Feel Me?

It's amazing how much our bodies will tell us if we take a moment to listen. We are uniquely connected to the universe around us, especially when it comes to our "spaces". I'm using "spaces" to represent both the concrete and ethereal worlds around us. Before you sign me off as having slid off my rocker, take a minute to think about your day. How is it like every other day? How is it different? What is a "regular" day, and what is a "good" day.

I was thinking about this on my way to work this morning. You see, I woke up around 7am, with the intent to do a couple loads of laundry, walk the lake, and go grocery shopping before I made it to work. For someone who has trouble getting up and getting ready in time to make it out of the door at a decent hour, this would truly be quite a feat. But, for whatever reason, it didn't feel like that today. Today, I felt like I could do it, as though I did it every day. And I did. Not only did I successfully wash and dry two loads of clothes, walk the 3+ mile lake in torrential downpour, buy four items from the grocery store to complete my breakfast and lunch, but I made it to work EARLIER than I did yesterday - if only it was by a few minutes. Did I wake up extremely early? No, only an hour earlier than I did yesterday - and it takes an hour (on average) to walk the lake on a good day. I don't have a washer and dryer in my apartment; it's in the next building over. So what was it???

I have no idea. The phenomena of it all drove me to recognize the power of our feelings. Nowadays, our culture thrives on how we feel. If you feel like doing something, do it. If you don't feel like it - you get the point. Do people still do things though they may not feel like doing them? Of course, but I believe there are fewer of these people in this day. For example, the America of the 1940s required men to enlist for the war. Women had to run households and sometimes maintain part-time jobs to supplement the devastating effects of the depression. Children were expected to be in school or, in very unfortunate cases, work in hazardous factories. These were the days when people did things because you had to, forget how you felt. Now, take for example, the non-profit org I work for. We offer youth ages 17-24 the opportunity to work for pay four days out of the week, while they complete coursework towards their high school diploma in the evenings two days a week and Friday mornings. I will admit that the work is extremely laborious. But the program targets people who could not work it out in the conventional school system for whatever reason - i.e. this is a choice, or a result of not-so-good choices. Still, people will not go to work or school, because they don't feel like it, extenuating circumstances much longer than they ever should.

What is it about us, about our culture that makes us different from our counterparts of yesteryear? How did we get this way? Will it propel us into further laziness and ineptitude, or is it for the greater good? Allowing us to "express" ourselves into the genius of the future? Which is better: the hope that people of the past worked for and had for us or the dreams we currently have for ourselves?

This Black History Month: ASSESS how you feel.

CPT

...is an acroym for "colored people's time". While I resent the term because I know plenty of colored folk who make it a priority to be on time, if not early - shot out to my sands Sheena - I admit that the space on my wrist where a watch should be is dictated by CPT. In fact, scratch that. I'm on my own time, period. There's no tellin' when I may show up to something. But one thing you can count on is this: if I don't say that I won't make it well in advance, you can bet I'll be there...at any given time.

I really don't know what my problem is. I don't like being late, it always makes me feel guilty. However, I have a terrible habit of finding other things to do when I need to be making my way somewhere to get there on time. This year I've been working on this bad habit of mine. Can't say whether or not I'm doing well, unfortunately, because I don't think about my stats much. Guess that's a problem...But it trips me out that when I really care about making an impression, I'll go out of my way to make it work the first few times. After that, I care, just not that much I guess. It reminds me of the time when I really liked this guy, and I discovered early on that his idea of being on time was being five minutes early - at least. This turned me on to him even more. He was strong in an area in which I was weak -score! He said he was going to stop by early one morning to pick up something of his that he had let me borrow. I got up 45 minutes before the time he was suppopsed to arrive so that I could shower, bursh my teeth, and arrange myself to look fresh and attractively "roused" from slumber when he arrived at 6:50am instead of 7am. (the lengths women go to...sheesh!)

Ironically, though I am cronically late to a severe fault, I cannot stand when others are tardy and/or waste my time. I guess I look at it as, my time is my time; I can waste it at my own discretion and leisure. If you're foolin' around with me, you should know me well enough to know that though I love you dearly, I'm probably going to be late. I'm sorry. I am considerate of your time in my mind, but that doesn't seem to translate well to CPT - or Mic's Time in this case. Bear with me people, I'm still working on it...

This Black History Month: FALL in time...(mic)

The Gift of Song

Another day of satisfaction - for what more could one ask? Friends and I spent the day shopping in the city, buying stylish fits that I'm positive none of us could afford. I had had a headache from lack of food for about three hours when we finally left the stores to pursue a good meal. As we walked up the block to a personal favorite of mine, Max's - on the corner of Geary and Mason, a homeless man approached us. My friends immediately picked up the pace, while I gently told the man that I did not have change on me to purchess a "Street Spirit" newspaper from him. For whatever reason, I have always attracted the homeless, so this incident, like so many others, was not unusual to me.

The man then asked me, with a big gap-toothed smile, if he could sing to me. Now, this I had never encountered before, though I did imagine a similar instance for a short story I once wrote. I didn't give the man a positive or negative response fast enough, so he quickly added, "A song won't hurt you none." He was right, so I let the man sing. The first thought that came to mind was the song "As" by Steview Wonder , and the first few lines that the man sung were from that song. My evening was brightened even more, if that were possible. (The dress I bought was fabulous!) Do you know that man sung me all the way up to the restaurant? And when we had arrived and I, again, politely told him that I didn't have any money to spare, he said, "Oh that's alright! Your smile and eyebrows are blessings enough!" Weird, I know. But sweet, too. In those moments leading up to the restaurant door, that man gave me more than I gave myself with my purchesses.

It reminded me of a part in the Narrative of Frederick Douglass in which Douglass clarifies that the slaves were not singing because they were happy, as their owners believed. They sang because of their sorrows; the songs merely helped them bare the pain. The fact that the songs appealed to whites was an unforseen positive byproduct. It is my belief that the gift of song is a blessing in myriad ways: it uplifts, soothes, encourages, and moves the soul in a way that other mediums cannot. Songs simply make us move. They are vehicles that transport us from here to there, wherever and to whatever those things may be. I know this to be true because people are plugged up to their Ipods every time I look around; shoot...I am, too! So, be thankful whenever someone gives you a free ride with the gift of song. I know I was tonight.

This Black History Month: CELEBRATE song.

Sounds Good to Me

For the past couple of Fridays, my job has invited presenters of various backgrounds to come and share information that may help students and staff. Today, the guest speaker was a chiropractor who has been practicing for over 20 years. He presented a wholistic approach to health, and healthy living. During his presentation, a member of the staff asked a question concerning the student body, which was not present as this was an all-staff meeting. He asked, "Since many of our students have a diet high in junk food," and I unfortunately cannot remember the rest. The set up of the question stopped me dead in my tracks: as if junk food were a vitamin or dietary supplement. "Junk food is their diet," said a teacher sitting next to me. I had to agree. Two days earlier I recommended water to a student who asked me for a dollar to buy a soda. "I haven't had a soda in a long time," he protested. "You had at least one yesterday," I said, "I saw you. Water's good for you. And, it's free! Saving you and me a dollar!"

However, as I continued to listen to our compelling presenter, my mind drifted to a project I did as a freshman in high school on the eating habits of minorities. The research revealed that culture, race, and economic status played large roles in the overall health of minority youth (and by minority, I mean Black and Latino). The staff member who asked the question about the high-junk-food diet continued on to say something about how it was hard getting the students to change their food choice patterns because they were more or less addicted to their eating habits. Who wouldn't be? Your eating habits are how you've been taught or how you've taught yourself to survive. I thought about my 9th grade project, and how minority youth selected junk food products because the sugar and carbs and all the other junk kept them fuller longer. When all you have is a dollar, a high-sodium Cup o' Noodles will probably hold you longer than an apple, especially when you're craving the salt. Or better yet, beef jerkey, sunflower seeds, etc.


All this thought ignited my memory again. In the 11th grade, a girl on my speech and debate team did an expository speech on salt. In that speech, she explained that among its other myriad uses, such as currency and preservation, that salt was fed to African American slaves to keep them from passing out in the fields. Sounds crazy at first, right? Salt = dehydration, how does that help a slave toiling under the blazing sun? But think: the number-one purpose of Gatorade is to replenish the electrolytes in the body. (Electrolyte: 1 - A chemical compound that ionizes when dissolved or molten to produce an electrically conductive medium.
2 - Physiology Any of various ions, such as sodium, potassium, or chloride, required by cells to regulate the electric charge and flow of water molecules across the cell membrane.) Had I have known that back in the ninth grade, I could've added it to my research project. It is possible that not only are young Black people of a lower socio-economic class struggling with poor health choices because of their limited access to money, but it could also be our culture as a racialized group in America has imbibed poor health practices because we originally had no other choice. If you give us the worst and we make the best of it for over 400 years, somewhere along the line it becomes a habit. I was fortunate enough to be raised with more options. My mom made good ol' recipies in new, healthier ways without sacrificing too much of the comfort and taste. Yet, as I sat down this evening to a bowlful of greens (made like my grandmother taught me - with a hamhock, and not turkey ham), I deeply valued the innovations strained from stretching a dime as far as it could go.





This Black History Month: TASTE the present and SAVOR the past.

Ms. Sweet Tooth

It's amazing how a kind word or gesture can immediately change a mood, or even the entire atmosphere. When I awoke this morning, Valentine's Day and all its related activities, were the furthest things from my mind. I wasn't suffering from single-woman depression or anything, I was just concentrating on getting to work at a halfway decent hour. However, when I entered the front door, the receptionist surprised me with a chocolate and a warm (though professionally work appropriate) "Happy Valentine's Day". My whole world lit up, I kid you not. I had the misfortune of picking the wrong chocolate - some sort of choco-rasberry filling (yuck!) - but I sucked that chocolate until I couldn't stand it before I threw it away. The gesture alone was enough to brighten my entire day.

From that point on, I was greeting people with very merry "Happy Valentine's Day!"s, and the day only got better. One of the teachers came in bestowing sugar crusted choco-cookie puffs on everyone. It was like she was the Christmas cupid or something. In general, the atmosphere of the work place was buzzing with brotherly love. The executive director made stops at every cubicle and office with a box of heart shaped cookies, and not long after that she had plates of chocolate cake. I fearfully thought to myself, "I really need to take it easy. I just got six cavities filled. Don't need to share the holiday love with the dentists pockets!" But even the thought couldn't stop me, because right after I devoured my cake I revisted the receptionist to snag some Dubble Bubbles.

Now, don't get me wrong: I like chocolate, but I'm not a chocoholic and I rarely ever eat this much chocolate and/or sweets in one day. I mean...I lost my mind. Kid in a candy store was an understatement. This was like Hansel and Gretel with a wicked witch shoving candy in your face at every turn! I guess I was just full of the festivities and the general spirit of love.

In the midst of all this eatery, I thought of my father - quite the chocoholic in his day. My mom would tell me all the time about how he would eat chocolate ice cream, with chocolate cookies (Keebler's), and chocolate syrup. To this day, I can't stomach the thought. Anyway, when I was a small child an event occured at school where some little boy said I was bad because I was brown. I don't remember everything around the story, I don't even remember the story at all to be honest because it is a rememory fed to me by my mother. So the kid said I was bad because I was brown and it really disturbed me. It must have been my dad's weekend with me because I told him about the incident first. Whatever he said, which will soon be revealed, didn't assuage my disease because my mom found out about it shortly after. Apparently, my dad had told me that the claim was ludicrous because chocolate is brown, and chocolate is good, and everybody likes chocolate so I couldn't be bad.

Needless to say, my mom was fed up with his parenting in the matter. She must've explained to me the real reasons for the boy's accusation, because my mother always told me the truth as a child. However, I like to hang on to my dad's story because it's cute. Now that I'm older, I can see where he was coming from: someone had spoken ill of his child, which must've hurt him deeply, and he came up with the best - albeit, inaccurate - answer he could. Everybody had to like me because I was brown like chocolate. And who doesn't like chocolate? Certainly not a chocoholic. It goes to show that in the end, love and truth covers (and conquers) the bitterness of hate...like chocolate.

This Black History Month: FEED yourself TRUTH & LOVE.

Brothers and Sisters

I saw injured Iraqi citizens on a documentary presented by HBO. While twisting hair and talking on the phone, I watched as a man and his wife were loaded into an ambulance. Both husband and wife were crying out in disbelief because the injuries they had sustained were caused by other Iraqi citizens. Since I was multitasking, clearly understanding what was happening and why was utterly futile. However, this I remember: the husband shouted repeatedly "Iraqi! Brothers! Brothers did this!" and his wife: "How can this be? Our brothers! How can it be? We are brothers!"

Immediately, I thought of the criminal acts that take place in American streets. In the black community, it is often called "Black-on-Black Crime" when an African American kills, robs, or in any other way hurts his black brother (or sister). We say that it's a shame, and that we need to lift each other up and stick together instead of gunning each other down in the streets or stabbing each other in the back. And it IS a shame, and we DO need to stick together. But, it has always bothered me that, for many people, black skin automatically equates with unity. Indeed, it was necessary in order to survive the institution of slavery, and more acutely, the institution of racialization. We are still trying to survive racialization. Yet, no matter how hard we try, we are not always the same and we are not always going to think, react, or feel the same. Though the reasons for us coming together as a homogenized group are clear, it is difficult and problematic because at the root, we are all different.
"Africa is a continent, not a country," I explained to one of my students in a feeble attempt at a Nigerian accent. They had asked if my accent was African after I told them that it was not Jamaican. Then one of them asked me how long it took me to learn to speak normal English instead of Nigerian. I told them that I wasn't from Nigeria, and that Nigerians don't speak Nigerian; that they have different languages and dialects belonging to various groups: prominently Igbo, Yoruba, and Haussa Fulani. "How did you learn to talk like that then?" they asked. "I listen to my friends."

It is easy for me to believe that of all the slaves that ever lived in the South, some of them did not actively want to be free. Some of them did not want to run and escape. Some of them believed that through hard work and doing everything that they were told, they would achieve freedom. These slaves would undoubtedly be labeled Uncle Tom's by today's standards, although this is an inaccurate nomenclature (reread Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe to get a proper understanding of Uncle Tom). Nevertheless, this is what these people believed, whether it helped or hurt them in the long run. Sometimes, when people don't think the way we think, we call them stupid and foolish, but it's just different. Sometimes, we know this variance of thought will cost them everything - our heart subconsciously goes out to them and we tell them they are wrong so that the can see the light, and be helped or coaxed into doing it our way. Sometimes, our way is wrong and we're too stubborn to see it. I thought of this because I recently saw some old enimies of mine. I was telling a friend how, though I spoke, they acted as though I wasn't even there. The friend and I laughed at how these people were hanging on to petty squabbles that had happened years ago, but then I asked myself after I hung up the phone, "Am I hanging on, too? Because if I'm not, why do I feel the need to get someone else to criticize them with me?" I realized that I am still bothered by the nonsense that occurred so long ago, mostly because I don't understand it; partially because they won't let me get past it.

Araminta Ross, better known as Harriet Tubman, encountered similar problems on the famous Underground Railroad, but since people's lives were at stake, she didn't fool around and wallow in mess. Doubters always had the option to not go on the train, but once they were on there was no turning back. She meant what she said, and she carried a shotgun as persuasion. Those who wanted to turn around, could accept death from the end of its barrel. Because Tubman's train was so successful at leading people to the promised land, many called her "Moses". Funny thing about Moses, he was just as hot tempered. In Exodus, when Moses came down from Mount Sinai and saw that the people had made a golden calf to worship in his absence, he broke the tablets of God's law, assembled those who were on the Lord's side (the Levites) and told them to kill everyone else who was worshiping the calf. "'Let every man kill his brother, every man his companion, and every man his neighbor,' [and] the sons of Levi did according to the word of Moses" (Exodus 32:27-28).

I find that we may personally hold on to things when we want to be accepted or included, not always because we are envious or spiteful. When we are stubborn and cannot listen to one another to try to understand a different point of view, we make premature yet lasting judgements that weigh us down in fermenting ignorance. In this way, we end up straddling the fence because we cannot stand firm in what we believe and waver in the doubt of another's disbelief at the same time. I love black people - I doubt that will ever change, but in the words of a famous (comedian, I believe it was): "All my skinfolk ain't my kinfolk." I'm moving on whether they like it or not.

This Black History Month: If at first you don't agree...SHAKE the haters.

Box Me In, Scottie

Just finished watching the first episode of Sex and the City on HBO ON Demand. You gotta love syndication at your command.

Anyway, I remembered how good this show is. You really can't get the full effect from reruns on Kron 4 or TBS; you need all the nitty gritty, uncensored details to get the real feel of the show, and HBO provides it in a way that only HBO can. Episode one, "Sex and the City", introduces the four women that we come to know and love, as they discuss the topic of sexual relationships between men and women. Carrie then decides to explore the idea of women having sex like men - simply, unattached, illicit sex - for an article in her column. In the meantime, cynical Miranda hooks up with Skipper the hopeless romantic, Charlotte gets dumped after what she thought was a spectacular evening because her date really needed to have sex that night, and so made his way to Club Choas where he found and hooked up with Samantha. We already know Samantha's game plan, and after "Mr. Big" rejects her offer to take a look at secret parts of the club to which she has access because of her business in PR, Charlotte's date is a more than welcome option. Finally, Carrie can't get a cab, but is fortunate enough to have been found (or followed - I haven't decided yet) by Mr. Big's car, and he offers her a ride home after telling her that her problem stems from the fact that she's never been in love.

Oh please. We know what that turns into six seasons later. But I thought about it for a moment, pondering the situation from a black perspective. Historically, black women didn't have the option for such an open range of sexual identities; neither did white women for that matter. Instead of four, there were two: the Mammy and the Jezebel. One was a sly, predetory nympho (which I hope you know only applies to women by definition...) the other was a de-sexed mothering machine. However, from yesterday's girl gab bash - and from general common sense - I know that these stereotypes couldn't be further from the truth.

I think all women, many at least, go through stages of Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte and Samantha. It's like trying on different hairstyles. Just about every female friend I know has cut her hair almost boy short at some point, and just about every one of them has rocked a weave as well. This is true because the person within us all is ever changing. There may be times when women can, without remorse, go out and sex like man without attachments. There are times when the same women may want to settle down for the rest of their lives. One period of time may last longer than others, and so forth. But the idea that black women are either baby makin' machines or sex-driven demons is a tad bit much. I believe some exist, but for the most part we're somewhere in between. Pay no attention to the "booty-booty-butt-cheek"-like videos.

This Black History Month: FLEX stereotypes.

Girlfriends

In the words of Ice Cube, "Today was a good day". It was beautiful out, hot even. The early morning church service was excellent, as was Sunday school, and I was out early enough to complete some of yesterday's errands. I visited a friend, who helped me with a project for a couple of hours (we happily smacked on cake as we worked away), and then went for a nice long walk with a different friend some time after that. After our workout, I cooked a healthy, hearty meal, we watched Def Comedy Jam and then headed over a friend's house to play Wii until just about now.

I've had these friends of mine since I was in college, which wasn't very long ago. I am happy that mostly everyone stayed near our college town because it allows us all to experience the first years of adulthood together. Adult dating, entertaining, and entertainment are all minorly different from their parallels in collegiate life; in a good way.

Before we got into Wii, we girls did a little dishing. It was cleansing, and fun...and well, girly I guess - a term that we as friends would hardly use to describe ourselves. Afterward we played round after round of Wii games until we tired ourselves out enough to quit and go home for the night. On the way to the car, my walking buddy exclaims, "Yay, we're really girlfriends." We were before, and this particular night of dishing didn't seal a previously broken deal. But tonight, sharing brought us a little bit closer; made things a little more real for us as young adults in the city. Momentarily, it reminded me of the Quilting Circles - groups of black women who got together to sew and work on quilts. While working, they would swap secrets, share advice, and just dish. It helped them get by because they could plug into and connect with a group of individuals who were in similar circumstances. Tonight, Wii acted as our sewing circle and our network, I believe, is just a bit tighter for it.

This Black History Month: SHARE your soul.

"Can I Take You Home Tonight?"

The title of this post is one line of hilarious many in that soulful American Classic, The Wiz.

As a child, this movie both confused and scared me, so I decided to watch it again to see if I could gain clarity.

I didn't.

I guess it's due to the fact that the story doesn't exactly match the original, which I was introduced to first. Also, I read Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in the 4th or 5th grade, and from what I can hardly remember, little of The Wiz aligns with it as well.

What I just couldn't get was why Dorothy was 24 years old still living with A'nt Em, why A'nt Em was on her case about her teaching job with small children, and why - when she ran after Toto into the blizzard - did Dorothy have to find the yellow brick road. In the original technicolor version with Judy Garland, she landed on the road and got to walkin' as soon as the Munchkins finished their ditty. Nevertheless, I am impressed with the fact that the creators of The Wiz, made it so different - yet similar enough to the original story - that it stands out on its own as an original.

I guess most of the differences between The Wiz and The Wizard of Oz lie in their cultural variances, though I wouldn't be much aware of either since I didn't grow up in Kansas or New York. However, I do prefer the creativity of The Wiz over The Wizard of Oz, eventhough it may be more appropriate for adults. It's a little darker: the scarecrow is made of paper trash, that ironically has famous quotes and wise sayings written on every piece of paper; the tin man is a smooth-talkin', gyratin' piece of work (boy, he was GROOVIN' in "Slide Me Some Oil!); and the dandy mean ol' lion (Fleetwood), with his fiercely styled mane and platform paws, is a cowardly crack-up. Still, Dorothy is 24 (looking well over 30) years old. Not 13 or 14. Is that....okay?

Speaking of Dorothy, I must say that I was uncomfortable with seeing D. Ross and Mike J. performing...so...well? together. I've heard rumors more than once of their suspect relationship. Moving on...

You gotta love the scenes in this movie, though. The brick raod looks drawn; not even slightly real, like it looks in the original, and still there are signs that say "Don't Ease". The subway (the scariest part of the movie for me as a child...and now) comes alive with weird huge, pink slinky things and trash cans with teeth. The "field" of poppies is rather a poppin party outside with scantily clad, big-bootied women in loud colors. Who couldn't get high off that? The city of Oz - on the other side of the bridge - looked fantastic! And when the quartet got inside, it looked like they were in a forest of marijuana sprinkled with massive, mint-flavored crack rocks. Pimps and high class hot mammas were fly and struttin' in sparkling green, 'cause "red is dead" - until the color changed. And you couldn't beat the scariness of the wicked witch of the West - her fingers bent BACKWARD when she try to take Dorothy's silver slippers (whoa!) In addition to the liveliness, the lines were priceless. "What do YOU want you overstuffed animal cracker?!" COM E DY.

Still...Dorothy is 24. Why?

I appreciate HBO having this movie available to me for free. It reminds me of their series for kids, which I thoroughly enjoyed, called "Happily Ever After" which retold fairytale classics from various ethnic perspectives. It made me love the stories even more. They should do more AMCs (American Movie Classics) like this, and possibly do an upgrade of The Wiz (a scary thought, as HARPO would probably take it on...). Can you imagine? Like...Guys and Dolls as Suckas and Sapphires....maybe not.

This Black History Month: Think OUTSIDE the box.

Chores...a choice?

The first thought that came to mind when I awoke around 8:30 this morning was, "Do I have time to do laundry before I have to go?" I had an engagement at 11:30a.m. and thought that if I succeeded in doing my laundry, I wouldn't have anything else to worry about once I returned home. It's now 7:30pm, and I still haven't done my laundry, which probably isn't surprising to anyone who knows me well. (For the record, I wasn't totally unproductive today. After my appointment, I ran an errand, visited a friend, came home and washed my car, and cleaned up - so there.)

I've often thought how convenient it would be to have a cherished aunt of mine live with me. She's notorious for washing - daily. Seriously, if there's nothing to wash she'll soil something just so she can wash it. I'm the exact opposite, however. Shamefully, there have been times when I've opted to buy new articles of clothing because I didn't feel like washing the perfectly good - though dirty - pieces I had.

Then it dawned on me. Thinking of how my aunt is such a diligent washer somehow got me to thinking about black washerwomen during the 1800s. I took a class once on African American Women's History, so I had a bit of information on the topic. According to a book by Terra W. Hunter called, To 'Joy My Freedom, the number of black washerwomen increased by 150% in the 1880s. One of the reasons contributing to this included people seeking cheaper services and hiring out for their laundry instead of assuming the costs of an in-house domestic, which was a plus for black women because it lessened their position of servitude to whites; instead, whites were more like clients. Plus, it afforded black women the ability to provide for their families, whether they acted as single, sole-bread-winning mothers or as support for an out-of-work spouse. Additionally, it allowed these women to "clock-out" at some point during the day, instead of being "on-call" 24/7 as an in-house domestic.

Being able to have some time off from work everyday was a big deal to black women, as To 'Joy My Freedom details in a chapter entitled "Dancing and Carousing the Night Away". It allowed women to be women, thinking, breathing, loving, laughing creatures - not mules and breedhorses. It gave them options that ranged from dabbling in debauchery to investing in innovations. An example of the latter can be found in the life of Sarah Breedlove, popularly known as Madame C.J. Walker. Before Madame Walker began concocting haircare products for African American women, she worked as a washerwoman, saving and seeking a better life - one that wouldn't cause her hair to fall out.

However, the work of a washerwoman wasn't easy, eventhough black women may have preferred it to domestic work. It was a hard hustle for little pay, just like many other types of work delegated to black folks back in the day. But, I'm sure glad they did it - for my sake, not necessarily for the sake of their clientele. More than anything, it shows me how hard women were willing to work for a little piece of their dreams, and how sweet those hard-earned pieces were to them. I see it in my aunt, who with not as much education as she would have liked, is practically resucitating the entire population of elderly folk in her neighborhood at 70 years old. She believes in, and sticks to, the fruits of hard work done in good faith.

I just wish some of that productivity and hope was passed down to me and others in my generation. That's not to say that there aren't people hustlin' after their dreams, out there - there are. But, it's different. Levels of patience are lower, and more times than not, the little victories are disregarded because they simply aren't big enough. Rev. Run, on an episode of MTV's "Run's House" said it in reference to his son's group, Blackout. Unfortunately, it's just not the same and at the moment, I cannot foresee if will be a good or a bad thing in the longrun , but so far it appears to be a madrush to destruction and despair.

In the meantime, I think I'll get started on my laundry.

This Black History Month: Appreciate THE STRUGGLE.

Jump Jim Crow! (or) "The Morning after Super Tuesday"

Weel about and turn about and do jis so,

Eb'ry time I weel about and jump Jim Crow.

Super Tuesday has come and gone. I must admit that when I woke up this morning I felt somewhat empty, like the day after New Year's when you realize that you have to go back to work. The celebration is over - not politically speaking, of course. The race for votes and voters is still going strong. Perhaps you didn't make it to the polls this time (shame!), but fear not: you'll have two more opportunities to make your voice heard once you've registered. That said, maybe some one can help me better understand something.

I know that when elections take place, there is always a lot of hype and mudslinging as those running for office try to collect as many votes as possible. I know that this year's race is monumental and thrilling for many, myself included. What I don't understand is why I'm often being told WHAT and WHO to vote for. Maybe I'm just paying attention for the first time, but this really started to bother me. Thankfully, we're not currently in the antebellum South fighting against a nonsensical grandfather clause. I know how to read, and so do my friends and family members. While many of the students I work with are not necessarily skillful readers, they also are not totally ignorant and illiterate. In fact, I am a witness of their cognisance in the scope of their worlds. So why did so many people TELL me how to vote?

NAACP someone-or-another important approaches the church podium and says to the early morning congregation: I have a slogan for you all, repeat after me: "No on 92 and yes on the rest". EXCUSE ME? Sir, not only will I not repeat after you - I'm not a parrot - but I will not allow you to disrupt my Sunday morning! I am blessed to have a good mind, in proper working order; please engage me as though you recognize this. Now, you may think I'm going over the top. This is natural. It's what I do. However, I fear for our nation when we have promoters of various things getting crowds and masses to repeat after them, instead of inciting conversations, discussions, and thoughts.

It's one thing to have a stance; as an intrigued individual I may question your stance, at which point you should be able to (at least briefly) spout the reasons for your beliefs in whatever. But I take issue with those who try to get me to do something "just because". And this goes for any and everything. I read the little NAACP newspaper "Minority Report" a week before Mr. VIP-NAACP made his visit to the church. The paper was passed out at the last service. Do you know that piddly thing made absolutely no sense at all? Literally, it said something to the effect of "vote YES on 93 because it's going to be great for us and we look forward to supporting so-and-so and such-and-such". Okay....what?! You didn't tell me what Prop 93 IS, you didn't tell me what a yes or no vote means, and you didn't offer any additional information I may not have known! If this was my only ethnically-inclined source of voter guidance and information, I'd be up the River STYX without a paddle or a gold coin to pay my way!

Mr. VIP-NAACP also states that we should vote YES on Props 94-97 because we have close bonds and coalitions with the Indians in the mentioned tribes. Pardon me, but I neither know you or any members of the Pechanga, Morongo, Sycuan, or Agua Caliente tribes. Is my issue clear yet? We're not talking groups who have identified political similarities and have banded together, we're talking people telling you what to vote but without the why. The issues are not as black and white as they were for minorities back in the days of Jim Crow. Many people lead lives that never give a thought to government issues, except maybe when an election comes up; and sometimes not even then. But I'd like to think that in the days when my forefathers had to vote, and it was seriously life or death at stake, that they made sure they knew what they were risking their life for, and that the made sure they knew details to the best of their ability. So why come now, in 2008, talking as if the reasons don't matter?

What also scares me is the fact that I think that this is partially due to the fact that fewer people read nowadays, and those that do read less often than their counterparts of the late 1940s. The New Yorker ran an article about the decline in reading a few weeks ago, stating may be reserved in the distant future for an elevated and/or nostalgic classes. That seems a bit extreme, but it still haunted my thoughts for a while as I thought about how television has been watered down to the max and films are getting dumb and dumber. "Prom Night", "Cell Phones", what's next? "Just Die"?...wait...is that already a movie?

Well, I gotta wrap up. But think about it, are you being force-fed your conscience?

This Black History Month: FREE YOUR MIND.

For Sale

It's time to try something new. Hope you like the new layout...and the new location. If anyone knows how to archive blogs from a different domain, please let me know. Otherwise, I'll have to keep "i'm an experiment" open forever. Or, as long as I can stand it.

Last Thursday, I picked up the newspaper - something I never do. I write for a newsletter that's distributed montly, and I was looking for something interesting to include that was related to Black History Month. Thankfully, I only had to look as far as the front page, where it was announced that "relics of a racist past" were going on sale. Next to the word "sale" was a picture of a black child with a large piece of watermelon; bitemarks marred the fruit just beneath a big white smile.

The article was about retired sociology professor, Jan Faulkner, who has collected over 2,000 pieces that negatively portray African Americans. She's resorted to selling her collection, "Ethnic Notions" - piece by piece - because she could not find a museum or university to buy it in its entirety. To quote the paper, she and friend Cynthia Turner (who's helping to organize the sale) "were surprised that [they] didn't get one response" from Historically Black Colleges and Universities. Frankly, I'm surprised as well.

Admittedly, I have no idea how a college or university is run. I'm completely unaware of the costs, the budgets, etc., but I'm sure it's all complicated and extensive. Still, I fail to understand how any HBCU can turn down such an opportunity. While I'm excited that this may give me a chance to own a little piece of a horrible past, I'm confused. Yes, pickanninies, shufflin' sambos', and gap-toothed/red-lipped smiles are hard to look at, but they are pieces of truth, a truth that, I believe, Black people should own.

We can, and should move past a history that's full of pain and rupture - but we shouldn't forget it. Faulkner said that she kept her collectibles under the bed for a long time, until she got to a point in therapy - which was mandatory for her psychiatric training - when she could look the past in the face, understand it, embrace it, and move beyond it. If we do not continue to unearth our stories, who will? And what will they say? Wounds heal best when they are treated, and you cannot treat anything without confronting it.

I did not have the pleasure of attending an HBCU for my undergraduate education, but I would imagine that they have celebrations and events throughout the month of February celebrating Black History. But I wonder if the negative side of a dark past will be discussed. Oftentimes we like to focus on the victories without considering the battles. It's all Black History, and had it not been for the dark side, what's to say that so many influential Black individuals would have broken the barriers as successfully as they did?

This Black History Month: FACE the pain.