I Am Woman
By Chloe Williams

I heard a voice within me last night,
And with waking, gleaming eyes, I rose to face it.
“I am woman”, it said, and then …
“But I am so much more”.
I reached out to touch
That chorusing sound,
Light and lithe with its simple phrasing
But the possibility of it was much too great.
With shattering promise,
It rose above me just out of reach.
It said, “You must claim this, you must earn this, you must transcend this
To keep this truth safe
Within your grasp.”

On pages of magazines, newspapers and
Timely gossip
That voice becomes a trite reprise:
A reminder of a hollowed and empty shell facsimile.
That voice blares on like a radio wave,
Produced for the masses
Tinny and thin.
On the painted lips, conformed to move and frozen
In brilliant technicolor, sound comes, but the
Words
Have no weight.
These words do not resound like the voice
Does within me.
Its genuine and triumphant noise cannot be so.
“I am woman,” it said, and then …
“But I am so much more”.
Under misrepresented guise, and broken vestiges
Of hard and tireless work,
What have we earned?
What have we claimed; disclaimed?
What have we become?

You see, I rose in that night
With a sound of my own,
Prepared to meet its calling like so many before.
I cast the paper thin images aside
And deep within me knew that I could fulfill
What was asked of me,
And not deny.
And with a voice that was strong and clear
And so wondrously mine, I chose to reply:

I have the capacity to give life,
to heal the sick and change societies.
I have the will and the right to speak up and be heard
And the ability to be quiet, waiting, watching and wanting with sage wisdom
I have the capacity to love whomever and accept love in return
And the ultimate, yearning drive to be fearless, boundless,
Legendary:
“I am woman,” I said, and then …
“But I am so much more”.

Brown Bettie Knows Best
by Peppur Chambers

You, my sister, have seen the lows, you’ve rolled around in the ashes of scorched heartache ready to hang yourself with a wet rope soaked in lonely crocodile tears, and yet no one has applauded you on how well you are doing at doing something wrong. Well, because I’ve been through it too, and because everyone needs a pat on the shoulder, I salute you with these tips that will remind you whole-heartedly that you are doing everything absolutely wrong to find love. I hope these little morsels of loveless encouragement will coax you down from that painful chair of desperation, give you the strength to remove your noose and smile through your snotty haze as you nod and say, “Hey! That’s what I do!”

Ready? Let’s begin. And remember, you are not alone, my dear:

TIP 6
Since you’ve already decided you don’t like good guys, and have made it a point to spend a lot of time chasing a guy that doesn’t want you, now it should be perfectly OK to really take control of things…that is, if you haven’t already. One way would be to crawl on the hood of his car in the middle of the night and scrawl this love letter on his windshield in MAC lipstick and/or drink a fifth of Jose’ Cuervo and shout these words out front of his apartment:

Bad Boy
Come and play with me
Bad Boy
Show me your bad toys
Bad Boy
You’re no good for me
Bad Boy
Let me show you how bad I can be

Wrong Advice. Take it or leave it:
If you’ve already come undone from being unzipped by your Joe in your non-relationship relationships (NRR’s), now may be a good time to invest in the notion that you can learn to be happy by yourself.

Bad Boy!

Each month we feature a previous "Joe" who has guest-starred in our cabaret.

Thom Scott II
What makes you a Bad Boy?

The gifts God has blessed me with make me multifaceted…so, through Him, I'm a
“BAAAAAD” boy.

Thom appears in:

BLACK ANGELS OVER TUSKEGEE

MARCH 28, 2009 – MAY 2, 2009

Saturdays ONLY @ 8:00PM

WHITMORE LINDLEY THEATRE

11006 Magnolia Blvd. North Hollywood, CA 91601
You Tube Trailer

Represented By:
The Wallis Agency (Theatrical)
818-953-4848
Commercial Unlimited (Commercial)
310-278-5132

Links:
http://www.thomscott2.com/ (under construction)
www.myspace.com/thomscott
http://www.facebook.com/
www.myspace.com/blackgents

Harlem’s Love Story…
For your reading enjoyment, find the ninth installment of “Harlem’s Awakening”…This is the “True Hollywood Story” (as it were) behind the love affair between Joe and Harlem that plays out in the cabaret, “Harlem’s Night” performed by the Brown Betties.


Chapter 10 – A Manor of Speaking

Harlem ran up the freshly-swept concrete stairs to her Brownstone. Before she could turn the key, the door flew open and there was little Tilda full of smiles and jumpin’ with excitement.

Tilda was tiny and looked much younger than her eighteen years. Her smooth coconut skin glistened as the sun kissed her forehead. Her fingers moved quickly as she tried to tell Harlem something.

“Slow down!” Harlem signed back to her. Tilda had been deaf since birth, but had just learned sign language only eight months ago when Harlem enrolled her in St. Augustine’s School for the Deaf.

Tilda said, “The new costumes have arrived!” Now it was Harlem’s turn to jump with excitement. She and Tilda had spent weeks designing the beaded bodices of the new corsets that would debut with the new numbers for the Brown Betties’ performances.

That reminded her. She had to come up with a plan, or a really good excuse that would not only explain to Cora how Harlem was the owner of a brownstone that took up half a block and was formerly known as Lady Magdalena’s Manor…and how she and Tilda were the outfit behind the sultry Brown Betties who were quickly becoming the hottest dancers outside The Cotton Club.

She and Tilda headed for the drawing room where she could see the corsets laid upon her long maple table surrounded by several high-backed chairs upholstered in dark purple satin – Harlem’s favorite color. Rich magenta curtains complemented the room in a way that always made Harlem smile. She was about to pour herself and Tilda a brandy and soda when the doorbell rang.


Both women looked at each other with hunched, questioning shoulders as neither of them was expecting a visitor this evening. They both walked to the great oak door; Harlem waited while Tilda swung it open. Both their mouths dropped as they stared into the hazel eyes belonging to Honey. She carried two suitcases, a baby, and announced oddly, “I’m home!”

(c)2007 Pen and Peppur LLC

Momma Said
by Vicki Rogers (my momma)

Original Bitch

I started thinking about “Growth” as this month’s topic and several things came to mind: Over the years I have grown in height as illustrated by my 5‘1 frame. I’ve grown in maturity in that I don‘t “moon” people anymore. (With cellulite--it‘s just not charming.) Along with growing long in the teeth, I have grown my credit limit and the amount of hair covering my body. I’ve grown senile and a bit blind (because I can’t remember shite without it being written on a sticky; plus I can‘t read shite without glasses). I have also grown stiff in the joints. According to my colleagues I’ve grown into “bitch” quite nicely (I think my five-year-old granddaughter thinks that too). So I wrote this:

Original Bitch

Somewhere
In the garden
I looked into the blinded eye of heaven and heroes.
I whispered into the deaf ear of gods and goofs.
I smelled the honeyed breath of priests and poets.
I licked the twisted fingers of angels and assholes.
I took innocence for a walk and left it
Somewhere.

Somewhere
In the sunset
I squint at the cable channel as
I sweat drops onto the table as
I melt ice between my fingers and mingle both as
I flash to hot from cold as
I feel menopause unfold.
I took the innocence from life when
I took my first bite
Somewhere.


If you can tell us who the "Original Bitch" is, we’ll send you a Brown Bettie gift. Email newsletter@brownbetties.com