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.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)