Old Ways Don’t Open New Doors….

Leah Olivia Drayton

(Cover photo is of course, owned by Jhonen Vasquez, the creator of Invader Zim and one of my heroes.)

At my old church, there was a woman who always demanded to dish out the salad during lunches and banquets.

Nothing else but the salad, which was usually a medley of bagged mixed greens and half heartedly cut tomatoes. It wasn’t because she particularly needed everyone to get their leafy greens, but it was because the salad station was always the front of the line, with all the dressings and utensils. She would arrive as early as possible, hawking out her space with the glass bowl and tongs – making sure to stand near the salad even during the prayer with her white plastic latexed hands folded. For as long as I could remember, (I had been going to that church for 16 years) the Sergeant of Salad never wanted help or interference, making sure to give little authoritarian orders as she distributed her ice cold greens. She would take this duty seriously – from weddings to picnics, yelling at those who went without foliage and those who hogged the ranch dressing. I had asked someone why she insisted on this job, even when no one asked her to.

“Some people just want to be in charge of something,” once quipped an elder in church (who had been coldly ignored when she offered to bring the salad for a change).

For the past few months, that’s how I’ve felt with Iambic – a Sergeant of Salad, as we struggled to tie up loose ends with the Shindig, the site renovation, and other things. We run a small, tight ship of writers and editors, and I felt like I was sinking. Pieces of writing grew dust on them as I struggled with hosting, editing, and copywriting – all while doing those things for a day job (another publication).

I was unsure how to reintroduce myself and what Iambic is to the blog – and how to clearly state my objective for Iambic as we move forward. So I spent days and nights with it – thinking about what it means to have this platform and what I want to do with it. I want to create an Iambic YouTube – and
I want to write myself – my race, my people, my sisters – into existence.

Weeks ago, I had interviewed an old friend for my day job. Calling himself a “black creative”, he owns a few ventures – puppetting them from a iPhone X as his worker bees (some volunteers like how we have on Iambic) scramble to make him look like the next Steve Jobs. And I’m not saying anything is wrong with that . It was wonderful to see this black gentlemen gliding through the hotel lobby where I was interviewing him – an iron giant of a starched tan suits, beautifully leather pointed shoes with silken socks, afro manicured and coiffed like a hedge. He radiated confidence and self assurance and all the things that I feel once a month when I finally a good twist-out.

talk about health, wealth, blackness and womanhood (and how those things collide). I want to write and feature other’s writing – give them somewhere to lay their literary burdens. I want art and photography up here – in beautiful, copyright protect portfolios.
He owned a art gallery and monthly art show – I asked him if he painted at all.
He said no. He didn’t even go to the shows.

He owned a small restaurant. One of those pop up shops that hand you candied plantains or blackened jerk chicken or truffle mac and cheese like forbidden treasures in gold aluminium foil.
He said he never ate there – despite the photos of him smiling with the staff.

Then why did he start these ventures anyway?

He immediately asked me if the site was monetized (it’s not, but we are selling merch). The Businessman was aghast – he said we needed to get investors and elevator pitches out quick. He talked to me about funds and starter fees and credit and all the other things that our head editor Anna begins to explain to me and my eyes gloss over. According to The Businessman, I needed to stop writing for free and stop rallying the troops – “A real editor doesn’t do the grunt work, even if it’s just a blog.” My energy should be on finding investors. I don’t know about that.

His business card simply said “CREATOR”- all white and glossy with the words embossed in gold and the title in big black letters. I couldn’t help but hear the business card yell at me the way that Invader Zim’s computer shouts at him.

THE CREATORRRRRRRRRRRR

“Let’s do business, Lee.” He said, before gilding off.

That’s when I realized I don’t want any of that. It wasn’t the fact that he called me Lee (a name reserved for my partner and my grandfather after a pint of Guinness). It wasn’t even the business card. And no, I’m not even mad he called my baby Iambic “just a blog”.

I love the grunt work. I love not having advertisements and having to fight tooth and nail to afford Iambic’s site and software. I love not having to blog about tooth whiteners or tummy teas for a quick buck and some eyeballs. I love talking to writers and asking them about their pieces and waiting for them to pop them out on their own time. I love our group chat – which is rife with aspirations, goals, writing ideas, and copious amounts of anatomy and sexual education facts.

I love creating this, and the comments we get from it, and the satisfaction of putting up the pieces. Even if Iambic had millions of readers and billions of dollars, I could never detach myself from it and dictate from an iPhone. Real editors are the lifeblood of their publications — no matter how small.

So this is an relaunch and an upgrade – funded by the wonderful support of our annual shindig. I hope this brings along new ideas, content, conversations, and lots and lots and lots of writing. I hope someone will read a piece they really needed to read that day. I hope some writer says something they have been craving to say. I hope that every photo, illustration, and video is a reflection onto our blackness, womanhood, and existence.

We are small, but we are mighty, and I see excellent things in our future.

Thank you,
Your Sergeant of Salad,
Leah