Friday Feature: Ashlee Haze

Ashlee Haze is a Telly Award-winning poet, librettist, and spoken word artist from Atlanta by way of Chicago. Her work has been featured in Poetry Magazine and numerous local publications. She is the host of Moderne Renaissance, an educational and cultural podcast for modern thinkers. Her sophomore book, SMOKE, was released in April of 2020, with a second edition published in May 2023. She has partnered with the Atlanta Opera for their 96-hour Opera Festival as a librettist for two consecutive years (2024-2025). Ashlee holds a B.A. in Philosophy from Georgia State University and spends her time innovating ways to tell the stories not often told.

Sing One We Know - A Love Story

after “Sparks” by Coldplay

“Oh, b*tch! His name sounds like a character from a book!” My sister screeches as I tell her about the man who would unravel me and make light work of the process. A black architect named [redacted] ain’t something a girl from Chicago could even dream of, and there he was, with skin the color of sunburnt magnolia leaves and eyes I could make a home of. I’d read all the self-help books by the time he slid into my dm’s. I knew that after a woman leaves a toxic man, the universe eventually sends love. Do not assume it will stay forever. That is a novice mistake.

Our first date occurred under serendipitous circumstances- a rare Friday when I was not on tour and he didn’t have the kids. I flew to Baltimore and he’d made the drive to meet me after the Friday DC traffic finally let up. After verifying that neither of us was catfishing the other and acknowledging the butterflies we kept tucked behind our teeth, we acted like we’d known each other for years. I don’t know if we fell into each other’s rhythm so easily because he’d been married before or because I spent my life (sub?)consciously rehearsing to be a wife. I do know that it felt right at the time. We had dinner and spent the night watching Insecure and fighting sleep like it owed us money. The next morning, as we were headed to brunch he threw on his “we were here before Columbus” t-shirt along with his HBCU track jacket and I thought to myself this man may just well ruin me- and I may just well consent to the ruining.

I remember exactly what he ordered for brunch- the brisket Benedict special and kale juice. I remember the songs he played on the way back to DC from Baltimore, as I sat, both fascinated with the technology of his Tesla and bent on not letting him think I was impressed. In hindsight, I regret the times I admitted to being impressed. I know now, though, that it was not my honesty to blame, but his cruelty. I wish more women understood that.

I remember the movie we were late to and him falling asleep halfway through. I remember him waking only long enough to grab my hand, and how I swore the earth moved beneath my feet. I remember the drive downtown and the tour of his workspace. I remember him telling me the story of the time he was racially profiled in the local Walmart. I remember him holding my hand as we walked to my favorite bakery- a journey he’d make 3 times and never complain about. Even when there was no street parking and he would have to circle the block because the line was long. I remember us stuffing the cupcakes in our mouths as we rushed to get to the portrait museum before my flight. The kiss near the Michelle Obama portrait. The moment he insisted on taking a photo of me, the ride to the airport. Bracing myself to say goodbye.

Our second date was more perfect than the last. He’d used a little clout from his government job to get us a top-floor room at the MGM Grand. He reluctantly valet-parked the Tesla and paid for the overpriced food at the casino. We people-watched and played roulette until we exhausted the money we were willing to lose. The next morning, he watched sports and did a little work while I packed and snuck off to take a toke of my vaporizer. We went to another movie and he fell asleep halfway through (this is a pattern). Then we co-worked at a bookstore until it was time for me to go back to the airport. He made me listen to New Orleans-based rappers all the way to DCA. I would have been hard-pressed to think of a better heaven than this. I recall the details so vividly because, of all the things I remember, I don’t recall him showing any signs of being cavalier or cold. That’s the part I think has been hardest for me to grasp. It’s not that I missed some signs - there truly weren’t any.

On our third date, he made the trip from DC to Atlanta, having delayed his trip a day due to work, but still managed to arrive in time to celebrate his birthday with me. The winter hadn’t settled into Atlanta by then, but the rain seemed like it wouldn’t cease. I had a hole in the sunroof of my old Benz, and the poor man had to ride with his hood on. For a long time, I thought to myself, maybe that’s why he left. I later sold the car just to be sure.

We ate at one of my favorite little black cafes where the brothas serve your pancakes and grits with a little Earth, Wind, and Fire. While we waited, he picked up a notebook. “Draw me a beach house,” I said. And right there, in a rainy cafe window, he sketched me a 2-balcony beach house a poet could write worlds in. Two of the young waiters looked on in awe, and I knew he was a man I could retire in a beach house with. Then, as if scripted, a woman in the corner approached the table, apologized for interrupting, and said how much she loved my work. The ground moved again for sure this time.

The rest of the weekend went much like the others. A movie- only this time he managed to stay awake. Lunch and lounging around in the rainy afternoon. He made me watch a Chappelle comedy that night. I try not to hold that against him.

Our last date, if you could call it that, was New Year’s Eve. He didn’t make plans, but I wanted to be close in case he did. Another mistake. I met him at work and we drove to look at a property he was interested in developing. The agent was late, which gave us more time to listen to our favorite Luther Vandross songs. While we were touring the site, my white manager sent me a passive-aggressive text with the intention of pulling me into her misery. I remember my blood boiling because I was being stressed by a manager at a $10.00/hr job while touring a property with my architect boyfriend. I’d be back to reality, soon enough. Why couldn’t she just let me have New Year’s?

I’d lived in his world before- a world where your good government job afforded you luxury and brunch in the wealthy black parts of town. By the time we met, I had traded it for the uncertainty of art income and a simple life that sometimes included being underpaid at a part-time job with a white manager who’s all too eager to remind you who’s in charge. We ate at a suburban pasta place on the way back to DC and parted ways because it was his night to keep the kids. I rang in New Year’s without those eyes. That hurt more than I have ever cared to admit.

Shortly after that, the good morning texts stopped. The nudge in the afternoon didn’t elicit a reply. Sending him an article on the weekly hot topic didn't make me any more visible. I tried to reason my way through it. I thought perhaps it was work. Or the distance. Maybe it was the hole in the sunroof. Or the part-time job. Or my weight. Or the age difference. Or the fact that I didn’t have kids. Or his mother’s illness. Perhaps he’d wooed another woman with that skin and decided he liked her better. Then, after a while, rage took the place of optimism and self-pity. Finally, I learned to accept the brutal truth. That he wasn’t being the man he said he was. He didn’t want to be that for me, and there was nothing I could do about it. His absence was intentional, the same way his presence had been. He simply didn’t want me anymore and couldn’t be bothered to say it. Nothing can adequately prepare you for the moment when someone you decide to love leaves without saying goodbye. Isn’t that what love is about, though? The risk of devastation?

At some point, he apologized. I don’t know if it was because of guilt or convenience. Perhaps he was the first of us to need grace, and it will make sense when it’s my turn to get in line for a helping. What I know for sure is that this type of withdrawal can make you crazy. It can make you think you deserved it, or maybe you dreamed the whole relationship up. Maybe I am terrified that if I don’t document the collision, there will be no proof that we were there- that there were sparks, even if you can’t tell just by looking at the debris.

These days, we are friends in the truest sense of the word. To be fair, he’s been present longer than he was gone, and that means something. Together, we are opening the gift of a new beginning. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t wonder what would have happened if he’d chosen me (that thought is a lot more fleeting now that the wound has healed). I am grateful for the time we had and for knowing that when the time comes, I want my beach house to have two balconies.

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