Who am I? Simply put, I am the Earth Mother. The Daughter of Flower Children, revolutionaries who wore their hair long and who smoked of the earth, and were oft arrested at marches and sit-ins. They weren't afraid of The Man, they weren't afraid of themselves. They loved Mother Earth. So they bore this Love Child, this Daughter of Nature. Me. That was 1974.
 
Fast forward. Tune in, turn on, and drop out. Now we’re in the 21st Century…it will soon be the year 2012. Who am I? I am a natural oddity. I cook, I clean, I sew, and I garden. I reap what I sow. I judge wisely. I share my knowledge with others in the form of words aloud and on paper. But despite all of my positivity and growth, I am most easily identified by my fear. Some people, it is said, can actually smell fear. I hide within my shell, for I am afraid. Afraid for what has been, more afraid for what is to come. But most of all, I am afraid to bear a child, because things, I'm afraid, are not what they used to be.

Alas, I remember the eighties. The crack cocaine, the drive-by shootings, the batter ram…all of these negative icons existed for one sole purpose. And for what? For the love of money. Respect used to be earned, now suddenly it is up for sale. Oh, I know this infatuation with material things is nothing new, but historically speaking the eighties was a decade where money and greed took on new forms, and began to have new powers of influence. I remember when people started wearing Polo by Ralph Lauren, way back in those early eighties. But how could they afford it, assuming it wasn't knock off? Money earned late night on street corners during battles for life and limb, cash money changing hands, cream for cream. Cash rules everything around me? Crack rules everything around me. Creamy green tinged papers fold nicely in half, dead presidents to be stashed away in a small wooden box beneath a trick board in the floor. What for? Only to be spent on gaudy clothes and big trunk jewelry, while a hungry child cries softly in the night.
 
This hungry child, a man child, he is out there somewhere. His crying grows louder and louder, until his pain reaches a crescendo of screams and tears. He grows tired of crying and screaming, he wants only to drink his bottle and perhaps taste again the mashed banana he once ate, early one Sunday morning at his Grandmother's house. But Granny is gone, and Mommy is sleeping – she won't wake up for all his screams. Where is Daddy? Why won't he feed me? Little does he know that his parents aren't married, and never will be, or that Daddy thinks of Mommy only in terms of "that bitch" or "that 'ho.” To give the fruits of his laborious hustle to that bitch would be a cardinal sin! She might use it to buy herself new clothes, or give it to the Korean bitch down the street in exchange for a new set of nails. "You want long curve set? Long nail extra, you pay twenty dollars. One broke nail, you pay extra, you pay three dollars."
 
And poor Mommy -- she thought that the child growing in her womb would bring her closer to him, "her man" as she used to call him. At first he seemed to approve of the baby, then he began to show indifference. Now the crying only brings exhibitions of hatred toward her for ruining his life. "Her man," as she used to call him. The beatings come less frequently now, as she sees her man less and less often. With his newfound wealth he has purchased for himself a flashy wardrobe, and big rock-like diamonds that shine with brilliance when the light hits them at just the right angle. Her man has a slew of "bitches" now, seemingly purchased in the same way. They follow him like baby geese follow their mother, all in line. These are the new bitches, the pretty bitches.
 
One of them stands out. Her ass is a little bigger, her hips sway a little harder. She licks her full lips with a flick of her tongue, reminding him that later, she might suck his d*ck. She wears next to nothing, and knows a little less. She exists in clothing stores and hair salons and nail shops. Shoes are everything, she has a closetful a la Imelda Marcos. In a way she resembles the Geisha of Japanese culture, this bitch. She lives only to be seen, and not to be heard. She is not particularly observant, just silent. Her mind is far away as she primps and poses, trying to be chosen. She is thinking of all the things she can buy with her new money, and of how she will be the envy of the neighborhood as she rides in the passenger side of his new whip. They say he has a bitch at home. Well, f@ck her, because I'm his bitch now. This is her mantra, she repeats it over and over, to strengthen her resolve. Yeah, f@ck that bitch. Later, she gets f@cked. Over and over, as many times as there are positions. But at least she only gets f@cked in the physical sense. We, society as a whole, we get f@cked mentally and spiritually. This is the by-product of the wasteful way in which lives are spent in these, shall we say, the last days.
 
Everyone is getting f@cked, and I am afraid. I dream of bearing children, and creating a strong and healthy family unit, complete with a husband and a home. I'm afraid that the thought police will come banging down my door to arrest me for these dreams. They may bring the batter ram out of retirement for this cause, you never know. You see, I'd like to have a roof garden where I will grow my own vegetables and herbs, with a spiral staircase leading down into my kitchen. Oh, my glorious kitchen, where I will prepare nourishing and delicious meals for my husband and my children, so that they may not ever know the horror of American fast food at it's greasiest. The kitchen is next to the solarium, where my husband and myself will teach our children, so that they may not ever know the abhorrence of American schools where they teach his-story alongside "the new mathematics." These are my secret dreams and fantasies, my most coveted possessions.
 
My husband will resemble Jesus Christ, as he is portrayed in the framed pictures at the swap meet. A beautiful, chiseled face with a bronze hue my husband will have. And a body carved of stone, but sheathed gracefully in smooth caramel-colored skin, his flesh thick and sweet. One of his dreadlocks escapes from his crown now and then, marring his gaze out of huge eyes which mirror his beautiful soul. And my children, oh my little cherubic offspring. They are as beautiful as everything, having been born little shining examples of nature on Earth. My gorgeous little Sun and Moon, they are my Epiphany. A daily reminder of Perfection and Light, these children shall be.
 
Oh, we shall live in the land of milk and honey! My little children, I shall not dress them in baby guess. My daughter, my little moonchild, will never know Gucci or Prada, as she will be sheltered from the evil forces at hand. I will shield her vision from the fashion magazines as we enter the subway station. I will cover her ears when we walk by the bodega, so she may be protected from hearing Foxy Brown - or her generational equivalent – spewing from the speakers like so much toxic waste. I will keep her heart pure, if it's the last thing I do in my role as Earth Mother. And my son. I will use the force of Nature and the strength of sheer will to keep him in the family fold. He will look up to his Father, and he will respect his Mother. He won't call his baby sister a bitch, he won't even know how to form the word with his sweet little mouth. He is my Angel. He is my Samurai Warrior. He loves his tai chi and kung fu classes. He tells me in a whisper, "Mommy, Mommy, today we studied the crane style." His short little legs already kick with strength and precision, creating perfect angles when he practices on our roof garden. Oh my young Sun, he is a True Master, intuitively knowing that he should never use his skills to harm others, unless he is engaged in battle. His respectful ways are innate, born of my womb, from the Earth Mother, and of his Father's seed, from the King of King and Lord of Lords.
 
Hence my fears. Are my fears unfounded? Am I wrong to condemn spending our money on designer clothing and diamond-encrusted Jesus-pieces? Should we not burn to learn, and look down upon those who choose to earn only by the sale of poison to our brothers and our sisters addicted? Should we not question how the poison gets here in first place, and vow to bring down the forces of darkness responsible for this madness? Should we not boycott the media that tells us that a woman is only a whoring bitch, and that a man is only a tree upon which money grows? Why shouldn't men love and respect their wives, and in return plant beautiful seeds inside of them? Why shouldn't women respect and love their husbands, and in return be willing to cook and clean and sew and reap the harvest of his seeds? Why am I afraid, you ask?
 
Because I am the Earth Mother, and I have become an endangered species.