A collection of poems, stories and essay presents issues affecting women writers and all women.  The poems address a gamut of emotions and experiences that go beyond the experiences of women to universal roles and relationships.  In the story, “Homeboy,” the author weaves together seemingly unrelated lives into the connection we all have with each other.

This collection of poems and stories draws the reader’s sensibility close to the hurting point.  In “Da Man Thing” the heroine moves from a breathtaking rendezvous to marriage.  There are no sentimental sayings or vows from her lover, just the bone bare facts the he “Da Man.”  She moves from being a lover to wife and mother, loving him all the time as he acts less and less like an honorable man.  Eventually, she begins to love herself enough to realize that only she can set herself free and that in true love there is reciprocity.

Throughout the book, Suzanne Brooks savors many kinds of love.  The poems contain the bitter sting that accompanies the sweet taste of love.  She succinctly describes the love of a mother and daughter in “inheritance.”  A mother loves her daughter, but has to contain fierce feelings of jealousy as the daughter absorbs the father’s affection.  “Lines for the Lonely” tells of the sibling love the writer has for a younger brother who was a musician.  He is a good musician who brings happiness to others but never finds it for himself.  In the poem, “Who” Brooks explores self love and the demands our culture makes on women at various ages.  The collection is though provoking, poignant, and beautiful.

Suzanne Brooks: vocalist, hula dancer, activist, educator, entrepreneur, has worked as cultural center director, affirmative action officer; and English teacher.  She owns Creative Concepts Systems and International Association for Women of Color Day.

Ms. Brooks studies Seth Riggs’s Speech-Level Singing with Reinhardt Krekow; is currently recording CDs—“Miles To Go Before I Sleep” and “Even Sad Memories Are Sweet”—jazz standards with Eric Tillman (previously of Temptations, Willied Bobo; others).  CDs available on website: www.womenofcolorday.com.

Ms. Brooks co-authored/ performed, “The Strength of Sisterly Love” choreopoem, 2002 Harlem Theatre Fringe Festival.  In 2002, Sacramento’s Interactive Asian contemporary Theater, she played “Tutu” in the Canoe,” sang Hawaiian, and recorded “Angel’s Blues” with composer/guitarist, George Winston.  She dances with Hapa Haole Hula Dancers.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO DIE TO SEE THE LIGHT

Perhaps it was something passed on from her great, great grandparent's
escape from slavery on the Underground Railroad about the necessity
for freedom to have life that made her fight fear and injustice, even when
she'd rather have been doing something else.

Perhaps it was a response to the trauma of growing up a molested child
in an alcoholic home that led her through years of codependency
and marriages with men like her father to adopt children
and uplift the downtrodden, but to live alone.

Perhaps she had some innate talents and intelligence, God-given
tools of creativity and self-defense, that enabled her to land
always on her feet somehow, no matter the sickness or injury, nor
how many times she was abandoned or betrayed. It was not luck.

When she was depressed, she wrote poems about social problems
and worse off people. When she couldn't sleep, she sang
Gospel songs from down home country places she had never known
in the inner city projects and ghettos across the tracks of her youth.

When she was alone, she went to work for others, organizing campaigns
for better housing, better schools, equal pay and rights to sue. So many
came to know her name. When help was needed they came and without
asking, she gave, but in time her health began to fail

It must have been a flash of insight, like the light seen when someone
nearly dies, that showed her how to do more by doing less. By helping
herself, rather than dying for causes, and at last understanding the serenity prayer, she recovered. Though through it all, her mother never liked her.

NO PLACE TO RUN

Policewoman Melissa Barnes, at twenty-five, was what old timers call "a good cop." Patient and relaxed in her job, she had the uncanny ability to sense a crime in its early stages of progress, as well as a reputation for being in the right place at the right time. As an investigator, she was unrivaled in her persistence in finding solutions and in her attention to detail. Quietly authoritarian in manner, she got on well with citizens from all walks of life. Popular and respected by co-workers, she demonstrated her daring and courage on more than one occasion. 

There was the time she and her rookie partner, Carol Newman, were on an assignment inside a housing project whose tenants were notorious for hostility to police. Cruising the area in a perfunctory search for a lost bicycle, they unexpectedly witnessed a lye throwing incident. As they got out of the car, Carol froze at the ugly sight of the victim's melting flesh and the advancing threatening crowd. Melissa, walking toward the crowd, ordered them to a halt. Almost in one continuous motion, she gave first aid to the victim, calmed Carol, rebuked the culprit and drove to the hospital, Afterwards, she returned to her headquarters to type a report of the incident while joking with the oncoming crew about the slow day. Then she went home.  

Arriving at her apartment, Melissa opened the door, stood breathlessly still and listened, as she always did, for any small noise. Despite repeated assurances from her landlord and frequent visits by an exterminator, Melissa was unable to quell the rising fear that seemed to climb her body as she ascended the stairs to her door, so that as she turned her key in the lock, her head was throbbing. She was afraid of rats.

Melissa could only recall having seen a rat once...inside a shabby ghetto house. As she spoke with the mother of a runaway girl (standing in the middle of the floor to avoid the roaches on furniture and walls), Melissa caught sight of a strange movement from the corner of her eye. She glanced over to one of several holes in the dining room plaster. A string dangled from the hole.  Suddenly the string moved and a large squealing rat emerged. Struggling to maintain composure, Melissa looked at the dozen or more people about the room who seemed oblivious to the rat which was now walking casually about. Afraid she would vomit or faint, Melissa fled the house without explanation, leaving behind a bewildered group of people.

Despite the fact that this incident had been the only one its kind for her, Melissa had been plagued all of her life by nightmares about rats. She would wake screaming and cringing in her bed; sometimes leaping up to run from her vision...hundreds of rats hurtling themselves in her direction. And though she always awoke before the rats reached her, she lived in terror of the dream as if it was reality.  Melissa's mother, in recounting the hardships of the war years, had once mentioned leaving Melissa in the care of grandparents whose home was frequented by a multitude of people and a family of rats. Melissa's grandfather, on hearing the rats thump up the stairs, would rush into the hall adjacent to Melissa’s room and kill them with his slipper. Melissa often tried to force her mind to recall those early childhood days, believing the recollection would provide the clue to end her nightmares, but she never could.

In time, she developed a morbid fascination with the rats of which she could not rid herself.  She avidly read stories whose plots involved rats in horror and in comedy. She read about rats and diseases. She even found a book about rats and history. The nightmares continued as always.

On a hot summer day at home, Melissa received a phone call from her office about a special assignment.  She and Carol were to meet two detectives with whom they were to patrol the scene of a civil disturbance in a squad car.  Enroute to the assigned area, the team of policewomen and detectives listened to radio broadcasts of minor rock throwing incidents and a small fire. Nearing their destination, the team observed the usually deserted streets teeming with people.  The ever growing crowd spilled from the sidewalks into the street and slowed the car’s forward movement to a crawl. People in armbands, old army uniforms and ethnic costumes yelled, cheered and sang songs Melissa did not recognize. Conversation within the patrol car dwindled as interest in the happenings outside increased. The occasional attempt at humor failed to curb the creeping uneasiness.

Melissa realized with something of a shock that the car had been motionless for some time. She could no longer see anything outside but people...thousands of them. Then the car began to rock, slowly at first, then more and more violently.  Someone shouted, “Kill the pigs.”  Hundreds of echoes sounded, “Kill the pigs.”  Melissa shrank from the window.  Glass was breaking.  “Kill the pigs.” She reached for her gun, then put it back, fearing to further arouse the already crazed mob. “Kill the pigs.”  Bottles, rocks, sticks flew in through the windows. “Kill the pigs, kill the pigs!” Hundreds of clawing hands, moving hurtling towards her like a mass of rats in a nightmare, touching her as no dream ever would. This time she couldn’t wake up. This time there was no place to run.