that had my hopes up. I can no longer tell him that I love him and that I did not blame him for anything that has happened and knew that if there was a chance for him to fix all of my pain, he would. I can not compare our genes that we both gained from a broken family. I could not do anything, because he now can not do anything. In the end, I could not bare to face his lifeless body and his loved ones even after learning of his burial arrangements. I did not want to face something that I wanted so badly to happen for me and my blood in the future. So I sat all day, thinking of this. And finally having the courage to share it with you.

September 23rd 2014.

From Markeetah Alexzandria Hill to Markeetah Alexandria M. Anderson.

Here lies my lost thoughts, My hopes, my struggle, my life. My brother Derrick Marquette Myles. The Catch up (R.I.P).





 

The Other Half

 

 

As a child, I was taught the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.  What you see isn’t always what you get.

Jordan was barely fifteen when I noticed the change.  Her skin, becoming paler every time she walked through the duet doors of Carter Smith High School.  That smile that blessed her face, now permanently fixed horizontal.  Her eyes, no longer sparkling like stars currently filled with fire and hatred.  And people talk.  Talk about what they think they know and relaying what they hear.  The other half never knows.

Light chatter and secret messages shared in presence.  As if she couldn’t hear when she hesitantly placed one leg in front of the other.  Looks of sympathy darting her way striking like a bolt of lightning.  But no one seemed to notice when she immobilized the fork on the cafeteria tray.  Her weight waxing day by day.  Never enough energy to fulfill her days at a desk learning mc squared.  Slowly being denied the gift of life.  Jordan’s other half had not merely been the rumors of separation by two people that created her existence, but Cancer.  Which the popular girls, jocks, and teachers knew nothing of.  They were concerned with the hottest groups in the music industry, who to take to the prom and what color dye they should apply to their extensions.  Futile efforts of meaningless beauty.

Jordan failed to show up for school on Wednesday, first day of Spring.  Thursday and Friday failed to accompany us with her presence as well.  Making it easy for ruthless rumors to dwell.  Breaking under the pressure, I capture attention by shouting-

How dare you judge the other half, the 570,000 that lose the fight and can’t face another Spring.  Your mother, brother, sister, aunt or uncle amongst the 1,529,560 barely battling to keep their sanity.  13 million new cases a year.  Look around.  The reality is that 2 out of 5 of us will develop brain cancer.  Black, White, Asian, and Latino struggling against a disease that has no known cure.  Those rumors, you let slip through your lips about a girl who lived her life living, loving and laughing with every breath she took.  The same girl that tutored your precious quarter back after failing three classes.  Who stood by your side when that life you denied from your womb met its death by two pills and hit your conscious while salt trails and sharp pains show remnants of what had been.  The girl who gave you the answers to question 2, 7 and 9 because she knew how bad you needed a measly C to pass.  While you are planning that next chapter in your life, there is a family at home buying a coffin for their beloved daughter.  A child should never die before her parents.

As I stand here mourning a classmate who will never get to witness our success story, you fail to realize how blessed you are.  So when you walk down the steps through those duet doors, remember,

 The Other Half.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons of Life

 

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.

_Philip Larkin_

Tile Floors

White tile floors once used for mirrored dances,

words streaming in to a hair brush using shower curtains as drapery

My bathroom,

Filled with memories of your sweaty torso hunched over my form pumping for one last stroke while,

raged filled revenge filled salt drops crash onto the floor, my time was just the beginning.

I pulled guns from overstocked shelves searching for oversized wounds that you continuously showed me you deserved.  

Bullet shells in cases, yes cases, awaiting turns to be fired.  I have watched you since our presidents birthday, now, it is Christ's birthday again.

My heart skipping beats with every drawstring bridge we crossed as you hunt for your prey. 

And i watched doorknobs clicking when you so humbly force yourself along with them into their houses,

lungs filled with the substance you call chloroform 

those women unaware of the damage you were causing their bodies, taking the only gift that could never be returned.  I , did not succumb to your trickery.

You generously laid me onto my bed conning to dress and I studied every inch of your figure, 

hating myself for admiring your king of the jungle tattoo 

with teeth sharp as a hunting knife stretched over you shoulder, the handle I grip so tightly lurking over your now useless form waiting to regain consciousness.

Until then, I shall play, carving highway roads and runway lines through the flesh of your hennessey hued body 

and muscles representing gym tan laundry, noticing corners of my lips lifting as the fluid floods from your veins 

a painting Pollack would admire. 

Slowly the sound of pain slip through your lips as you realize your danger, reminiscent of the room you once occupied 

eyes surprised as your gaze locks mine, 

remembering my face, 

I, will forever remember your name. 

My lips made contact with your forehead like you have often done moments before leaving our homes.

I smile at you as I remember an interviewed killer stating, 

"give them one last hop for life, then quickly take it away." 

Without hesitation, my hand glided across you neck. 

my rage escapes, for so long I waited for this moment.

my last thought whispered ever so kindly in your ears as I generously hold your hand 

and you pant for your last breath.  

You should have killed me first. 

Verbal Mayhem

Philly

Mac Miller Missed Calls

Meek Mill Dreams and Nightmares

Bottomless

 

 

This image is one of the first images I did as an undergrad at Rutgers.  Something about the image speaks to me.  It may be the way that each one of the girls are looking straight into the viewers eyes.  It feels like they are trying to reveal something to you but you are unsure what it is.  The way that they stare into your eyes as the viewer gives you the chills but captivates you and makes it hard to look away even though staring feels a bit intrusive.  What do you guys think?

                                                         I Am Woman- Jordan Sparks

Growing Pains

Is it time ?

Today is a difficult day.  The past few months have been difficult as an artist.  I have been at an art cross roads in creating new work.  Not quite sure where I want to go in my work or what I want to show people this year.  I have been simply shooting and developing ideas but they have yet to lead me in any direction.  It is getting closer to the time in my life where my college career in coming to an end and it scares the shit out of me! I want to start really working on major ideas and getting my work out in the public but I have a problem with sharing.  It is apparent that it is time I get over that hump in my life.  Time I become what I claim to be. An artist.