Teffanie Thompson's Blog

Sooooo, I think I have the ultimate hack to self confidence. At least... what has been working for me. I want to share it with you here and on my substack. Coming Soon! Do you want to be a greater version of yourself with a very low lift. Stay Tuned! Love

HRU / HNY!!!

Create Your Word for 2021
Friday, January 8, 7 - 8pm EST via zoom

A By Donation Event:
https://www.hoopyogini.com/offers/zeZL5swm/checkout

Have you created your WORD for 2021? A guiding light, elevating purpose, anchor and high vibe reminder of who you are and what you are cultivating this year?

Join Jocelyn Gordon and me for a visionary hour where you will be guided to create your 2021 intentional frequency for the new year.
From our vantage point, one positive word can make all the difference in the world. One positive view possesses the power to transform. It is our forever hope that among the thousands of words we illuminate, one will resonate and shift the vantage point of the receiver to a view of the world that vaporizes for at least a brief moment any and all negative emotion they ever could have visualized. l o V e!

Happy History Month!

Last week, winds carried me over miles of white sands. Goddess circle love suspended me. We lived in our own Jamaican #GoopLab.

Uhmazing news had me weeping openly under bronzing sun after days of House Music all Night Long. Jacqueline and I layovered in the Mobay Lounge before the most comical HIGH flight ever. I watched Messiah and finally listened to Of Children of Blood and Bone.

Mid week I sprinted. I dabbled on a new piece and played with blankets crocheted by my Granny.

Happenstance put Craft and I in the 254. We started Black History month with a bang— one of us by making it... You may have heard... his graphic novel, New Kid, won the Kirkus, the #Newbery and the Coretta Scott King awards!!!

We toasted with coconut milk drinks, #novelteas, fresh pressed passion fruit juice and ginger lemonade. We laughed about crinkled grocery sacks.

The Sweetness made a college break guest appearance for a book store date.  A best friend accepted a marriage proposal.

It’s Sunday again. I’m here for half time & commercials.

Farmer Guy and I bid au revoir to the SLU. He is en route now. Let’s see what FABULOUSNESS this week will bring.

Missing Margot. 

Q: Did you like writing in school? Why?

A: As a child, it is rumored that I always carried paper and pen. I don���t remember writing in elementary school, even though it is where I published my first poem. It was a Valentine���s poem for the school newspaper. I remember even less about writing in middle school, but in high school, I remember loving writing a lot.



Q: What inspired you to write this book?
A: A few things all at once: hearing a public radio show on slavery, meeting my students who ���HATED��� reading, and attending family reunions.

Q: If you were the boy in the book, what would you do and why?
A: There will be no spoilers here. I would do what Washington did.

Q: What would you do if that actually happened to your son?
A: Still no spoilers. I would be thrilled for my son.

Q: Why did you decide to write about DIRT? It is my favorite book. Is Washington a real person?
A: THANK YOU! Dirt is everywhere. There is no shortage of supply. I thought it would be a perfect technology. Washington is a fake character that might be a mish-mash of my son and others I have met.
Q: How did you make the book realistic?
A: By describing real life in the words.

Q: How long did it take to make the book?
A: The book started as a workshopped short story and ended eight years later as a part of my graduate thesis at Seton Hill University.

Hear DIRT

Read DIRT

Love

Q: Did you like writing in school? Why?

A: As a child, it is rumored that I always carried paper and pen. I don’t remember writing in elementary school, even though it is where I published my first poem. It was a Valentine’s poem for the school newspaper. I remember even less about writing in middle school, but in high school, I remember loving writing a lot.



Q: What inspired you to write this book?
A: A few things all at once: hearing a public radio show on slavery, meeting my students who “HATED” reading, and attending family reunions.

Q: If you were the boy in the book, what would you do and why?
A: There will be no spoilers here. I would do what Washington did.

Q: What would you do if that actually happened to your son?
A: Still no spoilers. I would be thrilled for my son.

Q: Why did you decide to write about DIRT? It is my favorite book. Is Washington a real person?
A: THANK YOU! Dirt is everywhere. There is no shortage of supply. I thought it would be a perfect technology. Washington is a fake character that might be a mish-mash of my son and others I have met.
Q: How did you make the book realistic?
A: By describing real life in the words.

Q: How long did it take to make the book?
A: The book started as a workshopped short story and ended eight years later as a part of my graduate thesis at Seton Hill University.

Hear DIRT

Read DIRT

Love

Teffanie Thompson grew up in Killeen, Texas. Today she lives in St. Lucia with her organic farming husband. In Midland, Texas, she directed a public charter high school. A Master's graduate of Seton Hill University's Writing Popular Fiction program, Teffanie has written several stories for children, teens, and ballerinas.

DIRT - Winner: Best YA, 2016 African-American Literary Awards held at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, New York Public Library. Teffanie upon invitation attended the 2018 Sharjah Children's Reading Festival in Dubai, UAE.
Love

Sun wants to dream late.

{They} are a bit of a sleepy head.
{They} have to rise, to pluck the day.
#
Cackle google doo, cockle google dee.
Get up, Sun!
Before day peep, tiny white moth flitters float the moon.
Barking dogs keep stars shining.
#
Prime Minister, the rooster, starts the wave. With his scratchy yell, he screams,
“Cackle google doo, cockle google dee
Get up, Sun!”
#
Sun stays sleep.
#
Next rooster down the way, P. Miller, crows along.
“Cackle google doo, cockle google dee
Get up, Sun!”
#
Sun stays put.
#
Just over the river, a sky-blue crack splits open the black-black night.
Clouds race through.
Pinks, oranges, purples, and blues flood the air.
Light pours over and around buildings.
#
Still no Sun.
Sun still has not moved.
Oh, Sun.
#
Now rooster, Andrew Martin, joins. He breathes in a very big breath.
“Cackle google doo, cockle google dee.
Get up, Sun!”
#
“Cackle google doo, cockle google dee.
Get up, Sun!”
#
Way out East, Sun stretches golden rays over the land.
Yellow ball lifts high like a yellow balloon.
It smells of dawn.
#
Sun is up. Sun is up. Sun is up.
#
Roosters dance.
Wings shuffle, clap, flap.
Sun streaks again.
#
Roosters sing.
Cackle google doo, cockle google dee.
#
Cackle google doo, cockle google dee.
New, new day. photo credit: iwhite

Doesn’t everyone l o v e Edith Piaf? Just finished today’s five minute French Duolingo session.  

A few weeks back I travelled to the French island of Martinique. After being there for only forty-five minutes, I remembered I already knew French, A LOT of French from a long time ago. I lived in Paris more than twenty years ago… maybe from longer longer ago? In my mind I knew French, like when you see someone that you know you have met somewhere before. You know you know them. I knew French like that.

I had worked as an au pair, so my l e v e l of French sounded more like third grader French. Like Tu veux ma photo French? This happens to be the English equivalent of take a picture it will last longer.

Even when I lived in France, French was something I felt I knew in an intimate sort of way. I’ve only had one proper French classroom semester in the seventh grade, when they made us take foreign l a n g u a g e, and we studied Spanish for one Semester, and French for the other. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Finnen, but don’t remember the l e s s o n s so much. Maybe Francais comes with such ease because of the Latin I learned for several years during high school from Mrs. Wray. 

Salve Magistra!

It’s more intimate – it’s more inside of me. It’s more mother tongue, like motherese. A shaman told me that I once was a Caribbean slave. Like that, like genetically, or previously coded. This is my s p e a k. So, I travelled to Martinique, and remembered for the third or fourth time this lifetime that I needed to learn one of my native languages – French.

Sweetness and I took a quick jaunt to this neighboring island. We stepped off the f e r r y in Fort De France to get our bearings and straight into a possible iguanas’ lair. On our little side street, we saw at least three too large lizards.

Bienvenue.

“To speak a language is to take on a world, a culture.” Frantz Fanon

This birth place of Frantz had streets and a vibe named after him to evidence the connection. 

We marched in the same direction with this uhdorable elder from Trinidad. She came over only to “shop” for the day. She lived on this island many years ago and got work in hotels with her impeccable English.

When she referred to those many years ago, she looked wistful and glossy eyed like Joe sitting in therapy with Dr. Nicky talking about Beck in the Netflix creepy original, You. I wanted to imagine that Ms. Elder Trini was obsessively stalking a past lover to have a cup of tea before a possible rekindling rendez vous. All – “ Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”

She had all the spirit that I wanted to have in my 80s. I didn’t know if we asked her, or whether she invited herself, but the three of us ate breakfast baguettes in the f a b u l o u s diner, Le 62 at 62 Avenue des Caraibes. 

The language trigger happened. I couldn’t make myself stop spouting my rusty ass 20-year-old French. Like a cartoon character, I wanted to slap my own hand over my mouth, to stop the broken French from seeping out. If our Lady Marmalade meal companion had been 20 years younger we would have exchanged social media information, but we Frenchie French on both cheeks s m o o c h e d her an au revoir. 

We stumbled toward the Schoelcher Library (Bibliothѐque Schoelcher) on Rue Victor Sévѐre. Because well it’s a library, and uh free Wi-Fi. They named the library after Victor Schoelcher, a French writer, that worked tirelessly to rid the Caribbean of slavery.
In the library, I asked for directions to Aimѐ Césaire exhibit. Of English and of French, a lady with a Blaxploitation sized afro gave us directions. Oh, BTW, Martinique houses some flyed out magnificent hair. Had me considering a big chop. 

We started our trek. Sweetness realized I didn’t have an itinerary. Uh-oh. I had downloaded a GPSmycity on Martinique, and read exactly two blogs, but nothing really thought out. We wandered around the bubbling city of Fort Du France, that sleepishly awakened for the day. We carried our bags that weighed more each second. 
We f o u n d the Hotel De Ville and chopped it up with cute curators. Césaire’s poem, Notebook of a Return to the Native Land on the steps toward his office touched my s o u l. We rode a boat to our side of town, Les Trois-Ilets. 

We stashed our luggage, grabbed our turquoise beach wristbands, and called our cab to my one plan planned destination. Anse Cafard. I don’t want to write about Anse Cafard… yet. Not here. One does not just mention Anse Cafard in a blog, one writes an entire blog, or story, or novel dedicated to it or not at all. The taxi tour was mystical and magical. 

We chaise lounged on the crowded holiday beach for quite a while. We dressed fancy for dinner to eat pizza at Hasta La Pizza. We took a morning coffee at a spot in the Village Creole called Ice N Coffee after walking in the rain. Even the rain. So much like France. We spent more time resting on the beach, and I snorkeled. We water taxied back from Les Trois-Ilets and people watched in the square and watched people pile from cruise ships.

Then I saw what I didn’t know that I had really come to see. We passed her on our way returning to port. 

In La Savane Park stood a statue of Empress Josephine, Napoleon Bonaparte’s first wife. She was born in Martinique. The art form had been enhanced – decapitated. I can’t really say defaced as there lacked a head and a face, but defaced, nonetheless. It was striking. Purpose filled brokenness.  A loud quiet. Or what Sal called a desperate situation.

I always believed that the Caribbean spirit had been more fire, more able to stand up to overthrow – like Toussaint, more able to cull writerly leaders – like Cesaire or Garvey and more able to create independent thinkers in the midst of oppression and chaos swirling around humanity – like Fanon. 

You know? Like Peter Tosh publishing and singing the lyrics to Equal Rights in the seventies.

How much Martinique reminded me of France made me uneasy. It was as if we were actually in France. It was like telling me there was no Black Santa. Martinique didn’t seem to own any underlying resistance. I thought it smelled like Octavia Butler’s Lillith’s compliant complicity. Maybe that’s what it was, how it had to be. I thought I would see more of Ye’s it’s all a choice mentality. 

And there it was. It WAS there in her. I needed to see her, Empress Josephine. She quelled my growing disenchantment. In the middle of the town square, unfixed and unphased, a “resister” (I’m reading Adulthood Rites Book Two of The Xenogenesis Trilogy by Butler) had spray painted in an angry red over the word colony and affixed a question mark next to it. 

Colony? 
Like I got your colony, Boo. 
As I had hoped. 
Listening to Lana Del Rey “Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to Have.”

À demain.

love

I'm writing in 2019! Where creates you?I'm writing here, there, and everywhere. E is for EverywhereAirplanes
Bookstores
Country
Dungeon
Everywhere
Forest
Garden
Home
Inside
Jungle
Kitchen
Library
Mountain
Nap
Online
PubQuietude
Retreat
Sprints
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Underwater
Vacation
Walking
Xeriscape
Yard
Zoo
love

Speaking of Janet, Funny. How. Time. Flies. When. You're. Having. Fun. 

Très vite, y'all!!???

Have you heard the story about how I tripped out, and actually tripped, and nearly fell when I saw THE Steven Tyler in a Dallas restaurant a couple of weeks ago? 

Farmer Guy witnessed me wobbling before he saw HIM, and asked me what happened. 

Cool as this wind right now, Steven Tyler said, "I think she just fell for me."

Yep, that happened. Tyler definitely has "Soul Glow". We claim him, right??!!

Afterward, we spun around downtown D in the whip, AKA, Farm Truck, blasting Coltrane with the fabulous Derrick Barnes celebrating Crown reviews. His forthcoming release from Denene Millner Books and Agate Publishing, CROWN: An Ode To The Fresh Cut (October 10, 2017).

This ALL happened only hours after ME being on the same program, and in the same building as SONIA SANCHEZ at the Tulisoma Bookfair. 

Thank you, Patrick. 

Fabulism meets mystical magical - hashtag my life. 

These storms have my locks perpetually EXTRA knotted up. And the moon that looks like fire, and the fires. All of it reminds me of that one YA book, what was it called? Life As We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer, not to be confused with It's the End of the World, by R.E.M. Did anyone else read that series?

To uncoil, I try my best to write 19:18, read The Perfect Find by the fabulous Tia Williams, and watch Ozark, but I keep being reminded of the fragility of it all. Life---what really matters? I keep returning to LOVE. That's it. I love y'all. 

254, we lost another one this week, Rest In Love, Andre. 

Love