Am I successful yet? As you evaluate me, what are you considering? My hair- carefully coiffed or not? My clothes- colors vibrant, fresh from some store or faded with wear? My eyes- the scleras, a clean slate or tarnished with years? Do I look successful to you? How about when I open my mouth? Are my syllables white washed enough to be substantive? Is my twang articulate? Is success something worn? Something learned? Something earned and stored under mattresses for unsuccessful days? Is it a bleached smile behind the windshield of something head-turning, driven in no particular direction, for no particular reason, toward no particular destiny?
In my pickup truck, two years my elder, I listen to the blues on a CD. The wind, from the one window that does let down, is fresher than air conditioning anyway and it animates my afro with so much more soul. At stoplights, I make a point to dance a bit harder so that other drivers have some entertainment. I have enough gas to get where I want to go, and I’m pleased with myself. Am I successful yet?
In my small apartment, I climb into the bed that I designed myself. I bought 2×4’s and 4×4’s and dusted off my power tools. I hadn’t used them since that time I built a kitchen cabinet from scrap wood that I scavenged on bulk trash day. My dad was excited to help me assemble the masterpiece, and every night that I climb into it, my chest swells with pride and my heart explodes with sweet memories of us blowing sawdust from each others eyes. Am I successful yet?
My account balance reflects the days I spend wandering freely on my bike. At bicycle speed, details of the city come into focus in a way that motorized vehicles whizz past. In residential areas, tucked away parks boast their plush grasses and busy ducks, inviting the infrequent passer-by to stay a while. Downtown, pedestrians attract my camera lens with their street fashions and sushi bars call me inside to invest in a moment of culinary enlightenment. The library downtown is always a treasure hunt; the 5th floor- a time capsule of newspapers and journals from antiquity and beyond. Every trip is a transformative journey, and my soul leaps just remembering. Am I successful yet?
Between bike rides and low budget carpentry projects…between the blues and the hefty hum of gas guzzling… in the silence between pages of good books, theres a whisper. It criticizes me with interrogation. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you out gettin’ this money? Chasin’ this paypa? Don’t you want the American DREAM? Don’t you want to be successful? Med school, more school, doctor, lawyer! Hell, a rapper, something!? Somebody! Don’t you want to be somebody?!”
Evading that sad, lonely, confused, little voice is not easy. It plays all the lead roles on all the TV shows. It has landed all of the modeling gigs on all of the magazine covers. It has permeated the conversations that are transmitted over the radio. The billboards are plastered with quotes from its most popular speeches. The high school teachers read from its novels, leading students into $30,000 employment camps. That same voice spews empty promises from the pulpit of all the churches, dangling its audience from the cross of profit and prosperity. The soundtrack of our era is reflective of a dream state, leaving our eardrums dripping in gold and our hearts cast in lust. There is no room for genuine joy or peace of mind in the rhetoric of the whisper… Am I successful yet?
Yes. I am. Because I have unhidden the whisper, identified it, and called it out. Called bullshit on its teachings. Chased it from my subconscious and dared it to stand up to the woman I choose to be. The American dream is dwarfed by the perspective of a woman awakened. I choose to be free. I often observe the paper chasers and their aching spirits, as they mistake complaints about their dreamy lives, for conversation topics. And I wonder, what are the fruits of their toiling? Things? A television and cable, faux fur and brand names and make up and bags and heels and acceptable hairstyles? The latest version of the same damn phone? Living far from niggas and roaches, to be in the company of the perfect smiles of the well-to-do and the who’s-who? Consuming more and more and renting a place to store it all? You sell your life, your breaths, your heartbeats, seconds, minutes, hours, days to pay for it all.. drive in that shiny car note to that storage of things that is not your home, to lay awake at night and dream of being FREE?! No… I won’t sell me. As far as I know, I only get to do this one time. I can’t take the Kardashians or Louboutins with me when I leave this earth. Truth: We ALL do leave… But not all do LIVE. I’m successful because I’m alive. Really, alive.
From the Creative depths of Iman Arial 
Powerful on so many levels. Only a few souls can search this deep.
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