Author Archives: Je Writer

The Warmest Low: The Deep Blue Sea

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Read the complete book here

By Jordannah Elizabeth Graham Co-edited by Lauren H. Smith I Foreword by Tracy Dimond

The Warmest Low Reader: The Deep Blue Sea is a meditative, genre-defying chapbook that deepens and expands the visionary landscape of Jordannah Elizabeth Graham’s The Warmest Low series. Blending memoir, lyrical prose, social reflection, and environmental poetics, this limited edition publication serves both as a personal reckoning and a literary excavation of memory, place, and identity. Through an intimate examination of her upbringing in Baltimore — a city steeped in mystery, contradiction, and historical trauma — Graham confronts the layered realities of being Black, different, and gifted in a place that rarely embraces those who diverge from its norm. The Chesapeake Bay, its moody skies and troubled waters, becomes a spiritual and ecological metaphor, mirroring her complex emotional terrain.

Sundial

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From the new column: Kingdoms and Diamonds about love, marriage, traversals, emotional health and healing.

Had I not learned from him—well, I don’t know who or where I’d be. Probably living in the mountains or near a body of water, becoming more obscure by the moment. Maybe I’d keep writing; maybe I’d finally have time to pick up the guitar. But I can’t avoid the presence of hearts and thoughts, of evil and the destitution of the world. I would have stayed in a safe womb where Charlie, Bobbi, Rolli, and now Button sit.

By the time Button came along, I knew not to drink milk or Pepsi—but kids like what they like. Most of them are picky.

Their father and I are, too.

I sat down to get my life in order—reordered, I guess—a couple of summers ago, and realized I love about fifteen things in the entire world. One of them is travel. But I like what I like, and so do they. Branches of the same tree—his and mine—simple and larger-than-life auras. I want nothing to do with any of it, but he had to become the biggest and the best. I’d have loved him either way, but I love that he encourages me, inspires me to be the very best I can be. Otherwise, I’d have spent my days frequenting farmers’ markets, volunteering, shopping for this and that; staring at a first edition of The Catcher in the Rye, studying whatever intrigued me, walking around with nothing in particular on my mind.

Of course, I always wanted a family.

He had to make sure everyone was themselves, and I guess I seemed—

It doesn’t matter now. We’ve got everything we wanted and a lot of complexities that are truly simple drama—cut-and-dry anxiety from people who are privileged, safe, wealthy, and sometimes find their homes, cars, and daily lives are just enough.

No one is starving. No one is suffering from the love he and I have cultivated—at first sight, at first heartbeat, at first cry.

They think power is supposed to feel like something—that it changes us, or makes us want to hurt or dominate each other.

They don’t understand the healthy balance of love and power.

One of us has something up our sleeve—or both—and no one knows how it will play out. But we are parents, and we love each other.

I didn’t know milk made him sick until our son gave me nausea and sweats. I feel guilty because he has bad bones, and I realized he can’t just take calcium. Me prescribing milk baths—it was all probably vomit-inducing.

‘A’ Concerto

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From the new column: Kingdoms and Diamonds about love, marriage, traversals, emotional health and healing.

There is a concert pianist—too keen-looking for comfort—and they say her fingers are losing their touch. My boys and my husband had to travel to the region anyway, so I asked them to see her perform, to take in some culture.

I’m stuck in a hotel room in Cairo until I get a little scratch to travel to another familial region. Yes, we have plenty of money, but my kids—they don’t want their parents to be “richy-rich.” I understand. He and I both come from middle-class upbringings. We didn’t have much, but we had grade school, and we started our careers early.

I still dream of him at twenty-three. He comes to me that way, even when he’s right next to me—still that young man. Our sons and daughters are spitting images. I suppose neither of us can forget our youth, those purer times.

Suffice it to say, I made it far in my career, and people try to say I am promiscuous. They say terrible things about him, too. I’ve always been devoted to my studies, so it hurts. It feels inescapable. I cross the world, and it seems people follow just to be cruel.

No complaints, I guess. We have a tribe, and an eldest son—a blessing from my previous marriage—who watches out for him. He watches out for me, for our children, for dozens—countless people—who are loyal to him. Lately, I feel I should be watching over him now.

It has been so many years of toil, of care, of observance, of kindness, of tenderness, of thoughtfulness—of asking people to help him keep me safe. Many times, they fail, and it is up to me and him.

Maybe that isn’t entirely true. But those closest have been failing, and here I am, holed up in a hotel room in Cairo, unable to see him drive past because I live in a circular marketplace. I look for him lightly, without expectation. I understand that in a dense city it cannot always be that way—that he arrives late, or in the afternoon, when I need sleep or need to work.

I am happy with my family, though. No one seems to believe it.

No one seems to believe it.

Sworn

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I think what bothers her more is that she doesn’t have anything I desire. 

I don’t think like that. 

But I wish she loved me. Family; I don’t think you have to love one another. It’s appropriate, right and moral to do so, but after some time it’s ok to be honest. 

Those closest to me seem to have the least accurate assessments like calling me “wild”. Maybe 20 years ago as a teen. I still look 17 so it’s hard for people to understand I’m bearing 40, and live as such: quietly, dodging all the damaging assessments, having given up on waiting for someone to tell the truth:

I’m peaceful, quiet, reserved. 

I can go for days without saying 25 words. 

I’ve always been this way. 

I’m tired. 

I’m ready to settle down, marry again and be left to my last 20 years before retirement.

 No one is listening to me.

I’m not a girl. 

I’m planning to divorce in 2026 because 10 years is something to be proud of. The pandemic spoiled plans to fly to his homeland, spend time with our son, but it’s all OK. There’s never been one argument. 

I’m not an idealist, I won’t have unrealistic expectations in the future but I was lucky. 

I’m so tired of living in a reality that doesn’t align with others; the world they think I live in as the woman they perceive.

My privacy is treated like anyone’s property and those closest to me say words like “ego” and “wild”, words I want nothing to do with. I’m living in another plane of existence. 

I’m worried about my student’s needs and development. I’m focused on humanitarianism, the safety of women and girls in Africa and India, Baltimore and in the south. I’m concerned of female circumcision, and giving access to food. 

I walked out of my house tonight and handed off a bag of food.

All these words: “player”, “chasing”, “one-up”: they don’t exist in my world. If one were to “one-up”, children would have a good meal, girls would have supplies they need…please one-up! I have no place for competition in my life. Service is not competition, and I feel suffocated been seen through a lens that has no value to me or those who are in need of care. 

I’m tired. 

My life is not an insult to someone’s existence. I feel stifled in a world of meaningless banter. 

And if I scream I’m crazy. 

I’m so confused as to why anyone would want to stop me from helping people. What the violation is as if I’ve rejected people I communicate with regularly: a misogynistic twilight zone of forced sexuality and delusional drama that does not exist. He didn’t get dumped, I didn’t sleep with her man, I’m not playing games with men, I am an adult who thinks about nature, music and tapering scenes in film. 

I don’t manipulate, I am concerned of geopolitics, geography and architecture and archeology; sociology, anthropology, my neighbors, my family, the future of the next generation. 

I don’t know what to do. 

I don’t think about social conflict except how to escape this box. 

I lived 35 years outside of this box and I don’t want to spend my latter years dealing with bullies. 

Breath. 

That is how I feel. 

I’ll get free. 

Now, the seasons (contrary)

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Everything has been contrary, I’ve been contrary, working really hard on myself and everything that I have any amount of control to bring about a trajectory of a positive fate. But there is no such thing as control, really. I’ve had to have a lot of faith, and I will continue to close my eyes to the ridiculousness of vain and privileged conflict to make a better life.

It is not advantageous to make things look easy. I do not skate through life, on the contrary, everything I’ve earned has come from years of painstaking consistency, sacrifice and purpose. A Black girl from Baltimore City, it’s not been easy, and in some ways, I have made choices to where I have not felt the heart-wrenching experience of being betrayed by a child I birthed, or experienced a painful divorce. I’ve sheltered myself from some experiences. I knew as a young person, that my heart would possibly not be able to take such experiences, but now that I am nearly 40, I have the choice, resolve — but still do not plan to drive myself toward such visceral happenings. I got married at 29. Statistics say 40% of Black women have never been married, so I see the grace in this. The pandemic quieted things, and now we barely speak. All of the children I supported my friends in raising, I don’t see them anymore. I hold that pain in my heart, but it has afforded me freedom to be present with my students. 

I’ve been quite honest today, they say that Chiron, a minor planet and comet that inhabits its own solar system outside of the sun, is, astrologically known as “The Wounded Healer”, is in opposition with Mars, the planet, in the sky today, meaning there is healing with forward movement.  Mars doesn’t always mean conflict and war, but can denote action and passion because on the contrary, I feel I have been behaving very calmly. I just wrote a couple of letters when I opened up, and I don’t know if I’ve lost or gained, but I am learning at my age, but that is all

Ultimately up to, should be focused on and about me — after spending much of my life putting everyone before me, many times to my lack and detriment. 

I need freedom.

I’m not a girl, long have those days passed.

Long have those days passed.

Life

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What was the morning, is now the afternoon and the sun sits high above the freshly manicured lawn and intricately planted flowers in the park.

The night time is more peaceful as intuitive squabbles spark in my mind’s eye. Yet, they have nothing to do with me. I know this to be true as I say nothing but notes to three beings of imperfect light.

I love the world as it is.

I love life as it will be.

The beneficiary

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It’s done. His name is now the point of contact for one of my two investment accounts. It was through calamity and default. He’s my beneficiary through the sheer spinning of the wheel of fortune. It is not a matter of the amount, but a matter of sadness and happenstance that my kin can no longer reap any fruit from my small yet diligent hands because of aggression, impatience and greed.

He doesn’t have to do a thing. My step son will be the beneficiary of the other account, my husband that of my joint and checking, and it is done. It is with a weary heart pumping through the treachery of loneliness, as this life is not for everyone – the life of long quiet nights functioning as an entrepreneur, expanding my wealth and wingspan.

Do not play chess, or gamble with me by arriving with a sour temperament because everyone is now outside of the trust. No one receives royalties, or old journals that could be published after I am gone except for the tried and true. He fights for me and professes his love when I am not around, therefore, I have very little knowledge of how much he truly loves me, but I have an idea, and an acute intuition.

A small circle. Brown skin, now he’s my next of kin because my blood could not learn how to not boil, not my blood, my flesh and blood. So, the one with whom I share my flesh has gotten luckier than old ex-friends professed we both were to have found one another.

Good on him. Very well.

P / P Poetry: ‘Yes, it certainly does’

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What is summer without the darkness of the cold?

It would not exist, it would just be day.

There are days when I wish the nightfall would cool

the soft shades of my eyes so that my dreams would be

crystal to see you all the more.

To see more, of you, inside. 

Inside your heart and mind.

What is winter without the damp dregs of the noontime 

on a hot August day?

I wish the seasons would balance, sitting in the middle

of the pendulum of your soul. 

My love is never droll, never lost, never gone.

You hold the wand as a magician; holding, simultaneously

in your left hand the sword in the stone.

You are all that the world could ever want. 

It does not make sense.

But, yes, it actually, certainly does.