My dream was to be a newspaper editor. Actually, I had a few dreams, the rawest, those that came and never left. Not the prancing ones, but the sticky Langston Hughes ones.
I wanted to be a a newspaper editor and a war reporter, a jockey and paleontalogist. An army linguist. I imagined ducking behind sand-dunes with a typewriter (whatever, it made the dream better) ticking away with combat boots and an AK, tan camouflage and band of brothers that were amazed by my feminine strength and resiliency. Oh, the dream is amazing, the dark night stars drizzling red and blue, and white bullets. And I would send these amazing pieces to America and the people would cringe at the horribly distinct visions. And, then, I realized that I am a pacifist and would probably weep uncontrollably at boot camp.
I was 5'8" in seventh grade and my great uncle, looked at me with those baby blue eyes, and he said to me, he said, "jockeys are little, tiny, itty, bitty men, the horses have to run- fast." So, there was that. He was right, and my retired race horse, the one I had for practice, was so stubborn, that just as the undulation was exact and speedy, racing down the cleared out field down the road from the house, well, when she would stop suddenly, and send me flying, I realized, it was on the next one. Dream.
And, we would dig up arrow heads, ran and showed our parents and made up amazing stories of eascaping from some plantation down the way and to make friends with little Indian boys and girls and live forever down by the river dancing around a fire with cracklers blowing up in a twirl toward the sky. Smacking our hands over our mouths as we made Indian hollers waving the arrow heads or stringing them in our hair.
But then my little sister was born and I taught her how to read. The book, effectively served by phonics and memorization, "Don't Touch!" it is called. So well done, that child skipped Kindergarten.
Oh yes, the Fates anger me. Teaching really? Of all the glamorous things they could have spun and of all things at all in general, teaching.
But my Italian mom, and my Spanish mom, and my beautiful mother all said the same, that it was the thing I did so well.
So here I go, to embrace this thing that I do so well. And, nope. I ain't worried 'bout nothing. My truest dreams come true. I never know how, never as planned, but they do. So, I teach them how to conjugate verbs as I too, sit in Kiswahili and Portuguese classes.
I pack my bags for Dubai. To celebrate in a luxury hotel, with my closet of friends. Remember how on a beach in the Mediterranean, I dreamed on seeing the Al Burj, oh but how I knew.
I dream of a beautiful man, and beautiful love. A beautiful child and a beautiful expression of my creativity, my talent, and my perspective. All the beauty comes, so I fervently try to relax.
And nope, I ain't worried 'bout nothin.
via Waka Flocka Flame, yeaaaaah. oh, let's do it.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Friday, November 1, 2013
World Domination
We seek to set forth the best examples for future generations of stripped socks, khaki, boat shoe wearing African-Americans.
Oh, yes, I do my best that they go with speed and grace and more importantly, with razor sharp vision - that that I did'nt have. You beautiful black scholars, be unlike me, be better, that is my desire.
And yet in order to do just that, in order to be better,
boo, you must beat the baddest.
via imperial swag.
Oh, yes, I do my best that they go with speed and grace and more importantly, with razor sharp vision - that that I did'nt have. You beautiful black scholars, be unlike me, be better, that is my desire.
And yet in order to do just that, in order to be better,
boo, you must beat the baddest.
via imperial swag.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Memory
I miss feet on grass, starry nights with windows open, wide eyed listening to tree frogs and 'yidget' birds. And lantern lights strung up on dark branches in old tobacco fields. The way the red mud cakes up and sticks in chunks to hunting dogs and dog's fur in bird nests. Cherry trees and laughing so loud. Front porches, side porches, back porches. I miss porches. Good food and the sound of house slippers and screen doors closing, we wore house clothes at home.
Wild red hair and sun dark black skin. So black he nudged me toward the moonlight to see my face. 'Beautiful.' Laughing at my jokes, bad jokes oh no he didn't care. Racing down the long driveway, peach ice cream in massive scoops. White skin turned red from the thrill, oh no he didn't let me win. But, I did.
Who taught us to love and where did he go?
To the city to find money and pats on the backs and good times. I found a tired cart of struggles that wouldn't push itself. Was it the wrong city?
I miss, the country.
Wild red hair and sun dark black skin. So black he nudged me toward the moonlight to see my face. 'Beautiful.' Laughing at my jokes, bad jokes oh no he didn't care. Racing down the long driveway, peach ice cream in massive scoops. White skin turned red from the thrill, oh no he didn't let me win. But, I did.
Who taught us to love and where did he go?
To the city to find money and pats on the backs and good times. I found a tired cart of struggles that wouldn't push itself. Was it the wrong city?
I miss, the country.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Anacostia
I finished a skirt. Tied off the end and clipped it from the serger. Oh yes, it was fly. I wondered why the Lord gave me such seemingly useless gifts. Why is there a perpetual feeling of discontent that hangs over my head as does contentment, like a carrot in the face of a donkey? I already know that change and invention and -ish comes from the periphery. But the periphery is dusky and lonely and I see that, "I'm different."
The P90X from the DVDhypeman is on the counter and I stared at my thighs. Nope.
In moments of utter solitude, I think about praying and asking, "Lord, why?" But I already knew the answer and time is better spent asking actual questions. So the prayer is now, "When, Lord, when?"
And a child started talking back, the amount of wisdom she lacked was so expected and so tragic. Ignorance surfaced as she went poppin' off at the mouth. There was a picture of the President taped to the wall. The view of Washington is ridiculous.
The teacher looked at the misguided scholar: "Tell it to Obama. . . I don't got time."
I busted out - laughing.
Everything comes with time. Dreams come slow but I know they come. I suppose that's the nature of conception and the depth of procreation. Though I know it's the soft kisses make love beautiful, let me paint the picture as I flail my arms and pout like the thick girl from W.W. and the Chocolate Factory.
I want that job, that man, those clothes, and the billion dollar Beyonce hair. Mostly, I want wisdom. I know God is big and God is infinite. I won't sweat the process. I won't defecate on the struggle. I will seek wisdom.
God gave me style and God made me fly. Why? The same reason God gave me hips for days. . .
Because I can handle them.
When? First, I'll let it sizzle, then, I'll make it hot.
Via a subtle nod of understanding: the foreplay of dreams we call a struggle life.
The P90X from the DVDhypeman is on the counter and I stared at my thighs. Nope.
In moments of utter solitude, I think about praying and asking, "Lord, why?" But I already knew the answer and time is better spent asking actual questions. So the prayer is now, "When, Lord, when?"
And a child started talking back, the amount of wisdom she lacked was so expected and so tragic. Ignorance surfaced as she went poppin' off at the mouth. There was a picture of the President taped to the wall. The view of Washington is ridiculous.
The teacher looked at the misguided scholar: "Tell it to Obama. . . I don't got time."
I busted out - laughing.
Everything comes with time. Dreams come slow but I know they come. I suppose that's the nature of conception and the depth of procreation. Though I know it's the soft kisses make love beautiful, let me paint the picture as I flail my arms and pout like the thick girl from W.W. and the Chocolate Factory.
I want that job, that man, those clothes, and the billion dollar Beyonce hair. Mostly, I want wisdom. I know God is big and God is infinite. I won't sweat the process. I won't defecate on the struggle. I will seek wisdom.
God gave me style and God made me fly. Why? The same reason God gave me hips for days. . .
Because I can handle them.
When? First, I'll let it sizzle, then, I'll make it hot.
Via a subtle nod of understanding: the foreplay of dreams we call a struggle life.
Friday, February 15, 2013
L'Enfant Plaza: Washington, DC
A lady found my check on the metro.
She tracked me down and is returning it to me at the shops at Promenade.
Restored faith in mankind.
via good people
She tracked me down and is returning it to me at the shops at Promenade.
Restored faith in mankind.
via good people
Sunday, February 10, 2013
A Place of Free WiFi: Washington, DC
There are wait, let me count them:
15 tables.
I man sits at my table.
No big deal.
Nope.
No big deal.
But then he starts to cough and play music really loudly and it's no thing that there are 14 other tables but at the moment of that overexposed cough it did get akward and I was like:
I was like:
I was like: [wait for it]
I was like:
what the what?
via straight akward moments, via my other other blog
15 tables.
I man sits at my table.
No big deal.
Nope.
No big deal.
But then he starts to cough and play music really loudly and it's no thing that there are 14 other tables but at the moment of that overexposed cough it did get akward and I was like:
I was like:
I was like: [wait for it]
I was like:
what the what?
via straight akward moments, via my other other blog
Church
I wear hats- wide, big brimmed, deep coutry, give me that "low" religion church hats. Let me explain.
Some people think, "that's too catholic," carrying a spirit of rebellion that they fully don't understand. A priest smears wet ashes on the forehead of whosoever sha'll come: mostly catholics and the good epsicipalians. And me, a footwashing baptist.
I look down at my hands and imagine a few hundred years ago, how may lashings would have been counted across my back. In this dream, I can't figure how I would have learned to read and write, but for the timelessness of my creativity, I can't help but figure: I would have learned to read and write.
Now, I imagine, somehow acquiring some scripture and then, reading that scripture. Gathering with some family and friends, who, from hear and speak traditions, had passed on the good news that we all know or want to know, "oh He died! Didn't He die!" And, me, after reading that scripture would be in the balcony of a church defiantly descended down from the Church of England on Ash Wednesday ready to take that oath and smear across my face too, the second half of every Baptist sermon, "Oh, but He rose! Didn't He rise!"
And then I figure it would go like this:
Seeing this all take place, I would need to take part in this. The burned palms for the sake of my sin sick soul, smeared across my forehead as the remission of those afforementioned nails. Yes, I would walk down from the balcony, slowly, slinking down through the mass of Black faces, into a new crowd and down around the mass until I bowed before the priest.
But you see, I would look up at the priest and down at my hands, and realize the exclusion by which I had been made clean: Blacks weren't human.
So, you ask. Why do I dawn the ash? Listen in Israel as the alarm to face Mecca sounds five times a day and watch as people fall into prayer and Jews, wail at the weeping wall with shrouds. Any annonymous Christian passes through. We have that choice and for the former or latter: the ash or a forehead as clean as the next, we have been forgiven.
I dawn the ash, because some man who had made his way up from the islands and into a situation of slavery could not read. And despite all the elsewhere things, like reading and writing, confessed his sins and carried on because of the cross, that beautiful sign of joy and life everlasting.
I dawn the ash because the same people who carried those palms to Calvary nailed that Perfect Man onto the cross, that emblem of suffering and shame.
I dawn the ash because despite my imperfection, my sin and limited understanding, I hope at least one personwill ask me: "what is that on your face," so that I may share a story of love for all people. A symbol of execution and redemption. Whether Black, White, or other, I might invite him to walk down with me, through the crowd, and straight to the priest to smear a trace of oily palms: that mean something so simple and something so eternal:
For God so loved the world.
via a history of a movement, via the blood of Jesus Chirst
Some people think, "that's too catholic," carrying a spirit of rebellion that they fully don't understand. A priest smears wet ashes on the forehead of whosoever sha'll come: mostly catholics and the good epsicipalians. And me, a footwashing baptist.
I look down at my hands and imagine a few hundred years ago, how may lashings would have been counted across my back. In this dream, I can't figure how I would have learned to read and write, but for the timelessness of my creativity, I can't help but figure: I would have learned to read and write.
Now, I imagine, somehow acquiring some scripture and then, reading that scripture. Gathering with some family and friends, who, from hear and speak traditions, had passed on the good news that we all know or want to know, "oh He died! Didn't He die!" And, me, after reading that scripture would be in the balcony of a church defiantly descended down from the Church of England on Ash Wednesday ready to take that oath and smear across my face too, the second half of every Baptist sermon, "Oh, but He rose! Didn't He rise!"
And then I figure it would go like this:
Seeing this all take place, I would need to take part in this. The burned palms for the sake of my sin sick soul, smeared across my forehead as the remission of those afforementioned nails. Yes, I would walk down from the balcony, slowly, slinking down through the mass of Black faces, into a new crowd and down around the mass until I bowed before the priest.
But you see, I would look up at the priest and down at my hands, and realize the exclusion by which I had been made clean: Blacks weren't human.
So, you ask. Why do I dawn the ash? Listen in Israel as the alarm to face Mecca sounds five times a day and watch as people fall into prayer and Jews, wail at the weeping wall with shrouds. Any annonymous Christian passes through. We have that choice and for the former or latter: the ash or a forehead as clean as the next, we have been forgiven.
I dawn the ash, because some man who had made his way up from the islands and into a situation of slavery could not read. And despite all the elsewhere things, like reading and writing, confessed his sins and carried on because of the cross, that beautiful sign of joy and life everlasting.
I dawn the ash because the same people who carried those palms to Calvary nailed that Perfect Man onto the cross, that emblem of suffering and shame.
I dawn the ash because despite my imperfection, my sin and limited understanding, I hope at least one personwill ask me: "what is that on your face," so that I may share a story of love for all people. A symbol of execution and redemption. Whether Black, White, or other, I might invite him to walk down with me, through the crowd, and straight to the priest to smear a trace of oily palms: that mean something so simple and something so eternal:
For God so loved the world.
via a history of a movement, via the blood of Jesus Chirst
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Charlottesville, VA: Culbreth Stage
The day I found Tina Fey's acting shoes in the lockers outside the costume shop: I learned to embrace that I am one of those theatre, improv, writer nerds.
MLK Jr Blvd
Two days ago I realized Arianna was defiant.
"Arianna, come here for a second," I'd asked. To me, this was a simple task, only one direction, and with no certain implication.
She didn't move.
Oh, ok, I thought. Five-year-old didn't hear me. "Oh, Arianna, please come here." Five-year-old didn't move. At this point, I looked the other way and grinned, knowing . . . had it been me:
My mother would have been so angry, she would have just looked at me and I would have started crying. She would stare and probably only say, "Wait 'til your father gets home and I better not see a tear fall." I'd be crying and she'd say, "Hush that noise up before I give you a reason to cry." Then Daddy would arrive home. Look at me and say something in that tone, oouu that tone. Walk past me and go about his business.
My father spanked me once. My mother, well, she once told me to outside and get a switch. She only ever whipped us with her palm so when this happened,. I walked outside and let her cool off: played with Balto, made some mud pies, explored in the wood and came back with a cherry tree branch. But my father, only once. It wasn't rod sparing, but it was, the "I bet' not" philosophy . I just thought to myself, "how could I have done something so wrong to have disappointed this man." To fathom that, my goodness, to fathom that. - A thought I thought at age five.
When Arianna didn't move, I had to break through with love. Tough love like my father. I looked at her and walked away. I didn't scream. I looked at her and walked away. The behavioral specialist came and she looked at me. It was time for the lecture and I used that tone I myself, hated to hear:
I love you. (This is how my parents began any act of discipline). I love you, Arianna. You hurt me when you do the wrong thing. In my class you will not disrespect me, you will not be mean to other students, and you will not make bad choices. You are too smart, too beautiful, and too precious to do bad things. Everytime you make a mistake you can do better. You can say, "no big deal, I will do my best next time." But, Arianna, you chose to do the wrong thing, you made a bad choice.
The process had began.
Today, I told Arianna to seperate herself and she looked at me. She looked at me, I held her and said, "Arianna, make a good choice, do the right thing. This is your time to decide to do the right thing. You were not doing your work, so you have to sit by yourself to focus. No big deal. Take out your book and read."
She paused. I took a deep breath. She sat down, alone and read. She empowered herself and I was so fulfilled.
Now, I wanted to cry and I was about to. So I walked away from her. When she had successfully reiterated the book to me, I let her rejoin the group. I asked if she wanted a hug, a handshake or a high five and she chose a hug. I hugged Arianna as if her life depended on it, as if my life depended on it.
Now, in my head, the Rocky theme song was playing. With the swagger of the kindergarten high girl, who does 4th grade work sheets and with a Crime Beat, I think, "get on my level."
Tomorrow is a new day. A day that may be good or bad. A day that I may wonder, "why me, Lord, why me." But, today, I made a difference, and too, I could ask, "why me Lord, why me." But, for all it's worth, to step away from my own aspiration and thoughts absorbed with the futures of my own, I impacted a life beyond mine. Today was good, and today, I'm winning.
via the methods of my father
"Arianna, come here for a second," I'd asked. To me, this was a simple task, only one direction, and with no certain implication.
She didn't move.
Oh, ok, I thought. Five-year-old didn't hear me. "Oh, Arianna, please come here." Five-year-old didn't move. At this point, I looked the other way and grinned, knowing . . . had it been me:
My mother would have been so angry, she would have just looked at me and I would have started crying. She would stare and probably only say, "Wait 'til your father gets home and I better not see a tear fall." I'd be crying and she'd say, "Hush that noise up before I give you a reason to cry." Then Daddy would arrive home. Look at me and say something in that tone, oouu that tone. Walk past me and go about his business.
My father spanked me once. My mother, well, she once told me to outside and get a switch. She only ever whipped us with her palm so when this happened,. I walked outside and let her cool off: played with Balto, made some mud pies, explored in the wood and came back with a cherry tree branch. But my father, only once. It wasn't rod sparing, but it was, the "I bet' not" philosophy . I just thought to myself, "how could I have done something so wrong to have disappointed this man." To fathom that, my goodness, to fathom that. - A thought I thought at age five.
When Arianna didn't move, I had to break through with love. Tough love like my father. I looked at her and walked away. I didn't scream. I looked at her and walked away. The behavioral specialist came and she looked at me. It was time for the lecture and I used that tone I myself, hated to hear:
I love you. (This is how my parents began any act of discipline). I love you, Arianna. You hurt me when you do the wrong thing. In my class you will not disrespect me, you will not be mean to other students, and you will not make bad choices. You are too smart, too beautiful, and too precious to do bad things. Everytime you make a mistake you can do better. You can say, "no big deal, I will do my best next time." But, Arianna, you chose to do the wrong thing, you made a bad choice.
The process had began.
Today, I told Arianna to seperate herself and she looked at me. She looked at me, I held her and said, "Arianna, make a good choice, do the right thing. This is your time to decide to do the right thing. You were not doing your work, so you have to sit by yourself to focus. No big deal. Take out your book and read."
She paused. I took a deep breath. She sat down, alone and read. She empowered herself and I was so fulfilled.
Now, I wanted to cry and I was about to. So I walked away from her. When she had successfully reiterated the book to me, I let her rejoin the group. I asked if she wanted a hug, a handshake or a high five and she chose a hug. I hugged Arianna as if her life depended on it, as if my life depended on it.
Now, in my head, the Rocky theme song was playing. With the swagger of the kindergarten high girl, who does 4th grade work sheets and with a Crime Beat, I think, "get on my level."
Tomorrow is a new day. A day that may be good or bad. A day that I may wonder, "why me, Lord, why me." But, today, I made a difference, and too, I could ask, "why me Lord, why me." But, for all it's worth, to step away from my own aspiration and thoughts absorbed with the futures of my own, I impacted a life beyond mine. Today was good, and today, I'm winning.
via the methods of my father
Friday, January 25, 2013
Union Station: Washington, DC
Thank you Lord for my long, well craft legs. That, when paired with a heel of no more than one or two inches in height and opaque tights, makes me tall and trim enough to be a showstopper on the metro. People stare like I am a fierce freak of nature.
In my imagination, the tiles on the metro platform had become perfect for walking, the people parted ways, and suddenly, my world transfigured into a catwalk. Light from an oncoming train shone though a narrow and tunnel, a futuristic flow set in. The slow poke folks had all seemed to gather round and I missed the first train but the vibe was too good to me angry. I arrived at the train and Gyptian began to play. My curls were nappy, some were straight loose, and all over my head. I felt free.
It's true, we must love ourselves and our world. There is only one of each. We must find at least one incredibly beautiful thing about the temples we inhabit. My legs, I love.
via UGG clogs with fur insoles
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Barry Farms, Anacostia, DC
I saw Ryan. Five now. She had that stank look on her face that she always had, squinting her eyes. And, Loyle, pouting for some reason. These were my girls. A couple grade-levels above the other children and capable of entertaining thoughts beyond the scope of, "if I can touch it, it's noun! I think to myself can I touch "running"? Nooo, Silly Billy! I can't touch running, it's a verb!"
"What is the first thing you think to yourself?" Some girls were miming, "Can I touch it?"
And she responded, "I think to myself, 'Is is it a noun or a verb.'" I smile and nod, "My little homie."
And Jamiana looked at me and said, "I remember you. You are my old teacher." And she gave me a hug. I was her first teacher. That is something I will always be. The new class of teachers who did not know me, saw a few of the girls laughing and smiling to hug me. If there is swag to be had wearing a ponytail and sweater, well, I was dripping swagu. Yes, I said it- drippin', drippin' swagu.
There are always a few people who have memories that date back as far as 2 and half years old. Jamiana's memory was rather insane. She pulled out her lunchbox that had a full bag of chips, a lunchable, and some red drink. I looked at her as her fingers doddled over the oreos. She smiled and went for the cheese instead. She would be crying in another two hours because she wanted me to write the word "music" for her and my response was, "sound it out, do your best." She looked at me, like, "you [insert choice word] . . . you can read all these books and you tell me to, 'sound it out'. She wrote, "mixooic." Nice. And big ups to her Pre-K and K teacher. The girl's got mad phonics.
Jazzlyn was too, mad smart. She had remembered I'd moved to another country and asked if I live in Chinese. Considering I had read Lon Po Po to them, I am so amazed by her mind.
The moment to moment in a classroom is always a test of patience. Looking out over DC and seeing the monuments, riding the metro with people dressed in fitted suits, carrying briefcases wearing oxford pumps and referring to myself in the third-person time and time again, let me speak truth, is trying. I have certain real fears. The fear of not ever being compensated justly and always working beneath my capacity, fear of wasting time,talent, and purpose, fear of being mundane. I never had the luxury of the fear of being different, it was just always, a fact of life.
But there is no feeling like seeing my girls learn. Seeing little girls that look like me, being brilliant. I hope oneday they will all know how much I love them and how proud I am. I hope they don't listen to all the forces that in some way front negativity. Forces that tell them however explicit or subtly that there is something wrong with being Black, being a girl, and being different.
I chose to spend my formidable years with my grandfather on his farm instead of in preschool. He watched me write and said that I was so smart. He read to me and fell asleep at the kitchen table while I read to him. He listened as I retold stories of Big Horse of Jake, of Tee-lik and Dee-lik (my imaginary friends that lived in New Jersey, and about whatever things I wanted to talk about. He bought me notebooks because I wrote a lot and taught me to share, he ate an oatmeal cookie a day. Well, half of one, the other half he gave to me. He was my teacher and friend. That I use my mind, this was his expectation. In the South, there are forces strong forces saying in every way, that women, esp. nappy haired, dark-skinned Black women are capable of very little.
But those forces were no match for my grandfather, and I pray these forces in SE, DC or where ever my girls may go, pale in comparison to the light I seek to impart.
via this preschool dropout, via a calling
"What is the first thing you think to yourself?" Some girls were miming, "Can I touch it?"
And she responded, "I think to myself, 'Is is it a noun or a verb.'" I smile and nod, "My little homie."
And Jamiana looked at me and said, "I remember you. You are my old teacher." And she gave me a hug. I was her first teacher. That is something I will always be. The new class of teachers who did not know me, saw a few of the girls laughing and smiling to hug me. If there is swag to be had wearing a ponytail and sweater, well, I was dripping swagu. Yes, I said it- drippin', drippin' swagu.
There are always a few people who have memories that date back as far as 2 and half years old. Jamiana's memory was rather insane. She pulled out her lunchbox that had a full bag of chips, a lunchable, and some red drink. I looked at her as her fingers doddled over the oreos. She smiled and went for the cheese instead. She would be crying in another two hours because she wanted me to write the word "music" for her and my response was, "sound it out, do your best." She looked at me, like, "you [insert choice word] . . . you can read all these books and you tell me to, 'sound it out'. She wrote, "mixooic." Nice. And big ups to her Pre-K and K teacher. The girl's got mad phonics.
Jazzlyn was too, mad smart. She had remembered I'd moved to another country and asked if I live in Chinese. Considering I had read Lon Po Po to them, I am so amazed by her mind.
The moment to moment in a classroom is always a test of patience. Looking out over DC and seeing the monuments, riding the metro with people dressed in fitted suits, carrying briefcases wearing oxford pumps and referring to myself in the third-person time and time again, let me speak truth, is trying. I have certain real fears. The fear of not ever being compensated justly and always working beneath my capacity, fear of wasting time,talent, and purpose, fear of being mundane. I never had the luxury of the fear of being different, it was just always, a fact of life.
But there is no feeling like seeing my girls learn. Seeing little girls that look like me, being brilliant. I hope oneday they will all know how much I love them and how proud I am. I hope they don't listen to all the forces that in some way front negativity. Forces that tell them however explicit or subtly that there is something wrong with being Black, being a girl, and being different.
I chose to spend my formidable years with my grandfather on his farm instead of in preschool. He watched me write and said that I was so smart. He read to me and fell asleep at the kitchen table while I read to him. He listened as I retold stories of Big Horse of Jake, of Tee-lik and Dee-lik (my imaginary friends that lived in New Jersey, and about whatever things I wanted to talk about. He bought me notebooks because I wrote a lot and taught me to share, he ate an oatmeal cookie a day. Well, half of one, the other half he gave to me. He was my teacher and friend. That I use my mind, this was his expectation. In the South, there are forces strong forces saying in every way, that women, esp. nappy haired, dark-skinned Black women are capable of very little.
But those forces were no match for my grandfather, and I pray these forces in SE, DC or where ever my girls may go, pale in comparison to the light I seek to impart.
via this preschool dropout, via a calling
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