g.g. Spirit Writes...

Open Letter to B.E.T.: How Dare You?

2011-01-19T00:11:00.000-05:00

You hurt my feelings. I thought long and hard about how to open this letter. ~~This is some bullshit! What did you do to ‘The Game’?~~ Finally I settled on, in the voice of my inner child, you hurt my feelings. The simplistic sentiment of that statement seemed to capture it all. You hurt my feelings.

See for the first time in a long time I experienced that ‘kid at Christmas’ feeling when I heard that ‘The Game’ was returning to television. I truly adored that show. For the half hour each week I used to watch it I was able to block out all the cares in the world and truly be entertained. Now that the show is on BET, it has the opposite effect, reminding me of the troubles that plague our community until my head aches.

This past Christmas my husband and I played a prank on our son, wrapping a box of newspaper and coal for him to open. In all his Christmas morning excitement and anticipation, he ran straight to the box and began opening. After pulling out a lump of coal, he ran to his room and closed his door. We, his parents, laughed at his reaction and now, having unwrapped the first two episodes of the new season of ‘The Game’ on BET, understand how that lump of coal felt in his hands.

Yes BET, that is exactly what you have given us, the 7.7 million viewers who excitedly anticipated the return of ‘The Game’, a lump of coal. Despite my joy over the shows return, my initial reaction to hearing the show would be on BET was apprehension, the long pause. Be aware BET, your negative reputation within the black community is not without merit. The accusations of ‘shucking and jiving’ are warranted. Yet even with this knowledge, I still decided to give ‘The Game’ a chance because, well, the writing and delivery of seasons one through three earned that dedication.

Now I’m not a religious woman but I can tell you I prayed, ‘Lawd please don’t let BET mess up this show.’ Some say the Lord don’t give you what you want but rather what you need. If that statement is accurate then I would have to say I was given season four of ‘The Game’ on BET to officially stop patronizing the network. Know this, your mutilation of this sitcom will be just enough for me to boycott the network.

BET, Black Entertainment Television, who exactly do you think you are entertaining? Do you really believe the 7.7 million viewers who tuned in were entertained by the uncharacteristic melodrama, complete with black and mild smoking and chitterling references? Who exactly did you hire to write for the new season? How dare you dumb the show down to negatively exploit far from entertaining stereotypes? I ask you, BET, are you laughing with us or laughing at us?

As for the cast, all I can say is I am truly disappointed. Given the current economy, I can truly appreciate that you are glad to be working consistently again. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t ask whether or not you challenged some of the writing. Perhaps it would pacify me on some level to know that Wendy Raquel Robinson at least said, ‘Nah, this is some bullshit. Tasha Mack would never go out like that!’

As much as I adored (past tense intended) this show, I would prefer to visit its sitcom grave than to watch it be tortured by you BET. There is so much more I can say but I think I will stop here and employ the adage ‘if you have nothing nice to say’. My one solace in this catastrophe is the knowledge that adversity breeds character. Maybe, just maybe, if you BET witness a dramatic decline in the viewing of this heavily demanded and anticipated return that you will finally stop dismissing the critique from the very community you claim to dedicate yourselves to empowering and change your programming to become the medium of social support, strength and unifying conduit to the black community it has the power to be. Until then, may I suggest that your writers, directors, producers, programmers and all those involved in conveying images to the black community as well as the other communities tuning in, watch Spike Lee’s Bamboozled repetitively until you can figure out what we are trying to tell you.

Deuces! *Derwin Davis voice, season 3*

Let your voices be heard…what are your feelings about the new season of ‘The Game’?

I Am A Slave...Are You? (Part 1: Is Slavery Over?)

2010-12-22T01:11:00.000-05:00

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but our self can free our minds. – Bob Marley

My emancipation from mental slavery came with the painful understanding that I am in fact a slave. I am not speaking metaphorically but rather quite literally. I am a black woman who believes the black community, in general, remains enslaved. While the following principles may be applicable to blacks around the world, this discussion is primarily directed at the black community in America, of which I am a member. Interestingly enough American enslavement is no longer limited to blacks but I’ll get back to that later, as I’m certain this will be the first in a series of discussion on this topic.

Some people believe that slavery, or at least the American chattel institution of, ended in 1863 with the Emancipation Proclamation. My initial response to one who holds this belief is astonishment. Truth be told, I am tempted to follow such an admission by asking if they also believe in Santa Claus but I understand that would be facetious so I refrain. I can understand why one has difficulty understanding that slavery never ended. In addition to the psychological damage of acknowledging personal enslavement, American society has cleverly camouflaged the practice with a heavily tinted veil. As with most, if not all, American political policies, my advice in lifting the veil would be to follow the money. Does one truly believe that a man who himself utilized and benefitted from slaves would wake up one day and decide ‘That’s it. This has got to stop,’ based solely on altruistic and moral concern?

Recently many gay rights activists celebrated the passage of the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ (DADT) repeal, abolishing the military gay ban. My initial response was it’s about time as I saw the ban as foolish to begin with but then I wondered about the timing. Granted gay rights have been a hot topic in recent years and the government is under civil rights pressure from the LGBT community but did the political machine which fought in opposition for an eternity just suddenly decide to concede or were other factors at play? Personally the continued overseas efforts and decline in military enrollment came to mind for me. Follow the money. The need for manpower has led to more inclusive requirements, including extending age limits and expanding criminal history waivers.

So ask yourself, what was going on around the time the Emancipation Proclamation was signed into law? An extensive historical analysis of chattel slavery would be too lengthy for this forum so I would invite you to do your own research and, for the sake of brevity, I will include a few noteworthy tidbits to substantiate my argument. I’m going to do things a little different though and draw my conclusion first, as I know some may find historical data boring and I would hate for you to stop reading before my point is made.

Growing up in Brooklyn, New York I noticed an interested phenomenon. When a nightclub got “shot up”, the terminology for a club related shooting, the club (recognizing the violent history was bad for business) would simply change the name and business would continue as it always did, same location, same patronage, just a different name. I argue that this is in essence what occurred with the institution of slavery.

Here’s the cliff note version of the timeline below. An internal financial power struggle ensued between the northern and southern states. The importation of slaves became a costly venture. A social movement to abolish slavery began to gain momentum. Slaves began to demonstrate an unwillingness to remain enslaved and a bordering country, by abolishing slavery, provided a feasible place for slaves to escape to. Financial crisis occurred and recapture became big business, at the expense of the federal government. Civil war began and the southern economy collapsed, thus leading the more financially powerful northern states to victory. The Emancipation Proclamation is signed into law.

Here’s an interesting quote I found on Wikipedia: “According to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the term capitalism was first used by novelist William Makepeace Thackeray in 1854 in The Newcomes, where he meant "having ownership of capital".[21] Also according to the OED, Carl Adolph Douai, a German-American socialist and abolitionist, used the term private capitalism in 1863.”

So slavery “officially” ended in 1863 and “private capitalism” was introduced in the same year? Sounds just like a Brooklyn nightclub to me – ain’t a damn thing changed!

What do you think? Is slavery over?

(Note: The following statements can be found on innercity.org)

1787: The Constitutional Convention adopts a “three-fifths rule” as a compromise to settle differences between Northern and Southern states over the counting of slaves for purposes of representation and taxation. Slaves are to be counted as three-fifths of a free man for both purposes. (The People’s Chronology 1995, 1996 by James Trager from MS Bookshelf)
1787: Dollar currency first introduced in the United States. (General Chonology Of Events 1994/1995 Leading Edge Research Group)
1811 slave trading was declared a felony punishable by transportation (exile to a penal colony) for all British subjects or foreigners caught trading in British possessions. Britain then assumed most of the responsibility for abolishing the transatlantic slave trade, partly to protect its sugar colonies. In 1815 Portugal accepted £750,000 to restrict the trade to Brazil; and in 1817 Spain accepted £400,000 to abandon the trade to Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Santo Domingo. In 1818 Holland and France abolished the trade. After 1824, slave trading was declared tantamount to piracy, and until 1837 participants faced the penalty of death. (“Blacks in Latin America,” Microsoft Encarta 98 Encyclopedia. Microsoft Corporation.)
Abolitionists, in U.S. history, especially from 1830 to 1860, advocates of the compulsory emancipation of African-American slaves. Abolitionists are to be distinguished from free-soilers, who opposed the extension of slavery. The active campaign had its mainspring in the revival (1820s) in the North of evangelical religion, with its moral urgency to end sinful practices. It reached crusading stage in the 1830s, led by Theodore D. Weld, the brothers Arthur and Lewis Tappan, and William Lloyd Garrison. The American Anti-Slavery Society, established in 1833, flooded the slave states with abolitionist literature and lobbied in Washington, D.C. Writers like J.G. Whittier and orators such as Wendell Phillips lent strength to the cause.
Turner, Nat, 1800–1831, African-American slave and revolutionary; b. Southampton co., Va. Believing himself divinely appointed to lead his fellow slaves to freedom, he commanded about 60 followers in a revolt (1831) that killed 55 whites. Although the so-called Southampton Insurrection was quickly crushed and Turner was caught and hanged six weeks later, it was the most serious uprising in the history of U.S. slavery and virtually ended the organized abolition movement in the South.
1833: Slavery abolished in Canada.
1836: In an effort to suppress the still feeble antislavery forces, Southern Congressmen proposed what was, in effect, an intellectual blockade. They urged federal authorities to allow states to censor literature that they deemed “incendiary,” including not only abolitionist broadsides but also a wide range of general magazines, Northern newspapers and religious journals that only occasionally mentioned slavery. Postmasters were encouraged to monitor citizens’ mail and remove anything that they deemed related to abolitionism. All petitions to Congress on the subject of slavery were to be automatically tabled, without being printed or referred to in any way. (Bordewich, Fergus M., Arguing About Slavery: The Great Battle in the United States Congress; book review of book by William Lee Miller, Smithsonian December, 1996)
1836: Congress passes a resolution, stating that it has no authority over state slavery laws. (The People’s Chronology, 1994 by James Trager from MS Bookshelf.)
Panic of 1837. The reckless land speculation and the specie circular resulted in a serious downturn in the US economy which worsened as Van Buren took office. The price of cotton fell by one-half in New Orleans. New York’s unemployed demonstrated against high rents and inflated food and fuel prices and one mob broke into food warehouses and sacked their supplies. Several banks, beginning in New York, suspended specie payments. Public land sales fell from 20 million acres (1836) to 3 ½ million acres (1838). The effects of the panic persisted until 1842-43 particularly in the South and West. (Growth Of The Nation 1800 – 40 Jefferson’s Administrations Stephen F. Austin State University, Nacogdoches, TX)
1838: The “underground railway” organized by U.S. abolitionists transports southern slaves to freedom in Canada, but slaving interests at Philadelphia work on the fears of Irish immigrants and other working people who worry that freed slaves may take their jobs. A Philadelphia mob burns down Pennsylvania Hall May 17 in an effort to thwart antislavery meetings. (The People’s Chronology 1995, 1996 by James Trager from MS Bookshelf.)
1841: The Second Bank of the United States crashes. By this time it is simply a private bank and no longer a national institution. When it ran into difficulties during the 1837 crisis it was still the largest bank in the world, but it finally crashes in 1841. P 484 (A Comparative Chronology of Money from Ancient Times to the Present Day, 1830 – 1849, Based on the book: A History of Money from Ancient Times to the Present Day by Glyn Davies, rev. ed. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1996. 716p. ISBN 0 7083 1351 5.)
1841: Slave revolt on slave trader ‘Creole’ which was en route from Hampton, Va., to New Orleans, La., Nov 7. Slaves overpowered crew and sailed vessel to Bahamas where they were granted asylum and freedom. (Major Revolts and Escapes, Lerone Bennett, Before the Mayflower,)
1844: Morse invented the telegraph (Selected Review Of Important Media Related Historical Events And Facts. Oklahoma Baptist University)
1847: Escaped slave Frederick Douglas, 30, begins publication at Rochester, N.Y., of an abolitionist newspaper, the North Star. The Massachusetts Antislavery Society published Douglas’s’ autobiography 2 years ago and he has earned enough from lecture fees in Britain, Ireland, and the United States to buy his freedom. (The People’s Chronology 1995, 1996 by James Trager from MS Bookshelf.)
1847: About 1000 slaves per year escaped to the North during the pre-Civil War decades, most from the upper South. This represented only a small percentage of those who attempted to escape, however, since for every slave who made it to freedom, several more tried. Other fugitives remained within the South, heading for cities or swamps, or hiding out near their plantations for days or weeks before either returning voluntarily or being tracked down and captured. (“Slavery in the United States,” Microsoft Encarta 98 Encyclopedia. Microsoft Corporation.)
1849: Maryland slave Harriet Tubman, 29, escapes to the North and begins a career as “conductor” on the Underground Railway that started in 1838. Tubman will make 19 trips back to the South to free upward of 300 slaves including her aged parents whom she will bring North in 1857. (The People’s Chronology 1995, 1996 by James Trager from MS Bookshelf.)
The Fugitive Slave Law passed in September 1850 allowed escaped slaves to be captured and brought back to their masters. The law also prosecuted anyone who helped hide slaves or who aided fugitive slaves in any way. The law was very expensive to the United States of America as it cost thousands of dollars to return all slaves to the places from where they had escaped. A boom also began in the slave catching business. It was easy to take any black person, free or not and say they escaped. Slave catchers roamed the whole continent looking for black people. Because of this law many blacks escaped to Canada in the 1850’s and 60’s. The Fugitive Slave Law was responsible for the escalation of blacks in Chatham and Buxton (Canadian towns), as they were final stations of the Underground Railroad. (The Buxton Settlement –Cultural Landscape. North Buxton Ontario, Canada. This information is taken from a Black History project completed by students and Staff from Chatham Collegiate Institute in Chatham, Ontario. Material was compiled from the collections of the Chatham – Kent sites of the African Canadian Heritage Tour.)
1857: Dred Scott decision by U.S. Supreme Court Mar. 6 held, 6-3, that a slave did not become free when taken into a free state, Congress could not bar slavery from a territory, and blacks could not be citizens. (The World Almanac and Book of Facts 1996, from MS Bookshelf.)
1857: Supreme Court declares in Scott v. Sandford that blacks are not U.S. citizens, and slaveholders have the right to take slaves in free areas of the county. (Underground Railroad Chronology, National Park Service)
1861: The US Civil War. The Confederacy finances its war effort mainly by printing money. In addition to the Confederate notes, the States, railway, insurance and other companies also issue notes. The resulting hyperinflation renders Confederate paper worthless. By comparison inflation in the North is relatively moderate as the Union government raises very substantial sums of money by taxation and borrowing. P 485-488 (A Comparative Chronology of Money from Ancient Times to the Present Day, 1860 – 1879, Based on the book: A History of Money from Ancient Times to the Present Day by Glyn Davies, rev. ed. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1996. 716p. ISBN 0 7083 1351 5)

Evolution and Creation: Opposing Theories?

2010-11-26T17:59:00.000-05:00

One of the most passionate societal debates stems from the theories of evolution and creationism, which atheists and Christians (among other denominations) often engage each other in perhaps the most tiresome game of tug of war I’ve ever witnessed. What would happen if we removed the ‘vs.’ and inserted an ampersand? I know that’s crazy talk right…or maybe not so much. Personally I’ve reconciled myself to both so I’m convinced it is possible.

Let’s start with a couple working definitions:

Evolution (also known as biological, genetic or organic evolution) is the change in the inherited traits of a population of organisms through successive generations.[1] This change results from interactions between processes that introduce variation into a population, and other processes that remove it. As a result, variants with particular traits become more, or less, common. A trait is a particular characteristic—anatomical, biochemical or behavioural—that is the result of gene–environment interaction.

Creationism is the religious belief[1] that humanity, life, the Earth, and the universe are the creation of a supernatural being. However, the term is more commonly used to refer to religiously motivated rejection of certain biological processes, in particular much of evolution, as an explanation accounting for the history, diversity, and complexity of life on earth.

So evolution says matter, organisms and species, through a series of mutations, gradually change. Based on empirical data and even basic human observation it would be pretty hard to argue from the vantage point of sanity. Add one tally in the column for evolution, I’m sold.

Creation says that life was created by a “supernatural being”. Contrary to evolution this may be pretty hard to accept from the vantage point of sanity. Apart from science fiction, fairy tales and near death experiences there hasn’t been any solid evidence to give paranormal credence.

For the atheists ready to file a “W” in the win column, I say not so fast. How can I still believe in creation, with no scientific data to support it? While I accept and fully believe in evolution, it falls short for me in one area. Where did the original matter which started us on the evolutionary course to that we recognize as life come from?

Yeah, yeah yeah The Big Bang Theory…love that television show…bazinga! All jokes aside, here is the working definition:

The Big Bang was the event which led to the formation of the universe, according to the prevailing cosmological theory of the universe's early development (known as the Big Bang theory or Big Bang model). According to the Big Bang model, the universe, originally in an extremely hot and dense state that expanded rapidly, has since cooled by expanding to the present diluted state, and continues to expand today. Based on the best available measurements as of 2010, the original state of the universe existed around 13.7 billion years ago,[1][2] which is often referred to as the time when the Big Bang occurred.[3][4] The theory is the most comprehensive and accurate explanation supported by scientific evidence and observations.[5][6]

Understood but here is where I revert to childlike thinking (you should know that I think children are smarter than most adults because they acknowledge they don't have all the answers and question with vigor). Why? Where did the heat and cool come from? Until those questions can be answered, proven and recreated in a laboratory evolution will continue to fall short for me. Reliability and validity, every good research study should have them.

Now on to the evidence of things not seen (the title of one of my favorite author’s books by the way). I can’t see them but I know feelings exist. To that extent, I know that people are more motivated to act on feeling versus logic. Why? Personally I think this paradox was put there by design to keep us questioning. The idea that life, centuries of evolving, love, passionate conflict and reason amount to no more than mere biological process such as excrement seems rather anticlimactic to me and the euphoric evidence of orgasm won’t allow me to accept that.

So what do I believe? I believe that a Higher Power created life to evolve in divine order. We humans think too much of ourselves to consider we might just be in a fishbowl of sorts, a divine laboratory designed to get conditions – biological, physical, emotional and social– perfectly stable. We’re being housebroken so to speak, trained in physical form before we’re allowed to enter the realm where we can do any real damage. That’s my take on things. Call me crazy but it works for me. Based on what you believe, see you on the other side…or not.

Black Out the Black Dollar on Black Friday to Protest Police Brutality

2010-11-24T22:44:00.000-05:00

I was introduced to a proposed boycott which I would like to share with you. Writer A. Jarrell Hayes, known as @ajh_writes on Twitter, has proposed we, as a community, refrain from spending money on Black Friday to protest police brutality, specifically “Oscar Grant, Aiyana Jones, and centuries worth of others”. Read his moving poem here: Black Out Black Friday.

Some naysayers may question with the retail volume produced on this monumental day after Thanksgiving spending spree, who is going to notice? To that I suggest we need to start somewhere. Every significant protest or movement began with a suggestion. We have a score of excuses precluding us from organizing…some say we need a strong leader…some say there’s no use in fighting the system. Well if we continue to come up with reasons against as opposed to taking a stand, do we really have the right to complain after the fact?

As the adage goes, money talks and bullshit walks. Let our dollars exclaim! Black Friday sales are closely monitored and analyzed. Let the powers that be question why sales aren’t as projected. If you doubt that black consumer spending holds any weight, ask yourself why many major corporations target their marketing to “ethnic” communities. The following excerpt is from the manual: Drawing on Diversity for Successful Marketing: African-American/Black Market Profile:

This profile focuses on the impact of the growing African-American/Black market, which continues to show increases in:
• Population—which grew 26.8% between 1990 and 2007 (compared to the 20.9% for the overall U.S. population) and currently represents 13% of the U.S. population
• Purchasing Power—which is projected to break the $1 trillion mark by 2012
• Attraction to Marketers—who spent 73% more advertising dollars to reach them in 2006 compared to 2002
The African-American/Black Market Profile provides useful insights on this vital market, offering overviews of African-American geographic and demographic trends, media use and a roundup of advertising spending data.

We have a lot more power than we acknowledge and it is definitely time to send the message that we will no longer tolerate police brutality and government sanctioned executions within our community. This Black Friday, let’s put our money where our mouths have been and boycott retail spending. Black Out Black Friday!

The Pretense of Passion

2010-11-18T01:42:00.002-05:00

The question mark is perhaps the most powerful yet underutilized punctuation mark. We state. We exclaim! We seldom question. Conceivably the greatest question ever posed to me came from a supervisor at an internship. I say so because I remember the question vividly and can even picture her empathetically pleading countenance, to this day, as she posed it. We were heading to lunch and along our walk we were engaged in a passionate discussion, the topic of which I can no longer recall, and we maintained opposing views. Exhausted in her efforts to adapt my thought process in alignment with hers, she asked “Can you consider the possibility you may be wrong?” I paused, possibly for the first time in our sparring session, to consider her query, before ultimately answering affirmatively. Yes I could consider the possibility I was wrong; not that I was saying I was wrong but to deny the possibility would be to declare myself all knowing and, in my mind, the refusal to consider chance would equate with ignorance.

Lately I’ve been observing numerous people refusing to consider possibility when engrossed in passionate exchanges. What I find particularly disturbing is that within the confines of perceived social media anonymity, such debate often takes an ugly turn resorting to name calling and downright hurtful arguments. The so-called educated insist their counterpart is stupid, quick to wield credentials, quotes and historical facts of armor.

Maybe I would find the drama comical, and admittedly at times I have been tickled, until I consider the potential for harm. Behind every screen name and avatar, for the most part, lies a human being complete with feelings. Sometimes I think I find humor in the absurdity of the entire squabble. Most passionate debates are born of constructs (such as religion and politics) that are subjective, ideology to which there is no right or wrong but merely point of view based on the sum total on individual experience and need. Idealistic in thought process perchance, but I believe most humans inherently want the same principles in life, stability and love to name a couple, but individual experience has defined these ideas as well as mapped out how to go about achieving them differently. So when one vehemently argues against another’s point of view, what the other hears is something to the effect of, “You, your persona, are not valid. My perspective is more important than yours.” It is no wonder then that they are no longer able to hear each other.

As with many of us, I’ve been on both the giving and receiving end of such tactics. So why now do I choose to dote on the pretense of passion? I’m not a religious person by any means, spiritual yes, but a biblical passage comes to mind in my reflection:

And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech. – Genesis 11: 5-7

What I interpret this to mean is that the people set out to build a place which would meet everyone’s needs but in the process got caught up in their own individual’s wants with the propensity to infringe on another to obtain it. Once the universe realized this model would not work, it pumped the brakes by “confounding” the language, thus preventing a flawed and potentially dangerous model from reaching completion. This, in my opinion at least, seems to speak to the state of world affairs today. Until we can come up with a plan in which everyone’s experience is validated, we will continue to fight each other at the expense of progress.

So the next time we’re tempted to get pretentious in a passionate debate, why don’t we stop to question? After all, language is far more than words it is the context, the framework of individual experience, that gives the words any meaning. Let’s not simply say, “You’re wrong and I’m right.” Let’s ask enough questions in an attempt to unconfuse the tongues so we may begin to again speak the same language. Could you consider the possibility?

Fan, Stan, Joneses & Idol Worship…

2010-11-13T15:38:00.002-05:00

Growing up I remember hearing my father commenting on people’s obsessions with celebrities. He said something to the effect of, “I don’t think it is right celebrities get harassed. Just because they’re famous doesn’t mean they owe you anything. If I buy an album, then they owe me good music. If I buy a movie ticket, then they owe me a good show. That is all they owe me. They’re just people like everyone else.” Words of wisdom.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a fan, defined by The Free Dictionary as “an ardent devotee; an enthusiast”. I would consider myself a fan of many – Bob Marley, James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, MC Lyte to name a few. The problem comes in when ‘fan’ is lengthened into the fanatical through neurotic action and becomes a “Stan”, as per Eminem’s reference to an obsessed fan.

What kills me about people who get obsessed with celebrities is that they dedicate so much of their energy to an individual who is, at the very best, minimally aware of their existence as a result of a bank account balance. One does not have to look very far to find evidence of the lopsided relationship, the Twitter follower to friend ratio of celebrity feeds provides an excellent case study. They don’t want to converse with you unless their brand depends on it and that’s fine…they don’t have to…they don’t know you…you don’t interest them. So my question is why do you keep hanging on?

People go broke trying to keep up with the latest trends being set by those completely out of touch with your reality. Keeping up with the “Joneses” is no longer matching the new Honda Accord in your neighbor’s driveway but striving for the Lamborghini with the suicide doors that your favorite rapper rhymed about. Are you serious?

Do you realize it is all about business? Roy Canton, one of my mentors growing up, thankfully made this clear to me at a young age. There was a moment in time when the Benetton and Coca-Cola shirts with the brand name written in large letters across the front of the shirt was considered high fashion *chuckle*. As we were running around the block, flaunting our new gear Mr. Canton asked a simple question, “How much are they paying you to wear those shirts?” Paying us?! We laughed so hard and ultimately responded nothing, further adding that these articles of clothing were expensive. “You mean YOU PAY THEM?” Mr. Canton chastised us, followed by a well informed lecture of how we were giving them money while providing free advertisement.

PSA: Keep this lesson in mind before you get that brand inked in your skin please.

*Now back to our regular programming*

So while you spend your last dime and ounce of dignity paying homage in worship to your idols, keep this in mind. Celebrities get the material items they endorse for free while you slave to keep your idol and the said brand in business. While you spend time surfing the internet for a glimpse of the candid celebrity on vacation picture, know that your obsession has paid for them to take your dream vacation.

Conversely, for the celebrities who rape the adoration and dedication of misguided souls to increase their wealth, then cry ‘leave me alone, I’m human’ know this, you can’t have it both ways. The Law of Conservation of Energy states that energy cannot be created or destroyed. You cannot set forth a standard which mocks the very people who support you and expect them not to return the favor when given the opportunity.

*Shrug*

My Eyes Reflect Your Pain…I Understand: Open Letter of Love to and for Black Men

2010-11-10T17:56:00.001-05:00

Last night on twitter I happened across a black man, @BlackGod917, getting this off his chest:

“Aight let me tell y'all why im mad at the black man…Black men are pussies. Black men are pussies. Straight up. Pussy, vagina, coochie…We see all this shit going on day in and day out. Our women are disrespected and abused in the worst way by every race of man including us…We see these men telling our mothers/daughters/sisters/aunts/nieces/grandmothers that they ain't shit but a fat ass…Instead of grabbing these fucks by the throat and busting their shit to the white meat, we join in and degrade the very woman that births us…Since we are too pussy to defend her, we join in and attack her. Call her ugly, call her a hoe, say she ain't shit, says she ghetto…Every other woman is prettier, better and easier to deal with than our woman. Then we raise our sons and daughters to think the same shit…She raises us when our bitch ass fathers use, abuse and then leaves her. She protects us and does everything she knows to do for us…She might not be perfect and yea she may have issues but she never turns her back on us. But we grow up and say "I don't date black women"…Do u realize that even when we push her away & tell her she ain't shit, shes the same one who helps us up wen the white man beats our ass?... We owe her all the loyalty in the universe. We owe her our lives. We owe every fucking thing we are to her…How dare you sit there with your black skin and say you don't want a black woman. You need to have your skin removed. U don't deserve it…when I saw Oscar Grants mother crying and I didn't have the heart to go out and fuck some shit up to make her know we love her and…We will make them pay for every tear she ever had to shed, I knew I didn't have the right to call myself a black man…Peace Gods and Goddesses. That shit has been on my heart for a few days now.”

After reading this series of tweets, I responded with a simple thank you but there was a lot more I wanted to say. I’m not sure what you take from his rant but I feel it truly speaks to the rampant dysfunction within that thing we call black love. As I read reviews of Tyler Perry’s newest film, articles and blog posts on black relationships, listen to music, etc. it is apparent that there is a strong need on both parts to say, “I know, I own it, I’m sorry and I love you.” This statement is what this series of tweets symbolized for me. Perhaps I’m a helpless romantic who still believes love heals all things so here goes,

“Dear Black Man,

I’m sorry if I haven’t said it enough or in a way that has made it clear to you, but I love you. How could I not? For as long as I can remember, I knew you loved me. At five, I remember my father going across the street to promise, not warn, promise the last white family left on the block that if their German Shepherd (who I innocently thought terrorized our street because the owners were simply careless with their gate not yet understanding the depth of racial hatred) ever touched his baby girls that he would first kill the dog then the owner…I knew daddy loved me.

I thought you knew I loved you when I scratched up my knees playing skelly side by side with you on our chalked out board and you gently pulled me out the way when cars passed. I knew you loved me when my nose was broken playing baseball in the street and you brought out your water gun to wash away my blood, unable to take seeing my blood splattered across the concrete. I thought you knew I loved you when we played manhunt together, our version of hide and seek that I didn’t even realize was a survival training drill for you. I know you love me when I see you willing to shed your blood in the streets to wash away my tears by fighting for the one thing you feel you can ever truly possess, respect. Though my sistas and I accuse you of being misogynistic, I love you for loving my big ass and fat ass thighs when the magazines, movies and television never did. I knew you loved me when you ran back into the stampeding crowd trying to escape them fools busting guns outside the club to make sure my friend and her new shoes made it out okay because I looked at you, my eyes begging you to help me find her.

So if I understand that you love me and know how you show your love and know what you learned about being a man, how is that I get a little “education” and start acting brand new…asking you to change? Is that what you’re asking me?

Well it is because I love you that I don’t want to wash your blood out the streets anymore. I need you. Our babies need you. Maybe I’ve been a little overzealous in my efforts to protect you. I’ve coddled you. I’ve made excuses for you. I’ve been too forgiving, sometimes at the expense of my own wellbeing and, even if this was precisely the care you needed at that moment, I understand why you resent me for it. I understand that it means I’ve seen and exposed your weakness. I understand that by enabling you I’m not helping you to find your way.

Don’t think for one minute when I look at you I see weakness. Don’t think that I hate you. This hard look I’m taking is not a stare of contempt but a glance of love, adoration for your strength and resilience. I know you love me. I know you want nothing more than to protect me, provide for me, pamper me and make me happy. I understand that the world we live in has not made this easy for you. I understand if you’re not ready to gaze lovingly back into my eyes yet. I understand that the pain you feel is intense because I feel it too.

We are each other’s mirror and I understand that my eyes reflect your pain because your eyes reflect mine too.

Love,

Black Woman”

A Bummy Country Bama Gave me my Best Haircut…and a Lot to Ponder

2010-11-03T22:19:00.000-04:00

A Bummy Country Bama Gave me my Best Haircut…and a Lot to Ponder

Hello folks. Let me start by saying this is perhaps one of the most unusual pieces I’m about to write because to be honest, I have no idea where I’m going with this but a past memory has been haunting my thoughts lately and I feel the need to reflect on it.

Additionally, I rarely apologize in advance for my words because they tend to be carefully thought out before used in expression but in this instance I do feel the need to apologize to anyone who might take offense to the term “bummy country bama”. I am well aware that the term “bama” in and of itself is a derogatory word to Southern people. In sharing the title with my husband, whose family lineage is from North Carolina, he asked, “Damn why you going so hard?” My response, it paints the picture in my mind.

In 1994, I was having a stressful sophomore college year. Between work, classes and the constant calls for attention from friends in need I felt pulled in every direction. One night, getting back to my dorm room at about 11:30 at night from a long day of class and work at the mall all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. My plan was quickly derailed by an immediate telephone call from a tearfully upset, borderline suicidal friend. The college survival, electric burner made pasta would just have to wait as I rushed out the door to go to my friend’s room. In retrospect I should have probably called 911 but thankfully my words and presence were enough to talk her off the proverbial ledge.

As divine intervention would have it, I received a flyer for the “National Student Exchange Program” in my mailbox the next morning. From what little I read, it was offering the opportunity to transfer for one year to any participating college in the United States. I walked straight from the mailbox, with flyer in hand to the office listed, placed it down on a lady’s desk and said, “Sign me up.” The representative, determined to do her job, went through a list of requirements and emphasized that the deadline was steadily approaching. Me, equally determined to get the hell away, met all the requirements by the deadline.

So where would I spend my junior year? I contemplated Hawaii for my love of clear beaches and ruled it out for the same reason. Amidst such beautiful weather and newfound adventure, I responsibly concluded, I would be unlikely to get much work done. I also didn’t want to be someplace where I knew no one and where it would be difficult to get back to my family in a hurry if there were an emergency. I settled on the University of South Carolina, Columbia since my best friend was in school nearby in Charleston.

That may seem to have been a strange choice for some, given all the options, but it worked for me. In fact that semester (I ended up cutting in short when I realized there was a catch with credits from another university and graduating on time) turned out to be the best of my college experience. I met some wonderful women from South Carolina who were my roommates and some from Oregon and California, also participating in the NSE program. I also underwent a physical transformation that included getting in the best shape of my life, my first tattoo and the best haircut I ever had.

Given the improved shape and tattoo swagger, I felt I needed a fierce haircut to complete the look. After about a week of flipping through every magazine I could think of, I finally settled on the cut I wanted. I came across an article on the singing group TLC and decided the T-Boz look was “it”. The only problem was that I knew nothing about the area and didn’t have the first clue where I could get my hair cut. I sought my roommates’ advice and they, both originally from Charleston, too were not certain of any good salons in the area. My roommate Michelle called her friend Mary to assist. Mary was a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. She was also a lot reliable for fun and a ride.

We hopped into Mary’s burgundy Nissan Sentra, music blasting as she rhythmically maneuvered the gear shift, and headed off to the salon. Now Mary herself wasn’t the most stylish person, or at least in my opinion of style, so I did have a slight moment of pause. However that minute of apprehension was quickly overcome by my eagerness to reinvent myself. As we rode out of the city and into the back woods (the places where a chicken sandwich at a club consisted of a thigh –bone and all- between two slices of bread) of South Carolina, I had more time to think about this impulsive decision.

Arriving at the salon didn’t help to ease my fears at all. A small, far from ritzy looking shack containing the basic amenities and an old television for entertainment (I would swear there was foil on the antenna but that may just be my imagination) made me wonder if any stylist there could complete my masterpiece. Mary went over to a heavyset woman, whose own hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, wearing house slippers and that one gold tooth front and showed her the picture, while pointing in my direction. At this point, I probably would’ve run but the fact that I’ve never been a great runner combined with my manners (not wanting to offend Mary after she so graciously agreed to help me on my journey) prevented me from calling the whole thing off.

I sat down in the chair and the stylist took her eyes off the breaking news story of Susan Smith’s missing children for a moment, spun me around in the chair, looked back and forth at the picture and asked, “You sure you want to do this?” An affirmative nod was all I was capable of and with a nonchalant shrug and a quick snip of the scissors, there was no turning back. Over the next couple hours I was lulled into a sense of security by the homey camaraderie of the workers and patrons agreeing there was more to the Smith story than was being reported because ‘didn’t no black man take them kids’. I had a couple of women come to gaze at me like a circus act, wondering who in the hell was cutting off all that “good hair” while they were waiting to get some weaved in. When the stylist was finally done and handed me the mirror, my anxiety returned but like Gina felt on Martin after entrusting Sheneneh to do her hair for her wedding, I was excitedly in awe. The cut was perfect, so much so I wondered if I could maintain it on my own. For all of thirty bucks, my new look was complete. In addition, time would reveal that the stylist’s suspicion about Smith’s account of her children’s death was spot on.

Now I haven’t thought about this past event in some time so I’m wondering why the hell it’s coming to mind now. In fact it popped into my head after watching the last episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (yes I’ve outed my guilty pleasure of watching crazy so-called reality television). Perhaps I’m reacting to the shallow name brand societal obsession…or possibly it’s just a reminder of the oldie but goodie adage not to judge a book by its cover…or conceivably I’m tired of people thinking they know it all because someone deems them an expert…or perhaps I’m distraught by the blatant denial of opportunities for the talented among us who lack connections to the upper echelon…or maybe I need a new haircut to whip my hair like Willow Smith. I don’t know exactly what it is at this moment but I will figure it out. In the meantime, I thought this was a story worth sharing.

And the moral of this story is…. What do you think it’s about?

Why I Miss Upfront Racism

2010-10-12T20:07:00.000-04:00

Recent random events (such as Columbus day, the rotation of the movie Panther on premium channels, hearing my husband’s old school, pre commercial endorsement music set during his practice session and reading politically based tweets for upcoming elections to name a few) have caused me to reflect on the current state of racial affairs and I have concluded that I miss upfront racism…I really do. Though that may seem to be an odd declaration coming from a black person, the reason is simple. Race and class issues will continue to exist as long as humanity does. Some may view this statement as pessimistic but I see it as realist. People naturally gravitate to those with shared experiences and likeness. Walk into any school or workplace cafeteria and observe social eating habits for confirmation. With that being the case, ignorance will continue to exist and not always from an intent to do harm but from just being un- or misinformed. So given the fact that race and class issues persist, I would prefer to deal with upfront isms as opposed to the veiled politically correct, post-racial state of confusion.

I live in New York City and if you live here, or know anything about the parking here, you know how easy it is to get a ticket due to the unclear and misleading signs. In one area of Brooklyn, they erected signs that said, “Don’t Even Think of Parking Here!” I liked those because they were clear and to the point. Similarly, during American racial segregation, signs like, “No Coloreds Allowed” made it clear to blacks where we were not welcomed. Today, though the undertone of exclusion may remain the illusion of access to all makes racism difficult, downright exhausting, to combat.

In college I worked at a home for autistic children, located in Suffolk County, and during night shifts often had the opportunity to discuss race issues with two white male colleagues. One day the topic of affirmative action came up and my colleague asserted he was not in favor because it wasn’t fair that someone who was not qualified would be given a job because they were black, reverse racism he called it. I countered that his assumption they were not qualified was racist. ‘So’, he asked,’ you mean if me and a black man were applying for a job and we both had the same credentials, education and experience, and the hiring officer was a white man, who do I think would get the job?’ He smiled and reluctantly conceded a high probability he would get the job. I smiled and said, “Hence the need for affirmative action.”

Have you ever pondered, given a choice, what era you would choose to live in? I have on many occasions and the answer is always the same…I would have loved to be an adult during the height of the African-American Civil Rights Movement. This decision goes beyond the romanticizing of an era, any masochistic tendencies I might have, the great music and the fact that I think an afro and dashiki would be a really good look for me. What attracts me to that period in time is the fact that racist practices were clear, the spirit of opposition and the solidarity of the people determined to fight said practices.

I have often shared that my parents, Jamaican immigrants who emigrated to the United States in the 1970s, rarely discussed racial issues leaving me to sort them out for myself. Having discussed this with them as an adult, they offered that they came from a class-based society and were learning about American racism right along with me. In college I was introduced to literature about the Black Panther Party and I remember reading that the organization chose the black panther as a symbol because a black panther is a powerful creature whose nature is not to attack but, once attacked, will defend itself to the death. Perhaps this bit of knowledge inspired the two black panther tattoos on my back but I digress. I was also attracted to their Ten-Point Program in that it addressed freedom, education, employment, housing, economics and police brutality; all issues still pertinent to modern-day oppression. Apart from my aversion to guns, this was definitely an ideology I could get with.

Though I have fantasized about being an adult during the civil rights movement, the type of kick ass revolutionary and defender I would be during such a time of radicalism and civil unrest, the truth is I am an adult living in a similar social climate, sans the solidarity. Isn’t it ironic that in this day of many means of communication and social networking, when information travels so quickly to people all over the world, we have such a hard time in promoting unity? Or perhaps it is because of these modes that tackling isms, a discussion best started in small interpersonal groups as with my former colleagues, that we are easily diverted and divided.

Though not a new discussion by any means, I think my parents focus on class was a foreshadowing for the upcoming era. One of my college African-American history professors Amiri Baraka (activist, poet and author), often challenged students who were quick to “blame the white man” to define which white man they were speaking of. ‘Would that be one living in the trailer park or working on Wall Street?’ he rebuffed. I typically stay away from political discussions but I have noticed that issues of class and race are omnipresent and perhaps even intimately connected, slowly removing the veil that has hindered any true progress since the end of my beloved era. Today I retweeted this gem posted by @TLW3 “Blacks and Whites are required to use the same voting booths. #WordsToDiscourageGOPTurnout”

I saw a Tupac Shakur documentary where he addressed his lyrical content through an analogy explaining his music would be defined by the context of his situation. To paraphrase, he offered, if I’m hungry and I see a whole bunch of people standing in a room filled with food, first I may go up to the door and say ‘May I please have some food, I’m hungry.’ If time went on and his request was denied he argued his request may become more forceful, ‘Give me some food! I’m hungry!” Eventually, the continued indifference would result in meeting the need by force, kicking in the door and commanding, ‘Gimme that MF-ing food!”

Given the current economic and political climate, people of all races are starving, be it literally for food or figuratively for equality of quality of living, while having a front row seat into the lives of those hosting a culinary orgy. What I see as promising is that all people, whose lives are negatively impacted by continued social injustice, are banding together to open the door. Yet the potential for necessary violence, which also characterized my beloved era, also scares me. Truth is those invested in keeping the smorgasbord available to a select few will undoubtedly not be willing to share and protect the feast at all costs, until the door is kicked in and demanded by force. I wonder if this feeling, the combination of excitement and fear, is similar to what my predecessors felt at the onset of the Civil Rights Movement?

Now Casting: Christelyn as Hitler in #NWNW’s Inglorious Bastards

2010-10-05T21:48:00.001-04:00

Social movements can be viewed as collective enterprises to establish a new order of life. They have their inception in the condition of unrest, and derive their motive power on one hand from dissatisfaction with the current form of life, and on the other hand, from wishes and hopes for a new scheme or system of living. -Herbert Blumer. "Collective Behavior," in Robert E. Park, ed. An Outline of the Principles of Sociology. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1939, p. 199.

I promise you and myself this is the final post on the No Wedding, No Womb (NWNW) movement. Yesterday I was discussing this forum with a colleague who is unfamiliar with social networks. She noticed how much NWNW has managed to get under my skin as she asked, “Why do you pay them any mind? Just turn it off.” My response was a simple one, “Because it bothers me.”

As many black women in the blog and social network world find themselves, I too have been unable to look away from this foolishness, mostly with a side-eye, despite its ability to infuriate. I took a momentary hiatus to process the reasons why despite being so disturbed by the movement, I somehow can’t seem to turn it off. As I scrolled through the #NWNW hashtag on Twitter, the answer came from one of the supporter’s tweets: WE WILL NOT STOP!

As the definition above points out, the goal of a movement is to establish a new way of life. In this instance, NWNW is proposing a “new way of life” for the black community under the guise of helping black children, women and families for the greater good of the community as a whole. In fact, NWNW has ignored and belittled well articulated questions and concerns from the very target population they propose to want to improve with name-calling and empty rhetoric. At least they’re consistent in theme, as the articles they endorse employ the same tactics to “help address black fatherlessness”.

I thought NWNW was finally given enough rope to hang themselves when NWNW organizer Christelyn Karazin posted, “fatherless hoodrats are invading my neighborhood: thank you section 8” by Black in The Baystate as a “Message to Black Women” in support of #NWNW. This piece was just more unfounded negative assumptions about black women and continued assaults on black males, adult and child alike. In response to the enormous backlash, Christelyn tweeted this: “Not a title I wld choose, but content was germane, and I promised not 2 censor NE1”. Germane: being both pertinent and fitting (thefreedictionary.com). How any so-called organizer of a movement to improve the black community could see this biased and dangerous line of thinking as pertinent and fitting to their cause is beyond me.

But you know what, Christelyn is absolutely right. This piece is the perfect poster child for her agenda. To those who say, well ignore the individual personalities involved in NWNW and the articles that don’t appeal to you because the cause is worthy, I give you Nazi Germany. Hitler’s movement to establish a New Order by diminishing racial inferiority was readily embraced by German people during a time of crisis. NWNW has started their campaign to rid the black community of their standard of inferiority by getting rid of perceived “hoodrats” through eugenics. Should we the “trolls”, as NWNW has labeled its vocal opponents, wait for the ovens to come out before we speak up? Be careful before you answer, you may be one paycheck away from the rid pile.

NWNW supporters put themselves on pedestals, “at least we’re doing something…somebody has to”. The goal to improve the black community and family structure is not new. Despite many opponents pointing out valid, clearly defined individual, collective and community-based efforts and social programs to improve systemic problems in the black community on physical, financial and emotional levels, NWNW supporters act as if their movement is the only way to “save” the black community. What, in the way of action, is NWNW actually doing that has had or will have a measurable positive effect on the black family structure and community at large?

In this movement, Christelyn is truly enjoying her role as savior. She instigates, then retreats; she attacks people, then cries fowl; she distorts, then deletes all while her loyal subjects continue to pledge allegiance. Heil Christelyn! Leave Christelyn alone! Can’t stop, won’t stop! *insert Diddy Bounce to the NWNW theme song here*

So back to the question posed by my colleague, it bothers me because an individual who possibly hates herself as a black woman or at the very least has identity issues (see her Know A Coloracist? post) and thinks very little of black men, is spearheading a movement to outline a new way of living for the black community.

Christelyn has asserted I feel she is not qualified to lead because she is married to a white man. (In my Martin voice) No no…never said that. I will say that she has amply demonstrated failure to lead and/or organize by the disarray she has created and it bothers me that she is willing to push onward and upward with her social agenda despite the damage this so-called movement is causing, for no greater purpose other than self-validation.

As a staunch supporter, member and lover of the black community, it truly pains me to take part in anything that divides the community, let alone pit black women against each other. To be honest, I still cringe to this day when I think about Angela Davis’ decision to criticize the Million Man March in mainstream media. From a historical perspective, I’ve considered the lack of unity in black movements to be to our collective detriment, (see DuBois vs Washington, Malcolm X vs King, etc.). So one must know if I find myself participating in this fight, it is not because I am fame-seeking as NWNW supporters might suggest to detract from the issues presented. It is because I see that the overall damage of this “movement”, if allowed to continue its current course unchecked, to the black community far outweighs any good intention.

In that regard, I am proud to be an inglorious bastard. For the simple-minded NWNW supporters who readily call people bastards and will point to this and say, “See, her feelings are just hurt by the shame of being an OOW (out-of-wedlock) child and she’s lashing out”, sorry to disappoint you. I grew up in a two-parent household, parents being married five years prior to my arrival and remain in wedded bliss today. So yes, I know what a healthy union and stable upbringing look like. I also know what a racist agenda looks like, no matter how you dress it up or who it comes from. The inglorious bastard reference here is to the commitment to taking out as many Nazis as I possibly can, with the hope that some Valkyries will follow.

In writing this piece I thought about a close friend of mine, we’ve known each other since I was nine and she was ten. She called me one day- many years ago- to tell me of a fight she had in the courtyard of her townhouse. I laughed hysterically since she was in her mid-twenties at the time and said to her, “You managed to get through grade school, junior high school and high school without getting in one fight and wait until you’re grown to thrown down?” She responded that she was tired of this bitch talking shit and told her to name the time and the place.

I think I can now empathize with my friend because, in many ways, this is how I feel about NWNW organizer Christelyn Karazin. In processing, I realized that I am quite angry that despite my best efforts to be diplomatic, engaging and reasonable, I was not dealing with a like-minded adult. She has falsely accused me of personally attacking her in the past but now, I feel I have the right to defend myself in the courtyard.

*Inserts MC Lyte 10% Dis cassette* Christelyn, if you want to call yourself a journalist and writer *removes earrings*, stop stealing other people’s work and distorting it to suit your purpose and *takes out Vaseline* at the very least learn to use spell-check. If you want to organize a movement for a new way of life for nothing more than your own ego *greases face*, do us all a favor and take it back to your beyond black and white swirl community and leave the black community alone! *throws hands in the air & twists lips* Brooklyn stand up! *what* Now tell your friend to go blow that out her trumpet!

No Wedding No Womb: In Your Own Words

2010-10-02T15:30:00.000-04:00

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain." — James Baldwin (The Fire Next Time)

I had no intention of writing a sequel on the No Wedding No Womb movement but in light of the movement’s failure to understand the ongoing contention I am compelled, yet again, to try and explain. (I’ll explore me being a glutton for punishment another time.) In the first post, I attempted to implore the movement to take a look in the proverbial mirror and explore its “values”, from origin to intentions as well as its mode of communication. However, since the art of introspection appears to be lost, I will now assist in holding up the looking glass.

I should note that in my last post I referred to Christelyn Karazin as the movement’s leader and she has since been classified as its organizer. Listen to her interview on The Michael Eric Dyson Show, along with rebuttal from blogger Jamilah Lemieux, AKA Sister Toldja who penned Why “No Wedding, No Womb” Doesn’t Work.

Following the first post, many NWNW supporters focused on my personal dating preference and viewed my choice as a personal attack against them, not understanding how a discussion of interracial dating could be pertinent to the NWNW discussion. The following are excerpts from the voices of the movement taken from Christelyn Karazin’s Beyond Black and White blog that demonstrate the reasons many in the black community have taken exception with and view the voices as detrimental to the black community. Again, the voices are in question, not the basic principles and FAQs.

• “Interracial Daters Lead to Mass Genocide!!!” This is the title of the post Ms. Karazin used to respond to my original post. Really? Did I say that? Here is the quote as to her rational for posting this, “I thought it was important to repost this here, because for rainbow daters, it’s good to be aware of the level of ignornace you might face.” (Wonder if the misspelling of “ignorance” was a Freudian slip? Sure it will be corrected soon. )

• “It may be hard to convince the dyed in the wool BM protectionists, but a picture is worth a thousand words.”

• “I keep saying the same thing. Most people are not very intelligent and are easily swayed. The disease in the Black community is ignorance and there are those who are more than happy to remain so. Those who wish to continue to be silly will simply just remain as members of the growing permanent underclass that Black people are becoming while others come in and pass them by. I’m just going to live my life happily and forget about those who wish to try to put gloom and doom on my life. It just means that they’re miserable and they have an inferiority complex that I cannot resolve.”

• “In my opinion, the problem is that a lot of AAs think that only providing the lowest level (breathing, food, water, sleep, etc.) for their children is the end all be all.”

• “Well, I’ll just add my 42 cents here. I am absolutely TIRED of waiting for a black man to find and appreciate me. I’m a geek, okay. I don’t club or run around dropping it like it’s hot. I’m educated, a multi-published award winning author, a business owner, and to be honest, I don’t even know where to go to find a black man that is a gentleman and financially stable.”

• “I still wonder what’s up with all these black women who love black men so much, they are willing to fall on their sword for men who (just in small portion) do not come in take responsibility or give solutions. They are so willing to take up for them when in en masse they have no intention of taking up for them.”

• “Why is that every other culture in this country seems to understand what standards are but somehow as black people we astoundingly dumbfounded by the concept. It means a loving, stable, home but unless you’ve actually seen one and lived in one, I guess you wouldn’t know what it was.”

• “Octomom. Need I say more? Yes, I know she’s not black. But she’s made many choices that young black women make and look where she’s now.”

• “I’m beginning to think more and more that so-called “bourgie” black folks who still remember the old school home training will have to look to find community amongst people not of our group but who share the same values, ie., interracial marriages. When even middle class black folks, ie., well educated black folks who should know better adopt what used to be considered “low class” mentalities, it is time to head for the door.”

• “I believe the slogan has listed the standard clearly. Do not have babies until you are married and yes it is attainable for every other race of people and is also expected. Black people are the only ones who have a problem with this.”

• “Only people who do not want to be told to do the correct thing will be offended. Only irresponsible people who expect everything and give nothing will be offended. I think people are more offended because a bw who experienced single motherhood called them out on their bs and they cannot find fault in her logic and as the daughter of a unwed mother I agree with the whole campaign. Black people need to get their heads out of the sand, caves or asses or wherever they have and deal with this issue instead of making excuses. Poor people of any color and limited means do not need to be making any babies period!”

• “My question to GGSpirit: would you want your son to go out and impreganate several different women with whom he had no feelings for and no intention of assisting in the rearing of his child, your grandchild? Would you condone such irresponsible behavior from your son? If you had a daughter, would you encourage her to have children with irresponsible men who are unable to provide for her and her child? Because after all the BC needs numbers. Would you encourage your daughter or neice to put their lives and dreams on hold waiting for a BM (or any man)or the BC to get their act together so that she can experience “Black Love” and strengthen the BC? Would you let your daughter or neice be that guinea pig? I think not. Before you make ridiculous ad hominem attacks, look at the stark and dire facts that face the multitude of BW in this country everyday and look at the utter lack of a coherent collective response from the BC and then come talk to me.”

I saved my favorite quote for last not just because it was a question posed directly to me but because it does so well to demonstrate the pervasive “black men ain’t shit” theme omnipresent within the NWNW voices. Notice how the male references have the expectation of a black male to “impreganate” several women with no intentions of raising or providing for his children?

You can state a million times that the movement is all about the children and the future of the black community, but the context of your message will remain in question based on the ideology of the organizer and participants. If my community were starving and received a shipment of food from a white supremacist group, we most likely would pause before consuming.

Now, for all the literal folk out there, let me be clear. I am in no way calling NWNW participants white supremacists because I’m sure many of you would love to make that leap. I ask NWNW, in this mirror do you see how the reflection of a movement targeted at improving a problem in the black community may come under scrutiny when the voices reflect negative views of the black community’s intelligence, values and sons/fathers? How do you propose to combat fatherlessness in the black community by demeaning and belittling black fathers (past, present and future)?

BTW, how does posting articles such as “8 Reasons to Date a White Man” with the NWNW hashtag help the cause?

No Wedding No Womb: Advocacy for the Self-Inflicted Genocide of a Stolen People?

2010-09-25T20:08:00.000-04:00

The other day I noticed a Twitter friend defensively baring her soul in tweets with the hashtag #NWNW. Curiosity peaked, I followed the thread to learn that this acronym stood for a new movement called No Wedding No Womb, aimed at having “couples abstain from having children until they are emotionally, physically and financially able to care for them” (visit http://noweddingnowomb.com/ for reference). Though the movement is meant for all potential parents, it is largely directed at black youth since the black community is reportedly in a state of crisis concerning this matter.

On the surface a fairly benign and perhaps even admirable concept, I was puzzled by the all out blitz of tweets my friend sent in defense of single moms. Apprehensively I sent her a couple of TMI tweets because I knew I would not be able to convey the concern in such a delicate manner within the 140 character limit. In her reply she acknowledged that, as a single mom herself, the issue was personal to her and her issue was not with the concept but rather how it was playing out in practice. In her opinion, the participants were “preachy”, placed the burden largely on the women and fell short of providing practical suggestions. In addition, the movement reportedly put forth the notion that women became single mothers because they failed to “value” themselves.

Then last night, I happened across another series of NWNW tweets in which a teenage black girl was clearly put off by the movement and responded with highly intelligent questions and rebuttals. Initially it appears she was on board but became disheartened by the language of its advocates. Apparently, there was some comparison made between the offspring of out-of-wedlock children to feral animals. The movement’s leader suggested that such semantics were used for shock value to get people listening and suggested the movement “E-adopt” this young lady.

As an educated black wife and mother, having a Bachelor’s degree in psychology with a minor in African-American studies and a Master’s degree in social work, I couldn’t help but to explore the larger psychological, historical and societal implications of this movement within the black community.

The first place I started was with the movement’s proprietor, Christelyn D. Karazin (see her bio here http://noweddingnowomb.com/) a black female journalist, self-proclaimed “baby mamma” turned wife and advocate of interracial relationships. Normally I wouldn’t touch the latter but since I see it as pertinent to this discussion I think I’ll go there. After all, any movement will be led in the direction of the captain of its ship.

My paternal grandmother was mixed, as the popular vernacular of time explained the product of a black and white parent, and was vehemently against such unions. I can remember one of our final visits to Jamaica to see her before she passed. My sister, newly engaged to a white man, shows my grandmother a picture of her fiancé and announces her pending nuptials. With pause my grandmother examined the picture, turned to me and asked, “Wat you tink bout dem tings?” I replied that I wasn’t particularly in favor of interracial relationships to which my grandmother replied, “Me neither. Me tink de children dem come out confused.”

My sister was hurt and she felt that our standpoint was racist. Now I’m not sure my grandmother and I were on the same page for the same reasons but being that she was speaking from experience, I had to respect her opinion. As for me, I used a simplistic metaphor to explain my reasoning. My college roommate and friend, a white woman who dated across the spectrum, and I often had this debate. One day I asked her, “Do you entertain guests in a dirty house?” Of course she stated she would not to which I replied that as black people we have too much house cleaning to do before we can entertain guests, a reference to the psychological, emotional and financial healing of the community.

Prior to learning about African–American history, high school was my first integrated experience. I remember having strong reactions to subliminal lessons that black people were somehow inherently uncivilized and inferior (until white people taught them better that is). This led to my quest to learn about American race relations. Learning the truth about slavery left me psychologically scarred and in homage to my ancestral mothers, wives and sisters, I made a personal vow to never be intimate with a white man. The idea that slave masters raped black women for both business and pleasure, that children were stolen from their parents and families, that black fathers were left powerless to provide for and protect their families induced a pain that cannot be explained.

Given these considerations, I could not help but wonder if the NWNW movement is being guided by confused and pained leaders, who fail to acknowledge the systematic attempt of a nation to exterminate a stolen people who are no longer deemed economically viable and represent the reminder of the nation’s horrific origins.

The leader has often pointed out that in the time of MLK over 70 percent of black children lived with their parents. Has the reason for the decline in the numbers since that time been explored, such as the racial disparity in education, employment, wages and imprisonment? Or is simply because of our feral ways?

So what would happen if the future mothers and fathers of our bloodline wholeheartedly followed this movement? Given the fact that they should not procreate until they are “emotionally, physically and financially able to care for” children, that would significantly reduce the census of this already identified minority. Suddenly I got the image of the movement handing our youth loaded guns, safety off, with the directive to “Kill yourself!”

In college I was in an elite honors statistical course, only the top 12 students and I was the only one of color. We had to do a study and I remember a peer doing a comparison of the success rates of various ethnic groups post graduation. She, a young white woman, concluded that blacks were “less successful” to which I challenged her measure of success. She stated that whites went on to earn more money in careers such as doctors and lawyers while blacks were more likely to be teachers and nurses. I challenged that perhaps the needs of the communities were different and that money should not be the ultimate measure of success.

Following my own advice I took a look in the mirror. Am I personalizing this issue? I would have to say I am. See, based on everything I learned about majority perception of the black community, one might say that I personally took the NWNW vow. The last thing I wanted to be was a statistic. I didn’t dare have a child before completing my education, being secure in my career and marriage. Initially my husband and I wanted three or four children but we instead have one son, who regularly pleads for a sibling. One day I told him we couldn’t afford one and he got very upset and told me I was teasing him. I explained that the opportunities we provide for him would be limited if we increased our family. In writing this piece I had to ask myself if I had been bamboozled? Had I actually bought into the value system imposed on a stolen people? Was I mind-fucked into self-sterilization thus contributing to the ultimate genocide of our community? Oh hell, despite my best efforts I managed to be violated and my children were stolen from me after all!

With this in mind I was left thinking, perhaps the solution to our “crisis” (albeit a highly irresponsible suggestion) is not to limit our offspring at all but rather the exact opposite, continue to produce despite the identified obstacles; strength in numbers right? Maybe our successors will unite and clean not only the house but the neighborhood, community and ultimately the nation.

With any seemingly black and white issue, the true solution typically lies somewhere in the midst of the gray area. At this point in time I am not sure that we should be making attempts to drastically reduce or increase our population. One thing is clear though, anyone who attempts to tackle this issue should closely examine their own values, from its origins to its intentions, before attempting to impose them on others, especially in such a personal area with far reaching psychological, financial and societal implications. Remember, communication is key and not just semantics.

What do you think?

Crack Comeback: Pop Culture May Just Be the Gateway

2010-09-05T19:58:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one noticing a disturbing trend of young people using hard drugs? Having grown up in Brooklyn, New York and being a teenager in the 80s, I didn’t need Nancy Reagan’s message to just say no. I’ve seen crackheads close enough to know that I would not want to voluntarily ingest any substance which could have such damaging effects on my physical, mental, emotional and social well-being.

So with the influx of young people willing to try harder substances like crack, cocaine, meth, heroin, ecstasy, etc., I have to ask WTF is going on? Clearly they must have some reference point regarding the effects of substance abuse. Some may stay away because they’ve witnessed firsthand the result of prolonged drug use by a parent or other relative. I’m wondering about the ones who answer affirmatively to the question, “You want to try (fill in the blank)?” Sure, okay…let’s go smoke crack! Let’s go shoot up…snort some lines…or whatever acronym code word applies. As a parent I really want to know how that leap is made.

Marijuana was considered the gateway drug and that argument is still debated. I used to think that was bull but now I’m considering they may have been on to something. No, I’m not a complete prude and don’t believe that if you smoke marijuana you’ll end up trapped in your mother’s basement as the scared straight public service announcements would imply. I do know functional, regular marijuana users and am aware of countries which have already legalized marijuana, such as Amsterdam, that have significantly lower crime rates. Perhaps the difference in those countries is that the marijuana is pure. I remember a doctor once saying that he used marijuana in other countries but it was so pure that they used the leaves for tea. He contended that the majority of the street drug sold here is laced with other substances, such as PCP. Given the effect of the drug on today’s youth in comparison with the experimentation of yesteryears, I’m inclined to believe that something has changed in what they’re smoking. Productivity and drive has declined while mental instability has increased.

In a pop culture, celebrity driven society where everyone wants to party like a rock star and young celebrities are getting caught with and/or arrested for possession of cocaine, meth, crack and ecstasy, I have to wonder if our over-stimulated, under-educated, wannabe famous kids are emulating these tendencies in an effort to obtain rock star status. Now I know this argument may appear highly simplistic….don’t blame the media…blah blah blah…but the fact is that the youth are inundated with pop culture. There was a time where pop culture drew their fashion/style trends from the streets but now the reverse appears to be the norm. So if they’re seeing it in movies, hearing it on the radio, surfing it on the internet, is it any wonder that there is a de-sensitization toward drugs? I’m waiting for the day I see #smokecrack trending on Twitter.

The sad part is we get so caught up in the celebrity aspect that we accept and excuse the young celebrities’ growing problem. Soulja Boy please tell us what led you to start snow surfin’. Perhaps they need these substances to escape the constant media scrutiny for which they hire publicists to ensure never goes away in order to maintain the market value of their brand. Isn’t it ironic that the rich and famous use drugs to feel regular while the broke and nameless use to feel rock star status? In both cases it affords an escape from “reality”. Perhaps if the pop culture so-called reality images were closer to actual reality for all walks of life then the escape wouldn’t be needed.

I know I’m getting preachy so I’ll stop now but I would like to read your thoughts on this subject. Have you noticed an alarming rate of drug use in your community? Are kids going way beyond experimentation? Is pop culture promoting substance abuse?

Confessions of a Progressive Woman Seeking a Penectomy

2010-07-07T17:30:00.001-04:00

Hold on to your seats because this post will truly shock you. Words like submit and surrender will be thrown around. Some of you may even accuse me of setting women back hundreds of years but since I consider growth to be an unlearning process at times, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

This post is inspired by last night’s episode of the Mo’Nique show. Now I’m not an avid watcher but I made sure to tune in since one of my Twitter friends was scheduled to be on the show. For those who missed it guests included couple Kenya K. Stevens, better know to me as @JujuMama, and her husband Carl E. Stevens as relationship advice experts. She has a book out entitled Change Your Man and he has one entitled Tame Your Woman. I’m far from equipped to give an adequate synopsis of their philosophies, so as she advised on the show, Google it! You can also get more information via Mrs. Stevens’ website: http://jujumamablog.com/
The part that really caught my attention was the discussion of gender roles which led me to query: ‘Women, do we know our place?’ Years ago the question alone would’ve taken me down a path of neck popping, eye-rolling, expletive filled protest akin to a Tourette’s seizure. I truly can envision it: “My place? WTF are you talking about?!” But at this stage of my life I must confess my reaction is very different: ‘Perhaps we do not.’

In recent years I have joked that I would jump at the chance to be Suzie F. N. Homemaker and, as often is the case, in humor there is some truth. Having been a smart child, education and career path were encouraged and two college degrees later and over half my life spent working, this wife and mother can admit that I am TIRED. There is many a day when life feels out of balance, where I just don’t want to do it anymore and I would love to spend my time taking care of my household and nourishing my creative energy.

As an educated black woman, my circle of friends include many sistas like myself; women who were taught to be strong and ‘hold it down’. In consideration of this post, I thought about several of these sistas who have gotten divorced, or are going through a divorce, who are unhappy with their current relationship dynamic and are TIRED. We collectively sit in informal sista circles talking about what this brotha done did, ain’t did or don’t got.

Then I think of one friend I’ll call Michelle, who by all known accounts, is a happily married, financially stable mother with a fabulous career. I’ve been friends with her since I was nine years old, her being one year my junior. When we became interested in boys and tried out many an approach to flirting, Michelle settled on playing the dingbat role, which is far from the truth. In fact, she was smart enough to figure out what she would love to do in life, pursue a degree accordingly and continue to work on her own independent ventures. Michelle realized that men enjoyed being the dominant figure and she was willing to assume the submissive role to accommodate. We often joke with Michelle that her husband, a hard-working blue collar man, is too ‘controlling’. He has made his expectations clear and she willingly follows suit. For every time I have said ‘It couldn’t be me!’ I’m really starting to think Michelle is onto something. Perhaps I erroneously viewed the gender role in her relationship as ‘controlling’ when in fact it is in perfect order.

On the Mo’Nique show last night, she and Mrs. Stevens talked about times in their lives when they had penises, a symbolic representation of what they now view as their assumption of the masculine role in past relationships. Let me consider this, ‘Do I have a penis?’ Is it possible that the journey toward being an intellectually assertive, self-confident, independent woman could have the side effect of growing such an appendage? Then I reflected on some of my past actions and words and suddenly the image of me standing there with an erect shaft, complete with large, hairy sagging balls popped into my head. Graphic visual to which all I could say, in the most girlish voice I could muster is ‘Ewww. Not cute!’

So as with an unwanted mole, hangnail or facial hair, my research began ‘How do I get rid of this thing?’ According to Wikipedia, a penectomy is the surgery to remove an unwanted penis and I have firmly decided that I want this procedure. For those of you now in a panic, imagining a scene out of The Stepford Wives or me jumping up and down and barking like a dog like the hand-picked wife in Coming to America, relax…breathe…I assure you what I envision is no such thing.

The truth is I am who I am and to some degree there’s no changing that. I am an intelligent woman with a strong need to express myself but I no longer see my role as a woman in contrast to that need. In fact, whereas relationships are concerned, I can now see how being submissive can compliment my needs. I can admit I don’t want to be in control – been there…done that…exhausted! I want my man to ‘hold it down’ and I’m ready to welcome chivalry.

The scary part is change and trust. My father once told me that complete trust is difficult, like the exercise where you have to fall back and hope someone catches you before you split your head open on the concrete. Well I trust that the modern paradigm is not working and common sense tells me that to keep trusting what isn’t working is a sure way to bust your head open. I may be stubborn but I’m not that hard-headed!

Women, especially speaking to my sistas out there, aren’t we tired of complaining about what this brotha done did, ain’t did or don’t got? Perhaps if we trusted them to hold it down they would. Could the belief that he won’t be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Haven’t we exhausted the argument that all the good brothas are dating outside the race because [insert color here] women are submissive and he can’t handle a strong sista? Maybe like the late Bernie Mac’s character Floyd Henderson professed in the movie Soul Men, he ‘never liked boy pussy no way!’

Just like we can look at all the things our counterparts are doing to contribute to the demise of healthy relationships, I wonder can we look in the mirror and consider there might be something WE done did, ain’t did or don’t got. Is it possible that our symbolic penises have been getting in the way all along? Are we willing to reexamine or redefine the terms submit and surrender in a way that allows us to trust and open ourselves to the type of relationship we want?

Men, do gender roles play a part in your relationships? Are there things you are afraid to tell your significant other because you may be viewed as a cave man? What does submit and surrender mean to you?

Let me know what you think...

July 4th Kickoff: National Needs-Based Spending Project--Join In!

2010-06-30T23:46:00.000-04:00

A couple of months ago I wrote a post about using our dollars to effect change (read: Modern Day Sit-In: The Needs-Based Spending Project ) and promised a follow-up piece. As the day nationally recognized as Independence Day approaches I want to briefly revisit the proposition.

In the hope of reaching many, I’m going to keep it short and sweet. The concept is simple: let’s put our money where our mouth is. Tired of the unemployment rate, high cost of living, etc.? Then let’s send a message.

Wikipedia defines a sit-in as "a form of direct action that involves one or more persons nonviolently occupying an area for a protest, often to promote political, social, or economic change". Today, it is hard to organize such a major in-person protest because people are resistant due to personal obligations. Yet through the power of the internet, we are better able to communicate.

I am proposing a modern-day sit-in in which we collectively commit to only spending money on necessities. If the masses reduce their spending habits, since most corporate markets count on our collective pennies, it will force the powers that be to address majority concerns.

Some may argue that it won’t do any good, but then again what do you have to lose? Worse case scenario is you save a few bucks over the next six months. Best case scenario is that the masses reclaim some power by sending a message that we are needed and should not be ignored.

As of July 4th, let’s launch the Needs-Based Spending Project and take a step toward financial freedom. Please take a moment and read the original post. If you feel the concept is viable, give it a try. Please post comments with suggestions for improving/expanding the Needs-Based Spending Project and pass the word along. Together, we can make a difference!

Tweeversary Reflections: Celebrating One Year on Twitter

2010-05-31T22:26:00.001-04:00

Do you know what today is? It’s my anniversary – of Twitter membership that is. One year ago today I joined a social network called Twitter. A twitter friend, David Hunter (better known to me as @TheWritersDen), recently tweeted that May 31st was his one year Twitter anniversary, prompting me to glance at my own ‘member since’ date. Lo and behold it turned out we shared the same membership join date. What are the odds?! After sharing this interesting fact with him, he suggested we blog about it and I readily accepted. What an interesting social experiment, I thought to myself: two aspiring writers, bloggers and tweeters from completely different walks of life sharing their experiences over the past year.

My initial reason for joining Twitter was anything but social. I was first introduced to the site by my husband, he having been encouraged to join by a friend noting this method was fast becoming “the way” of communicating and networking. Having decided to pursue my writing more seriously and learning that social networking is a modern-day must, I decided to take the risk, jump into the arena and put myself out there as a (wannabe) writer. An apprehensive, social network virgin of sorts, I created a user name using my penname and dove into the shallow end of the murky and potentially shark infested virtual pool. Referring to past swimming lessons I told myself, just tread the water and stay afloat.

There I was, a big 0 – following no one and no one following me, virtually talking to myself. Then I began the search for friends – anyone with anything to do about writing. To be honest, how my network began to build is a blur. I vaguely recall my first follower, who I am certain I have since lost. I do remember the feelings of vulnerability, quite similar to the first day at a new school. What if I don’t make any friends? Will they like me? Why do I care?

I have experienced my fair share of Twitter Blues, as my twitter friend wrote about, but for the most part membership has been a positive experience. There are days when I wonder, ‘Hello! Is this thing on? Is anybody out there?’ but over 700 followers (admittedly modest for Twitter standards) later I do often feel that someone is reading.

When I first joined Twitter, my focus was on the rules. A bit of a strategist I often questioned, am I doing this right? I researched etiquette and took care not to tweet too bluntly out of fear of offending. A year later, I have added a knowledge base of Twitter terminology and growing list of acronyms that have perhaps added to my tweeting comfort but most importantly I have developed a level of virtual world confidence to match my real world persona.

A few months ago, I had my first tweet fight, in which a follower took offense to my blog titles and called me out for attributes far from the truth. To my surprise, my tweople came to my defense and I was proudly blocked for the first time I’m aware of.

I once wondered, ‘What if I could hear everyone’s thoughts?’ only to quickly dismiss the notion as way too scary. Well Twitter, at times, has managed to confirm this fear. Trending topics and random thoughts can turn the waters into a virtual, narcissistic cesspool but what it has to offer is worth the time consuming investment in virtual filtering.

My husband and I used to debate about Twitter. He personally knows a number of his tweeps and has long felt the ‘realness’ of the communication device whereas for me, my virtual friends lived only in the computer. A year later (in a rare occurrence :-) I must acknowledge he was right. In the past year, I have shared breakfast, lunch, dinner and drinks; joy and pain; fact and fiction with a virtual menagerie of characters. I have invited avatars into my circle of tweople, only to watch them to my dismay fade away without so much as a tweet. I have learned that beyond the login, in large part, are real people. This weekend I had my first ‘tweetup’, in which I partied in person with one of my tweople.

I stay away from Facebook because, based on what my friends have told me, the concept scares me. Though I am far from famous, I tend to be infamous with past acquaintances. The idea that some random individual could search and find me, only to post historical stories or photos, lacking my consent or approval, is enough to keep me away. The people from my past, with whom I care to connect, for the most part remain in my present.

Twitter membership has offered me something different: the opportunity to be me right now, not the person someone once knew. Each 140 character tweet documents the evolution of thoughts, feelings and events at that moment. It allows me to connect with both like-minded and adversarial individuals across the globe. My tweople validate my writing voice, provide continual support and encouragement, as well as a wealth of knowledge and resources. I only hope that with each follow, I offer the same virtual floatie to someone else jumping into the Twitter pool.

Be sure to check out David Hunter's experience: http://davidhuntershaw.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-twitter-anniversary.html or via @TheWritersDen on Twitter

What has your Twitter experience been? Thinking of joining but apprehensive, feel free to share...

Modern Day Sit-In: The Needs-Based Spending Project

2010-04-28T00:52:00.001-04:00

Over the last few days I have really given a lot of thought to the impact of the economy on the masses. Most are saying: we can’t find jobs…when are things going to improve…this is ridiculous. Yet we sit around waiting for the situation to change. When are we going to become proactive?

Imagine: a tug of war with ninety people on one end of the rope and ten on the other. Which side would you expect to win? Most people would answer the side with the majority but in today’s economy we are allowing the ten percent to pull us into the pitfalls of indentured servitude, debt, living paycheck to paycheck, foreclosure and bankruptcy. What would happen if the ninety percent began to exert some of their energy and tug back on the rope?

The problem with organizing a true stand against this imbalance is that we’ve been tricked into believing no such disproportion exists. If you work hard, you too can achieve the American dream! Would that be according to the minimum wage scale? What happens when income barely meets your expenses? Factor in debt and miscellaneous expenditures and ask yourself: what’s left?

In the meantime, the haves continue to bank on the willingness of the have-nots to spend, spend and spend some more and for whatever individual and collective purpose, we continue to meet their need at the expense of our own. The rich continue to get richer while the poor (and ever-fading middle) continue to get poorer.

Ironically, the more the gap widens the least likely we are to act. Instead, we keep waiting for someone…anyone…to take the first step. The bystander effect (an occurrence in which the larger the group the least likely any one single individual will step up to help someone in need because they expect another member of the group to do it) keeps us not only from helping others but also ourselves.

I thought back to the days of protest, when people were willing to take a stand…when someone stood up and said enough and others were willing to follow suit. Nowadays it seems that the old methods do not suffice. (Enough) People are not willing to strike because we have bills. (Enough) People are not willing to march because we have to go to work. (Enough) People are not willing to do anything because we doubt it will matter. So what can we do, collectively, to send a large enough message and make a difference?

Clearly, the almighty dollar rules: Cash Rules Everything Around Me, so why don’t we collectively decide what to do with our C.R.E.A.M.? That’s why I propose a modern day sit-in for our money. We choose to sit-in our homes and allow our income to sit-in our wallets. We spend based primarily on need. I know it may sound a bit extreme but is it? I understand that entertainment is also be a human need, but is that need greater than our social responsibility?

Rather than spend $50-$300 on a ticket to a baseball game, grab a bat, a bunch of friends, head to the park and get your own game going. The benefits are worth it: you keep money in your pocket rather than giving it to people who then earn exorbitant amounts of money at your hardworking expense (and who by the way receive so many “comp” benefits that they, unlike us, get to bank most of their income), you get some exercise and some old-fashioned fun.

Let’s redistribute the wealth. Shop the mom and pops: if you absolutely must shop, patronize the local business, which enhances, over the major corporation, which pillages, the community. Consider all purchases: Do I really need this? Where will my dollars go if I buy this?

Rather than spend money on a concert, to see a jewel-draped artist lip-sync over recorded vocals, gather up the kids and have an old-fashioned talent show. Stop supporting those who collect our hard earned money to flaunt their “blessings” which we, the masses, paid for. Support the underground artist instead by patronizing a local talent whose artistry is relevant to your situation.

Together we can make poor the new wealth because it is from our collective pennies, our labor resource, that the ten percent amass their wealth and power. So I propose we spread the word and come July 4, 2010 (what better time than the day given to commemorate so-called independence) we collectively exercise our self-determination and launch a movement to send a message that we demand to be free from oppressive practices.

Are you willing to participate in a modern-day sit in to effect change? Spread the word and join me in the Needs-Based Spending Project. Let’s put our dollars to work.

Black Love: Can the “Black Nerd” and the “Dime Piece” Find It?

2010-04-22T22:17:00.001-04:00

Last night I was scrolling through tweets and came across the link for a blog post entitled, "The Nerdy Nigga Strikes Back". Of course my disdain for the self-referenced n-word (not that I care for it too much in any context) caused me to sneak a peak. A well written rebuttal to the blog post "Never Satisfied: Why Nerdy Black Men Can't Find Happiness" far exceeded my expectation (note to self: don't judge a post by its title). Having first read the sequel, written from the black male perspective, I of course had to now backtrack and research the origin. Surely this brotha must have misunderstood the sista's intention. After being unable to find any evidence to support this theory I even went on to read her clarification, "Revenge Of The Nerds…Remix…Part 2". I found myself on a blog, ironically titled "Black Conscious Thought" and must now commend this brother for being far too kind, perhaps an attempt to convince the primary source that black men in fact are still chivalrous?

As I'm writing this I feel the sudden urge to listen to UTFO's Roxanne, Roxanne. Perhaps since that was the first rap record that drew me into a comedic, battle of the sexes with Roxanne's Revenge and The Real Roxanne that followed. Then, similar to the nerd postings, came way to many Roxanne references and the initial fervor was ultimately lost.

Now I could recap or debate the points of the root post, but I don't have the energy to disseminate a thought process which would be lost on anyone who shares those opinions. The sequel did well to demonstrate such level of patience.

With that said, I would like to address the overall issue I view as pathology in the black community, black love or lack thereof. Black love, a phrase often used to refer to tumultuous relationships that somehow manage to sustain itself (i.e. Ike and Tina, Whitney and Bobby), seems an appropriate fit for the ongoing debate about the ability to develop healthy, long-lasting and productive relationships between a black man and a black woman. Yes, I am well aware that both of the aforementioned examples eventually met their demise and it is for that very reason that I selected them.

I don't profess to be a relationship expert but I do feel that after ten plus years of marriage and over twelve plus years as a social worker, I have made certain key observations. Yes, physical attributes and sexual compatibility, ambition and goals, success or income level (however an individual chooses to define these subjective terms) play key roles in relationships. Yet ultimately, none of these factors, in my opinion, are the key in bringing two individuals together or determining factors in whether or not they stay together.

The key factor in any relationship is narcissism. Though we would like to think of ourselves as selfless, loving, giving people (which is true to a degree), all activities we choose to engage in serve a self-fulfilling need. We attract that which we are or we want to be, period. Despite popular opinion, Bobby did not corrupt Whitney. She saw in him something which was already in her looking for emancipation. Those we choose to be with are in fact our mirrors. This applies to all love and, for the record, not just black love contains the dysfunction factor which accompanies what could otherwise be a beautiful means of learning.

The pathology enters when we fail to see our own reflection in the identified faults of our counterparts. In discussions of why black men or women, for whatever reason they have identified, purposely choose to discard a labeled group of black men or women, they fail to realize the very type/label/attributes "despised" has more to do with something about themselves than the other person.

Perhaps I need a remix, or part two, to this post to get into this pathology a bit more deeply, but I will say just as excited as I was by the Roxanne battles in the 80s, I am now equally saddened by the ongoing, ever-widening divide I see in the black community. Until we learn about our history, the continuing effects of the institution of slavery on our individual and collective psyche, our distorted notion of black love will continue. I just hope we get it together before it meets its demise altogether.

Rejected Not Jaded: A First-Time Author’s Publishing Considerations

2010-04-13T18:57:00.000-04:00

Hi readers. I have missed you. I took some time off to work on my novel manuscript and there came a point when writing anything else felt like a betrayal. So I just want to start off by apologizing to you for the unintended abandonment.

Well the manuscript is done, or at least as done as it is going to be for now. I thought I had it finished last year and ended up revisiting it. While there is always room for improvement, I am pleased with the overall story so I'll leave it alone for now. I have to tell you, the initial exhale moment that accompanied the completion was soon replaced with the anxiety of "Well what do I do now?" Even though I am pretty certain I will end up going the self-publishing route many questions remain. Should I get a professional read? What steps do I have to take to make sure I'm self-publishing and not so-called vanity publishing? And the list goes on.

Every now and again I'll come across resources indicating that agents or publishers are graciously accepting new submissions. I'll admit it does peak my curiosity despite the mounting evidence to support the fact I'm not built for traditional methods. I say this because everything I have read on traditional publishing echoes the same sentiments: it's a long-shot for first time authors; it's better to know someone and have an in; WE DON'T WANT YOU. Okay the last one isn't actually in there but it is implied.

The defense of traditional publishing (as opposed to self-publishing), only adds to evidence it's not for me: if you can't get a publisher to bite then it's not good enough to be in print; what's the point of writing if no one will ever read it; WE DON'T WANT YOU. You get the idea. To be honest, the whole process seems very pretentious and I've never been good at ass kissing.

To play devil's advocate, some might say that's just my pride talking and I'm afraid of rejection. Well I wanted to test this theory for myself and submitted an e-query to a literary agent, with the expectation of rejection in return. Law of Attraction theorists would say I got exactly what I asked for when the rejection came, in a whopping twenty-eight minute turn-around time from me hitting the 'send' button to it slapping me right in the inbox.

I thought I was prepared for rejection but I did learn something, you are never truly prepared. Somewhere inside, there is a deep rooted Cinderella expectation, which I both loathe and protect with all my might, that my words will magically caress the retina of a literary authority who will quickly stamp 'SUPERSTAR' on the top and rush my project to the head of the class. Hey, everybody needs a dream right?

I read the standard form rejection over and over looking for the 'why' to suddenly emerge. It never did. I twitter-stalked my dreamcrusher 's timeline on the off chance that any mention of my concept appeared in their tweet stream. It didn't. Finally I was forced to accept the truth: not everyone is going to fall in love with your work and that's okay.

I learned that I may never reach the traditional literary standard of success and may die poor, clutching pen and paper (or whatever version of the iPad is out then) on a sandy beach like a barefoot Bohemian strumming a guitar. When I embarked on this journey, I did so because I acknowledged that I love to write and actively doing so is fulfilling to me. That hasn't changed and is perhaps the single-most benefit of being a virgin, unpublished author. I write what I feel, without pretense. I write because I enjoy it and will continue because I now need words as much as I need air. If I can maintain the unbridled passion I have with words, then I succeed.

So what now? Well I plan to continue writing and will publish my work. Concurrently I will continue researching self-publishing and submitting queries. We'll just have to wait and see which one makes it to the finish line first.

Finish This Question: When did black people start…?

2010-02-17T01:32:00.005-05:00

We're in the middle of black history month and I figured now is a good time to draw on one of our strengths, our sense of humor. Despite many trials and tribulations, we have always found a way to laugh; perhaps necessary for our healing and perseverance. As we laugh, we are able to collectively identify prevailing issues and it is in that spirit that I share these reflections and invite you to add a few of your own. Since I don't profess to speak for the entire black community, I recognize some of the following may just be my own pet peeves but others may give us all pause so I'll get the ball rolling…

When did black people start having animals kiss them all up in the face?
I've never really been a pet type of person, apart from those confined to tanks, so perhaps this transition is lost on me. I did develop a fondness for our pet turtle that recently passed (RIP Fric), so I can understand to some extent the bond one may form with a beloved animal family addition. Somehow I still draw the line with these displays of affection. I can hear my mama saying, "That's just plain nasty!" When did our hygienic standards diminish to the point that this became acceptable? Please, black folk take heed. Too many illnesses nowadays have been linked to the transfer from animal to human…mad cow, swine flu ringing any bells? We have enough medical issues to contend with…diabetes, hypertension to name a few. Moving forward, let's start practicing some prevention.

When did black people start going through the drive-thru for Sunday dinner?
I'll admit I have been guilty of this one on occasion. We have such demanding, high-paced lives in this rapidly moving, technologically advanced world that we cut corners to save a few minutes here and there. Yet as I reflect, the few minutes we may gain are nothing in comparison to the foundation of eating together as a family, taking the time to share faith, family history and love that will pass down through generations and provide a sustenance for which the Colonel will never obtain the secret recipe.

When did black people start cussin' their parents?
Perhaps all the trans-fats from the drive-thru Sunday dinners have caused our children to lose their minds, but I remember the fear of God being in me if I even thought something inappropriate about my parents. I am part of the progressive generation that wanted to open a dialogue with my children beyond, "because I said so!" However, in light of the current state of our youth I'm inclined to think there was wisdom in those words that can't be taught in a text book. My father shared the teaching of his father, my grandfather who passed before I was born, on this subject. His father taught his children, "Do what I say first and question later. If I tell you to get out of the street and you stop to ask me why, you may get hit by a car before I have the chance to answer. Trust me." We must remember that first and foremost we need to be parents. Limit-setting is important and this will eventually translate to love, like is secondary and not necessary.

When did black people start carrying Toto in the Louis bag?
Really? When did we develop a need to start emulating out-of-touch debutantes, celebrities and heiress' for validation? Have we forgotten or just completely abandoned the concept of community? Before you go drop a shitload of cash to go stunting in the club, looking like you stepped off the page of GQ, or some other publication that could give a damn about you, pause for a moment and consider the economic needs of the black community and put those dollars to better use.

When did black people start realizing that white people ain't scared no mo'?
Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way advocating fear among the races. I truly believe to advance we need to encourage dialogue that will break down barriers but in the past white folks paused and chose their words very carefully. From that consideration, I took away the recognition on their part that they were dealing with an unfairly persecuted yet proud group of people who were no longer willing to accept any kind of foolishness. Now, the N-word and fists fly without hesitation. To me that says, in part…on our part…we stopped sending the right message. Our history is being erased by messages of a post-racial era and lost amid lies of 'things done changed'. We each have a responsibility, whether we like it or not, to teach if we are to reclaim our reverence.

This has been a moment in black history. What you got? Chime in…

So Black I Might be Blue: Ode to Black History

2010-02-03T23:53:00.002-05:00

Last night I finally, after several failed attempts due to consistently sold out shows, got to see the movie Avatar. Yes I contributed to the best-selling movie of all time and, though I don't think any single thing deserves to gross such an obscene amount of money, I will say it was a good flick.

Prior to seeing the movie I read commentaries discussing the racial undertones and could not help but to keep one militant lens wide open under my yellow plastic 3-D glasses to be mindful of potential stereotypical brainwashing themes that remain ever-present in Hollywood. I can hear some of you now: 'See that's what's wrong with you people. You're always looking for racism so of course you're going to find it.' Point noted.

I suppose the onset of black history month is as good a time as any to address the issue that some may perceive as "oversensitivity" on the part of people of color. In college I worked at a somewhat progressive day care center located in racially retarded Suffolk County, Long Island NY. During story time, I went searching for a book to read to my class and fondly picked Curious George by H.A. Rey off the shelf, proceeding to the blanket to titillate the anxiously awaiting innocent ears. I remembered reading this book series as a child and my heart tingled with fond memories as I saw the niggling (Google it!) monkey in the yellow raincoat and floppy hat on the cover. Though I can't be certain, I think I may have been reading an original copy. Let me paraphrase my recollection:

This is George. George is a monkey in Africa. A man (curiously nameless) goes to Africa by boat and sees George. He likes George and decides to take George back home with him. At first George didn't want to go but he was curious. George and the man arrive in America and George flees but, in a strange land and knowing nothing or no one, George can't make it on his own so he decides to return to his "friend" the man.

With each page turn my voice projection faded until I told the children to go play, only to retreat to a corner of the room to finish reading in desperate silence, hoping to find something on the next page that would convince me that the story of African slavery had not been watered down into an endearing children's fable. No such luck; instead a piece of my innocence was left amidst the building blocks.

Don't take my word for it, look it up. Perhaps you can start here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curious_George. Wikipedia writes:

Curious George appeared in 1941. This book begins with George living in Africa and tells the story of his capture by the Man with the Yellow Hat, who takes him on a ship to "the big city" where he will live in the zoo. The second book, Curious George Takes a Job (1947), begins with George living in the zoo, from which he escapes and has several adventures before the Man with the Yellow Hat finds him and takes George to live at his house. The remaining stories tell of George's adventures while living at the house of the Man with the Yellow Hat.

Though my recollection may not be exactly what was written in the book, one thing was for certain, at least to me anyway, no one could deny that this work was a horrific metaphor for African slavery.

Each week a staff meeting was held at this progressive learning center to review the literature and ensure it was healthy reading material for the children's development. Ready for battle, as the only black employee, book in hand I demanded it be removed from the shelf. The director sensing my conviction readily acquiesced and, in all fairness, only asked to know why in exchange for the banning. Why? Why! I thought to myself. Can't you see why?! Feeling somewhat vindicated by her willingness to remove the book I decided to indulge her and asserted my point that the book was a demeaning depiction of the African slave trade. With a simple shrug she momentarily pondered my opinion and replied, "Really. I didn't care too much for the book because I thought it was cruelty to animals."

That experience reminds me that perspective is subjective. We each see through our lenses of all-inclusive personal experience; pain and triumph, betrayal and trust, hurt and vindication, love and hate. Yes, we see what we want to see; we see that which validates our viewpoint and yet, somewhere, in the middle of that abyss exists the common thread of human experience.

This leads me back to Avatar. Did I manage to maintain the clarity of my militant lens in the face of the three hour 3-D seduction complete with vivid colors jumping off the IMAX screen to caress my retina? Sure I picked up on the jungle and "savage" references but this time I did not have another Curious George experience.

After the movie I thought to myself 'yeah I can see where the argument can be made that the alien nation was a reference to people of color'; not a hard leap since they were all blue while the majority of the people sent to invade their land were white.

As I close this post I feel like I'm completing one of my son's writing assignments: identify the similarities and the differences. Yes, this was yet another story of a powerful nation attempting to infiltrate a rich, sacred virgin land without regard to casualty for the purpose of capital gain but the difference, to me at least, was the perspective from which it was told. Rather than ingeniously encouraging the viewer to empathize with the "man", or the military or the heartless, soulless bastards willing to destroy the resource on their quest to rape and pillage, most will walk away understanding the pre-eminence of the so-called alien or savage (a testament that commonality can supersede language).

Though an old theme, it is an important one to not only highlight and honor the legacy of people of color unfairly displaced and murdered in the continued pursuit of the only color that seems to matter, green, but to reinvent the story not to make it fit any one particular group of people and demonstrate how "our" story affects us all, the collective humankind. So to those who assert "you people" are oversensitive I suggest that we, the historically persecuted, graciously share our painful history as a reminder to avert repetition.

I'm going to date myself a little right now but for those of you who have ever played, or seen others play, the dozens you might relate to this teasing of dark-skinned blacks: you sooo black, you blue! To borrow from the rapper Redman, "I'll be dat." Call me black, savage, alien or blue but I'm proud to be depicted by characteristics attributed to the highly evolved beings in Avatar and unlike the two steps backward I took in revisiting Curious George, I think in watching this film I regained a tiny piece of my innocence lost amid the building blogs at the day care center.

Love to Haiti

2010-01-15T00:43:00.007-05:00

The earthquake that devastated Haiti has managed to shake me from hiatus and lead me to you tonight. I thought my first post of 2010 would be about wishing everyone a happy new year but instead I find myself with the need to purge heart pangs. As I struggle to find the words to describe my feelings, all I can muster up is the self-validating phrase I despise…some of my best friends are Haitian.

My heart has been with them lately and yet, I'm ashamed to admit, I have not been able to pick up the telephone, call them and ask, "Are you okay?" In fact, that question seems downright stupid in my imagination. Physically, I know they are fine but the angst and despair they must be feeling for their loved ones back home is unfathomable. I managed to send a text message, callous albeit heartfelt, to let them know they are in my thoughts and prayers.

If only they knew how much I am thinking of them, how my mind revisits the many faces of relatives that sought shelter in their home throughout the years only to now wonder if those same people currently have refuge. I wonder if they know that the few phrases of Creole I learned at their home, as a matter of survival when their grandmother, who spoke no English, babysat me and they, my friends and translators, were off to piano lessons, now ruminate in my head with newfound meaning. Wap monge? I know I've probably misspelled it but I know it meant, "Are you hungry?" I wonder how many times this is being asked in Haiti right now and saddened that the griot, seasoned fried pork, is not as readily available to nourish the survivors as it was for my belly in their home. I wonder how their parents, who have been much like a secondary set of parents for me, are doing right now. Though they are safe right here in Brooklyn, how can they possibly cope with the thoughts of a beloved home reduced to rubble.

What I feel now is reminiscent of the Hurricane Katrina aftermath but instead of people floating on makeshifts rafts, they are trapped under debris. Even though I reside in the U.S., the nameless Haitian earthquake seems to hit closer to home, well…because…some of my best friends are Haitian. So if they read this, I hope they know they are loved and that I haven't reached out not because I don't care but because I care so much that I have no idea what to say to them to begin to heal the anguish they must be experiencing.

I read a comment by a politician suggesting that perhaps Haiti, given its historical struggles, is a cursed country. While I'm no conspiracy theorist, I must say the recent natural disasters, the tsunamis, the hurricanes and the earthquakes are making one hell of an argument for end of days theorists. Revelations fulfilled? Who knows, but these tragedies remind us of the important things in life- the ones we love and the ones who love us back. One thing for certain, tomorrow is never promised. Make sure you take the time to let those you love know it. For now, I would just like to send some love to Haiti because it produced some beautiful Haitians who taught me love throughout the years, in two languages. Sac passé?

Inertia

2009-12-18T23:51:00.012-05:00

HyperDic online dictionary defines inertia as: (physics) the tendency of a body to maintain its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force. This state of being, applied to mental functioning, most accurately describes my current state. I am mentally inert, frozen, numb or unable to proceed though time refuses to stand still.

As the end of the year approaches, a reflective time ensues; time to look back at the year, recognize accomplishments, express gratitude and formulate goals for the upcoming year. Yet I find myself less and less capable of completing any of those tasks; not because I don't want to, not because 2009 hasn't been filled with moments to reflect upon, not because I'm ungrateful and not because I don't have goals I wish to accomplish. So why then do I find myself in a persistent vegetative state?

As I toggle between writing this post in Microsoft Word and internet spades, I am painfully aware of the amount of energy it takes to complete an undertaking not readily available in my internal, autopilot menu. As if my body says: Go to work today? There's an app for that. That's how I accomplish most things these days, by rote thinking; not much different than the salivation of Pavlov's dogs at the sound of a bell in anticipation of their next meal. I awake each morning and go to work because it will yield me a paycheck to eat, pay the monthly bills and repeat the cycle.

My mind has recognized that these automated events are not living and, as if in protest, my mind has seceded from the union and accepted dualism: You don't need me anymore! That's silly, I think to myself, of course I need you, only for my declaration of loyalty to be questioned: Then why don't you show it? To which, short of lying, I cannot answer.

My mind has a strong point. The life I have willfully submitted to does little to stimulate cognition anymore and is completely out of alignment with the way my mind, body and soul believes life should be. Lately I've found myself on Twitter less and less, not because I no longer enjoy the social media but because the wonderful people I follow often remind me of this hypocrisy with their tweets of wisdom. With each RT, my re-tweet or cosign of the powerful words I know to be true, I feel the ripple of the shockwave which will ultimately short-circuit my autopilot system and cause it to derail, a risk that I have not grown the balls necessary to commit to.

Here's a few of 140 or less characters I have re-tweeted or marked "favorite" recently:

"Part of loving yourself is risking disappointing other people to make yourself happy." Don't know that I'm capable of this but it is definitely a goal I am working toward. Not that I want to disappoint anyone but I should start to pay more attention to my needs, regardless of outside opinion.

"If you knew you had to fight for your life tomorrow, would you change your training today?" ~Bruce Lee Absolutely! I tell myself before falling off to sleep to repeat another day of the mundane that brings me one day closer to the end of life.

"In order to succeed, your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure." ~Bill Cosby Clearly the fear of failure keeps me from taking the leap of faith needed to make significant change in my life, which in essence means I've already failed.

And the list goes on. If I utilize my mind to question the insanity of functioning without it then I find myself in a paradox whose only resolve becomes mental inertia, just stop thinking about it. The upside of mental atrophy as a defense mechanism is that it allows me to function on a daily basis but the downside is major, I need my mind to write and my sedentary cognitive lifestyle has caused it to shutdown. So now, this wannabe writer finds herself trapped in a poorly written, scripted reality without paper, pen or viable means of escape.

What am I to do? To that question, I have yet to find a reasonable answer and what I fear the most can be found in the definition of inertia: (physics) the tendency of a body to maintain its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force. In retrospect, 2009 affirmed for me that necessary change will happen whether you are an active participant or not. So perhaps this post is little more than an apology or love letter to my mind, extending the olive branch to return and work together to ward proactively making the changes needed to satisfy mind, body and soul.

What are you motioning towards in the upcoming year?

The Spotlight: A Tale for all Seasons by Jo Lynne Gianvecchio-Valerie

2009-12-06T21:21:00.014-05:00

For those of you new to this blog, please read Commitment to Self-Publishing: Twitter Write Chat Reflection for reference.

A Tale for All Seasons came to me compliments of self-published author Jo Lynne Gianvecchio-Valerie. Here is the information about the book located on the author's website http://jolynnevalerie.com/frameset.html

A Tale For All Seasons... Magical Stories for Heart & Soul

In this breathtaking debut collection of short stories, Jo Lynne Gianvecchio-Valerie weaves luminous tales about ordinary people whose lives are unexpectedly influenced by the magic of the four seasons and the unseen world of spirit... Initiating powerful personal journeys, sparking discovery and making their lives suddenly anything but ordinary.

In all honesty, this is probably not a book I would have selected for myself but I am very thankful divine intervention sent it my way. The old adage, never judge a book by its cover rings true here. I am not a flowery type of gal, so having just seen the cover I might have passed over this self-published gem.

A Tale for all Seasons is a collection of four novellas. The author utilizes stories of relationships to infuse information and invite the reader to explore the world of intuition and spirituality. This book hit home for me on two levels. First, for my own writing I have had issues with the word "novella". I am very thankful to Ms. Valerie for demonstrating the fullness and complexity of brevity. Each story wove an intricate tale of the power of perseverance in the face of adversity.

The second way in which this book touched me is far more personal. Many of us experience some sort of intuition, not always explained or supported by prevailing theory. Through her stories, Ms. Valerie allowed me to reconnect with spiritual ideology which may go against the norm but is definitely worth exploring.

As a bonus, Ms. Valerie offers recipes and holistic herbal treatments between each tale. I work in geriatric health care and quite frankly, what I see on a daily basis scares me and sends me running toward natural prevention and treatment.

Well done Ms. Valerie! A Tale for all Seasons is a testament to the creative freedom of self-publishing. The book is well-written and the author clearly pours her heart and soul into each story, creating a work which opens the door to possibility rather than confining the author to preset guidelines. Interviews and personalized notes allow you to get to know the author and questions are suggested for book group discussions. Get your copy at amazon.com.

With this Spotlight, we close out 2009 and I'm looking forward to seeing more self-published talent in 2010. Keep writing!

Raping Mother Africa, Again

2009-11-26T02:50:00.004-05:00

Tonight I watched the movie Pelham 123. I was good at math but not economics, an apparent conflict which I never understood but my bank account continually reflects. Tonight I realize I understand numbers but greed does not compute for me. The movie made reference to the lucrative nature of precious metal, specifically gold. I remember learning about the "gold rush" of the mid-1800s and the movie heightened my interest about the modern day parallel. Pardon my ignorance but I couldn't understand why, in a recession, gold, which I thought was primarily used for jewelry, would be so valuable. My simple mind thought, if people are broke they can't afford to waste money on bling. In my quest for answers, I did a Google search on "Why gold?" and came across an article in businessweek.com entitled "Jim Rogers on Why Gold Is Glittering So Brightly". The article confirmed that gold is where the money's at, hitting "an all-time high of $1,174 an ounce" on November 24^th, 2009, but did little to answer the question why for me.

As I continued reading, I came across a section that I found particularly disturbing. In the Q&A interview, Jim Rogers ("creator of the Rogers International Commodities Index") states, "I think the world is going to have huge food problems in the next few years. Other people seem to see that, too, so they're buying up farmland." He goes on to target Africa as an underexploited resource. Of Africa he states, "It's very, very cheap, it's incredibly fertile, and it hasn't been overexploited." To drive his point home he adds, "The labor's cheap, everything's cheap."

To backtrack for a moment and give some insight into my thought process, Tuesday evening I got home from work, looking forward to a much needed upcoming four day weekend. I celebrated this upcoming time off on Twitter and a conscientious tweeter, whom I believe to be a white male, sent me this message, "we shouldn't work at all. At least we shouldn't have to, but mostly do what we wish to do. Wage slavery is slavery". Wednesday evening, Thanksgiving eve for some, I arrived home exhausted, knowing that despite my best efforts I would still have to complete work for my employer, on "my time". Turning again to Twitter for a stress release, I couldn't help but notice the tweets of a black woman attempting to drive the message home that we should not be celebrating Thanksgiving.

Having minored in African-American studies, I secretly look forward to the day when my son learns about Christopher Columbus in school and I can tell him the real deal to take back to his so-called educators. Yet despite this lingering militancy, today I felt as if I didn't want to bear the burden of fighting historical causes. Then I watched the movie, read the article and my fleeting fantasy faded.

In "post-racial" America, many wonder why blacks continue to bring attention to the nation's history of slavery and continued practice of exploitation. In college I had Amiri Baraka as a professor and when students attempted to polarize their opinions as black and white, he would request qualifiers such as, "and which white people are you referring to?" In this manner he deflected our laziness to simply blame "the man" while also teaching us to recognize the intimate relationship between race and finance.

In reading the aforementioned article, the message that food will be in demand, plainly stated masses starving, and wealthy investors (of any race, color or creed) looking for the next highly profitable commodity have begun the process of taking ownership of Africa's fertile land and securing cheap labor, or slaves, destroyed any chance of me feasting on turkey and gravy while blissfully enjoying the delusion that things done changed.

However, the part of me that wants to enjoy time off of massa's clock and willfully submit to my culinary seductress is determined to find something, in the midst of the perverse repetition of history by unconscionable individuals, to remain thankful for. So on this Thanksgiving, in addition to giving thanks for family, friends and food, I will give thanks for those who bear the burden of remembering a painful past while maintaining the strength and dedication to wage mental warfare on the greedy bastards determined to repeat a history of rape, murder and pillage.

Stop The Violence Movement

2009-11-21T19:06:00.007-05:00

Fellow blogger, Literary Nobody, has made the call for bloggers to unite against violence and I have chosen to answer. Her suggestion: Let's pledge to post about violence at least once a month while making an effort to promote non-violence in some way in our daily lives. In addition, she has introduced a banner to identify bloggers supporting this cause, which now appears on the upper right side of this page.

This effort reminds me of The Stop The Violence Movement started by KRS ONE in 1988, following the shooting death of his friend and Boogie Down Productions member Scott La Rock. In an effort to unite the black community against violence, KRS utilized the resources in the then thriving rap industry to bring awareness to this growing problem.

I feel strongly that we, as a community, have to become proactive if we are to change the course of the direction in which we are heading. I am the first to admit that this is no easy task. I too feel overwhelmed hearing, reading, seeing the stories of senseless deaths. I recognize that indifference is a powerful self-defense but also an equally powerful contributor to the problem.

In the era of the Stop The Violence Movement, we wore emblems to demonstrate our solidarity. Moving forward into the cyberspace era, I proudly rock the banner and invite you to do the same.

Throwaway Child

2009-11-21T00:03:00.008-05:00

For those of you unaware of the Shaniya Davis tragedy, a five-year-old girl in North Carolina was found dead and her mother was charged with human trafficking and felony child abuse for allegedly prostituting her own child. This little, innocent and beautiful girl met her end at the hands of an alleged pedophile, videotaped carrying Shaniya on hotel surveillance.

Like many, I was "sickened" by this news story but kept reading, searching for some detail to help me comprehend something so incomprehensible, so senseless and tragic. How could anyone look at a young child like this and have sexual thoughts? How could a mother come to love a drug more than her own child? I don't know and I don't want to know.

One news story I read attempted to provide a broader context of child prostitution, noting that most children in these circumstances are runaways or "throwaways". That word, in all its eccentricity, stuck out to me. My initial thought was what a horrible label to attach to any child, throwaway. Cognitively I understand that it refers to children who have been thrown out of their homes or abandoned, typically rebellious teenagers (not as though that makes it any better). Yet the word, within the context of the Shaniya Davis article stood out to me. Discarded, disposable, useless, worthless; a plethora of synonyms seemingly more fitting for the perpetrators than the victim.

Recently I wrote about the death penalty and I have to admit this case made me momentarily rethink my position. The mother in me screamed, "Electric chair! Point me to the switch." Then I regrouped and thought no, too easy. Torture!

I have yet to move past that mental space and am not sure when I will. Off those who stole the breath from Shaniya Davis I say lock them up and throwaway the key.

Owning the Voice

2009-11-13T20:41:00.008-05:00

The other evening my husband surprised me and took me to a KRS ONE book release party. I had no idea where we were going up until the moment I stepped in the room. Having become somewhat of a recluse, I often need to mentally prepare myself for social gatherings but that night I was thrown into the pool, sink or swim. I waded in shallow waters and, apart from the uncomfortable heels I put on based on the directive to somewhat dress up, tread rather comfortably.

My husband, familiar with some of the attendees began to introduce me as g.g. Spirit. This, I quickly learned, I was not prepared for. Feeling rather shy and a bit embarrassed for my alter ego to be publicly outed, I gently tugged on my husband's jacket and whispered to him that he should introduce me by my given name. He looked at me for a moment and without hesitation insisted, "This is a writing forum. There are other writers here and you need to get used to the name."

He was right. I had yet to own the persona I chose as a pseudonym. I came to realize it was not the name I was having an issue with but owning the voice. To be publicly introduced to real people, not the tweople who met and accepted me in a virtual world under the alias, as g.g. Spirit meant I had to BE g.g. Spirit.

When I write, I pour my heart and soul into words. No holds barred, I say what I want, unapologetically. To imagine myself doing that in public is as horrifying to me as the proverbial standing naked in a room full of people dream. When I write, there is nothing but a blank page looking back. To incorporate this guise amidst others feels almost inappropriate.

I'm sure established writers have gone through this dilemma. Perhaps if I had a few published works under my belt it would be easier. The voice would be established and possibly even understood. As that has yet to happen, a grown woman being introduced as g.g. Spirit to others who had not read, or felt the voice, seemed downright silly. At that moment, I understood why Superman introduced himself as Clark Kent. One day I will publicly own the alter ego but until that time, I think I'll keep the double g's hidden under the button down.

Kill Them All and Let the Lord Divide Them

2009-11-11T20:58:00.004-05:00

Today is Veteran's Day, a day to remember and honor those who served and lost their lives in dedication and service to their country. I despise war and the senseless loss of life but do pay homage to those who dedicate their lives to their convictions. Today I find myself pondering loss of life by the purposeful decision of so-called authority. Last night John Allen Muhammed, also known as the DC sniper, was executed for his crimes. I acknowledge it may be in poor taste to address veterans and a serial killer in the same post but they are both on my mind.

While growing up, my father would often exclaim, "Kill them all and let the Lord divide them!" As a child, I had no idea what this meant but recognized he used the phrase whenever he couldn't definitively settle on which party was right or wrong. Both arguments had to hold merit and be flawed. In writing this post I researched the phrase and learned it dates back to a 13^th century Catholic feud in which a papal representative, when questioned how he could distinguish between the heretics and those faithful to the pope, responded "Kill them all, God will recognize his own." This later morphed into "Kill them all; let God sort them out" and finally into my father's household version.

In college, I'm almost ashamed to admit, I wrote a paper arguing in favor of the death penalty. I can't really remember what arguments I put forth but I do remember punctuating the paper with something along the lines of "…because not all lives are worth living." I can still remember the look of horror this phrase evoked on my roommates face when she read the paper.

That was a long time ago and I no longer hold the same position. Some might argue that it's easy for me to say I'm not in favor of the death penalty because I have not experienced the tragic loss of a loved one at the hands of a monster in human form. Noted. Even still, I would like to think that I could find it in me to not knowingly and willingly choose to take the life of another human being.

As with other heated debates, authorized killing polarizes people. Both sides have merit and both are flawed. So today, Veterans day, I question why those in power still employ 13^th century directives. Perhaps too simple in ideology, it seems to me that the killing divides us; families, countries, humanity.

I Got Nothin’…

2009-11-09T20:40:00.008-05:00

A semblance of order has been restored to my life and now I find myself at a loss for words. I thought to myself, once the computer is back up and running I'm going to be on a roll and yet the opposite is happening. With all the past month threw my way, one might think I would have endless subject matter. From the separation, to the car breaking down to the computer virus that wiped out my files but I got nothin'.

I have no desire to focus on any of the negative occurrences. In fact perhaps in some masochistic way I actually appreciate the adversity. As the storm clears, I'm left with a profound sense of gratitude. I am in a space of appreciation for newfound challenges, like finding the thesaurus on the updated version of Microsoft Word.

I got nothin' but clichés like be careful what you wish for. I asked to be reinvented and that is precisely what is happening right now. I apologize to you, the reader, because I am writing this in the full awareness that I got nothin', except the desire to get the engine running and with every keystroke I know I am taking baby steps toward a rebirth.

So I got nothin', but loyal friends and family, both online and off, that provided me with much needed support to get me through perhaps one of the most difficult times in my life. Thank you all. I guess I got nothin' but a new measure of how much nothing really is.

Reinventing Me

2009-10-21T20:43:00.003-04:00

Becoming complacent is never a good thing, even if you feel you are in a good place. That’s what I recently learned. I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life but I had grown comfortable, fat and accepting. I believe in Divine intervention. When you become stagnant the universe will give you just the right kick in the ass to get you off the proverbial couch.

That’s exactly what happened to me. The universe threw my potato ass right off the couch and into a pot of boiling water. Sink, swim, burn or jump back into life. Those were the choices I was presented with and I chose the latter.

Ironically, right before this major change occurred I saw a documentary on the singer Pink. I knew of her prior but never really paid much attention to her or her music. I gained respect for Pink after hearing her story. Perhaps I identified with her oppositional, don’t give a fuck attitude.

The documentary profiled her song/video “So What” and her relationship with motocross racer Carey Hart. At a point they separated and she joked that they had the kind of die hard relationship that once you put them together in a room, someone was getting pregnant. In the song, she mocked the break-up and invited her estranged husband to appear in the video, eventually leading to reconciliation.

I showed this part of the documentary to my husband and we managed to separate less than a week later. Neither of us is running to divorce court and we both have full expectation of reconciling. We love hard and all consuming, what some may refer to as black love. The problem with this is over time the individual is lost.

I think we both have to reinvent ourselves. Our relationship became too symbiotic causing us not to grow as individuals. The divine order of life has a profound sense of humor. Now that the situation has settled down, Pink’s song keeps playing in my head. I’m learning to laugh at things I took way to seriously, trust my instinct and not hold back.

I’m reinventing myself as an individual and hope that my husband is taking the opportunity to do the same. We met as teenagers, have known each other for nineteen years and became strangers, to each other and to ourselves. In order to move forward, we each need to learn who we are individually and reintroduce those two people to each other. I’m looking forward to seeing the new me and the new him.

Ramblings of A Bleeding Heart

2009-10-17T19:10:00.014-04:00

Self-preservation is the first law of nature. -Samuel Butler

Hello everyone, I've missed you and just wanted to let you know I'm still here. In the last week, my life has changed drastically. I've been uprooted. In fact, I'm here tapping away on someone else's computer. Last night I went to dinner with my girlfriends and, as I sat across from one, I noticed she was fighting back tears. "Don't cry for me," I attempted to console her. She replied, "It's just really sad, you are a good person and don't deserve this." The conversation continued and at times I found myself glancing at her, searching her eyes like a mirror to see what she saw.

I've learned something about myself through this ordeal. I am self-less to a fault. I have always tended to put myself, my feelings, my needs last. I think I could search the eyes of a stone cold killer and find the good in his soul. Needy people tend to latch on to me because, for some reason, I have a strong need to give. I think this putrid gene is heredity. My father recently told me a story about my mother (who retired to only work longer hours sans gratis for community organizations) in which she won a monetary prize and gave it back because she saw it as taking away from the cause. The problem, as I now see it, is that a bleeding heart will eventually run dry and is detrimental to self-preservation.

So that's where I am right now, desperately trying to preserve myself which means I have to learn to be a bit selfish. Perhaps selfish is the wrong word. One must take care of their own needs and that does not make them selfish. So despite the changes I am going through, I am not deterred. I will continue to live, love, laugh, give and most importantly, write.

The Spotlight: How to Survive Personal Bankruptcy in England and Wales by Lee Betteridge

2009-10-04T22:03:00.010-04:00

For those of you new to this blog, please read Commitment to Self-Publishing: Twitter Write Chat Reflection for reference.

"If you get up one more time than you fall you will make it through." - Chinese proverb

How to Survive Personal Bankruptcy in England and Wales came to me compliments of self-published author Lee Betteridge. Here is the information about the book and author located on his website http://www.survivebankruptcy.info/:

Facing Bankruptcy? Introducing the Survival Guide You Just Can't Afford to be Without...
Facing up to the prospect of bankruptcy is difficult enough - without having to search far and wide for the answers to those all-important questions. Now, for the first time, a complete step-by-step strategy has been written which provides a clear path through the entire process. The result is a detailed ‘in-the-trenches’ account from a bankruptcy survivor, packed with helpful hints and tips and broken down into plain English.

You will discover:
Sources of trustworthy free independent advice
Alternatives to bankruptcy, including the new Debt Relief Order
How to stop creditor / debt-collector harassment
A quick and easy way to raise money to pay costs
Ways to eliminate negative thinking and fear
Exactly what will happen to you
How to protect your income, possessions, home and car
How to obtain early discharge
How to repair your credit rating
How to stay financially secure in the future

Lee Betteridge holds a degree in Business Law and had an early career in banking. After an entrepreneurial foray into property, he was forced to declare himself bankrupt in 2007. This is an account of his journey told from both a professional and personal point of view. His personal experience shines through as he describes ways to face your situation and come out of it smiling and debt-free.

This self-help book came to me in the form of divine intervention. Although the legalities apply to England and Wales, the common sense principles are universal. I was feeling overburdened by student loan debt. Though bankruptcy is not an option for disposing of this issue, Betteridge’s approach to financial hardship is comforting. Having personally been through the journey, his compassion for those “currently experiencing financial difficulties” leapt off each and every page. He is thorough, from researching the history of bankruptcy to providing online references and a glossary of terminology. Betteridge not only offered practical advice, but reminders of relatable human trials and words of inspiration to overcoming these tribulations as evidenced by the quote above. The book is well written and easy to read, a testament to his writing and utilization of editing services. Join me in celebrating this self-published gem. You can purchase this book on the author’s website: http://www.survivebankruptcy.info/

Next month, The Spotlight will feature A Tale for all Seasons by Jo Lynne Gianvecchio-Valerie. Stay tuned and support self-published authors.

Helping A Helper

2009-10-03T20:02:00.015-04:00

I am a social worker and I assist and advocate for clients yet self-advocacy has never been a strong suit. Human resources, from two different employers, increased my salary in the past because, as I was informed, my salary was an abomination on their books. Due to the economy, my employer was unable to give annual increases this year. I have often been told that I sell myself short and the time has now come for me to start valuing my worth.

As a child, I was introduced to the concept of social injustice and became determined to make a difference in life. I once heard someone say, if all you do is take then you are nothing more than a parasite. This was a powerful statement and I knew then I did not want to be a parasite. When questioned about my career aspirations, I replied that I wanted to be a teacher and the response was typically that I was too smart for that and that I would be wasting my talents. I could not understand how helping others could be considered a waste. What I failed to realize was that my dreams were being measured on a scale of earning potential. Money was not my focus. As I grew up, my career development took a turn but remained in the helping fields. I ultimately became a social worker, as this course of study offered the opportunity to assist many people from various walks of life.

As an adult, I can now appreciate the unspoken concern offered to me as a child. Perhaps I should have given more consideration to the financial constraints placed on helpers. Now that I have joined what I consider to be a society of compassionate men and women who have dedicated their lives to assisting others, I ponder the question, "Where do the helpers turn for help?" I advocate daily for those in need and locate resources for the indigent. Yet, there seems to be no assistance for those of us who pay to serve. I say pay to serve because for many of us, our paychecks are not enough to maintain a modest, comfortable existence. Social Work as a discipline, for example, requires both a bachelor and masters degree. I attended New York University graduate school to attain a quality education, ensuring my clients received assistance from a competent practitioner. Now, I am paying the student loans in order to provide service.

I have been practicing for over ten years, five years with children and families in the foster care system, one year with pediatric HIV/AIDS patients and for over the past four years in geriatric health care. Most helping professions consider it unethical to accept financial reward from clients. I have often refused the efforts of those grateful clients wanting to reward my service and I am certain that other helpers have had similar experiences. So where do we turn for help with student loans that cause financial hardship?

Sharing stories of professional trials with friends I’ve heard responses such as, "I could never do that. It is so draining." While they recognize the need for the services the helping professions provide, they respectfully acknowledge that these positions are not for everyone. I love writing and aspire to become a published author. Along this journey, bills must be paid. Herein lies the problem, I could seek out a second job but that would leave little to no time or energy for writing.

I have added a “DONATE” button to this site and if you are so inclined please help a helper today. You can verify my standing as a licensed, New York State social worker (LMSW) by entering my license number (059568) at the New York State Education Department Office of the Professions (http://www.op.nysed.gov/opsearches.htm). There is absolutely no requirement to contribute to this site. If you like something you read or want to help a helper, then donate any amount and I thank you for your help in bringing me one step closer to relieving the student loan burden and publishing a book. I assure you, once the loans are repaid, the donate button will be removed from this site.

Packing for Hell: Jay-Z, Where’s My Ticket?

2009-09-30T17:51:00.007-04:00

Though there are far more important issues I could write about, such as the senseless beating death of Chicago honor student Derrion Albert or the forced immunization of New York City healthcare workers, I have been consumed by issues of spirituality ever since my NAD blog post, Losing My Religion (http://thenationalaffairsdesk.blogspot.com/2009/09/losing-my-religion.html). The fact that atheists are celebrating “blasphemy day” on Twitter hasn’t helped. However, the true inspiration for this post came from a blog I read analyzing Jay-Z’ video/song entitled “Jay-Z’s “Run This Town” and the Occult Connections” posted on The Vigilant Citizen website (http://vigilantcitizen.com/?p=1948).

Having already declared my affection for this song, I couldn’t resist clicking the link to this article, posted on Twitter. I believe the post was intended to warn of Jay-Z’ alleged connection to the Freemason secret society. The read, akin to Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, was very interesting. Despite the compelling arguments, I found my respect for Jay-Z increasing, leaving me to ponder the question, are my spiritual beliefs more akin to the occult? For a reference to my spiritual standing, please follow the link above and read ‘Losing My Religion’. To make a long story short, I have a strong belief in a Higher Power, with an emphasis on free will.

Let me highlight the parts of the Jay-Z analysis that stood out for me:

“Most occult orders secretly acknowledge Lucifer as being the savior of humanity, the fallen angel who liberated men from the oppression of the biblical God (Jehovah, Yahweh). These orders (the main one being Freemasonry) have been working for centuries towards the overthrow of the rule of organized religions to usher in a new age or a “New Order”. At the philosophical center of this order: the Luciferian Doctrine, where men are free to become gods by their own means.”

Having been raised Catholic, the whole Lucifer reference scares the crap out of me and yet I find myself drawn to the theory. However, I do not view God as oppressive. Religion, on the other hand, yes. How, you may ask, can I selectively separate the two? I think people have manipulated religious theory to suit their own purposes. The danger lies in people blindly following doctrine that may or may not be “God’s way”. As for men becoming gods in their own right, this is my vision of the promised land. Using the concept of God the Father, haven’t we been taught ‘as long as you are in my house you will follow my rules’? So wouldn’t it stand to reason when we come into our own, come of age, we should get to set the rules in our own home?

In reference to the song’s hook sung by Rihanna, the author writes “She says that the game of life is corrupted but she still succeeds because she “breaks the rules”. In other words, she ignores the boundaries between good and evil to achieve her goals. This might remind you of the saying “Do What Thou Wilt” of the Ordo Templi Orientis described above.”

I have never had a problem with breaking rules. Generally speaking, I am a law abiding citizen but that does not mean that I agree with the rules. My sister and I have argued this point for many years and she never understood my oppositional defiance. I relate very well to the concept of “Do What Thou Wilt”. My relationship with God is a personal one and I have always preferred to follow my heart. Interestingly enough, I had a discussion with a Twitter friend yesterday, when she declared she was going “bad”. I told her I would go with her. I don’t think any extreme is good and I think you need a balance of energies. Lately I’ve been too “good” and haven’t been following my heart. To those who say I am wrong I reply, on judgment day I’d rather be condemned to hell for something I truly believe in than blindly following something I was told. Imagining myself standing before God, I don’t think the argument, ‘but they told me to do it’ would hold up too well.

Now I could go on and on about this subject but I won’t. I will conclude by saying if Jay-Z has adopted philosophies which encourage free thinking and a determination to govern one’s self then I applaud him. If this line of thinking aligns me with sinister occult philosophy, then I suppose I should start packing for hell right now. Just remember, one man’s hell is another man’s paradise. Please feel free to douse the screen with holy water now.

Coming Full Circle

2009-09-26T21:34:00.002-04:00

It’s kind of amazing to me but at this point in my life I feel like I’ve come full circle. In my upbringing, I was very open to all people and all cultures then I experienced isms, racism and sexism among others, leaving me very jaded. In my wildest dreams, I never expected to find a group of white people that shared my views and desire to make the world a better place. To be honest, I came to the conclusion that white people, generally speaking, had no vested interest in eradicating systems from which they seemed to directly benefit. Twitter has introduced me to people from Canada to Germany who managed to restore my faith in human nature. Just thought I’d take a moment to say thank you.

Quicksand

2009-09-23T20:17:00.005-04:00

As I child, I enjoyed writing poetry but to be honest I haven’t tried my hand at it since as long ago as I thought it had to rhyme. After an evening conversation with my husband, I was inspired to ink these words and let him know I understand.

Sinking slowly
Into an abyss
Of fuck it

While tightly gripping
I know I can with the right hand
I think I can with the left

Skin blistering
In the sun
Of others shine

Nothing but the tongue
Working overtime to collect
Sweat and tears to sustain me

All the while
Puckering the lips
To blow a kiss of cool air

I'm So Hood...NOT

2009-09-23T16:23:00.007-04:00

Hello everyone. I haven’t been feeling too well lately and my body finally made me do what others have been telling me, slow down! So today, hump day, I am posting humorous observations from a meeting I attended at my son’s school yesterday. Some of you may find this sad, others offensive but me, I need to laugh to get over the hump.

Despite my “higher education”, I have never considered myself bourgeoisie, or bougie as some might say. What I saw yesterday left me shaking my head and saying, “Are you serious?” The only conclusion I could draw is that I am so NOT “hood” for the following top five reasons:

5. As an adult, I do not need the incentive of a smiley face sticker to be quiet and listen to orientation material

4. I would not ask if a fifteen-year-old could pick my child up from the afterschool program after the rule stating escort must be sixteen and older is read out loud from the rule pamphlet by the program facilitator

3. I would never show up, as a parent, to a meeting with sweats hanging off my ass to expose a huge scripted “LEO” tattoo on the crack of my ass while covering my head with a Roc-A-Wear hoodie

2. The smell of fish grease would not be lingering in the air after I walk by

1. I have never had the problem of “the precinct stay trying to take my kids” (Apparently if your children are not picked up on time, they are taken to the local precinct.)

There you have it, the reasons I discovered yesterday that I’m not hood and thus, will never again sing the song preceding this post (not like I really did before but it did come to mind after leaving the meeting). Please feel free to add your own reasons why you are or are not hood. I’m sure we could all use a good laugh.

Dirty Words

2009-09-16T09:13:00.002-04:00

I’ve refrained from political based discussions because, to be honest, I’m not well versed in that area. However, I suppose sometimes it helps to make the complicated simple. With that said, I invite you to read the guest blog post “Dirty Words” I wrote for The National Affairs Desk: http://thenationalaffairsdesk.blogspot.com/2009/09/dirty-words.html a commentary on socialism.

God Spare Life

2009-09-14T19:18:00.009-04:00

Hello everyone. Today’s topic is mortality. For some strange reason I have been thinking about death lately. I suppose it’s not really that weird since death has always been a looming factor in my life. I don’t fear death. For as long as I can remember my father has instilled this to be the only certainty in life. Even though I don’t dread crossing over, I neither welcome the transition with open arms.

I’ve been wondering why this has been plaguing my thoughts. I work in geriatric health care, so death is ever present. But I’ve done this work for several years, so that can’t be it. I realized that death for me is the ticking clock. Since childhood, I’ve always had concern that time would run out before I got to accomplish something important to me. For example, I always wanted to have a child and for a time, I was convinced that I would die before that happened. Thankfully I did not.

I have not wanted anything that felt like a matter of life and death in a long time. Now that I am fairly close to finishing my first novel, this old familiar feeling, the blaring sound of sand scraping against the hourglass has returned. As frustrating as the uncertainty can be at times, it does remind me how precious each second of every minute in every hour of the day is. We sometimes get so caught up in daily absurdity that we forget to appreciate the people and situations in our life that we prayed for because they hold true meaning above all else.

So rather than focusing on the inevitable, I will use the treasured ticks of the clock to be thankful for each breath, smile, laugh, hug, kiss and word. I will continue to work toward making the seemingly impossible possible, God spare life.

How will you spend your sands of time?

UNAPOLOGETIC

2009-09-12T11:13:00.011-04:00

I am who I am, you just can't change me

No matter what you do, you can't take the hood out me
*****************
But God made me what I am today

So I say things ya'll afraid to say
- Lil Kim, This Is Who I Am

This is the first time I’m sitting down to write a post and feel like I’m going to be all over the place, but so be it. In the last couple of weeks I have had difficulty writing and, thanks to a Twitter friend, last night I figured out why. Since I decided to pursue writing, I have taken this path and myself way too seriously, at times forgetting the fact my talent is fueled by emotion. I was becoming stoic and sterile and that’s not me. So now I’m about to show my ass. To the disappointment of some and relief of others, there’s no nudity involved. That simply means that I’ve shown you the good and now I’m releasing the bad and the ugly. This has been difficult for me because as an “educated” person, I know when I’m being ignant [sic].

Last night I watched the Jay-Z 9/11 benefit concert on Fuse. The Twitter friend and I engaged in a friendly tweet battle about Jay-Z and Nas. Then, at the end of the show, Jay-Z brought out Puffy (aka Diddy, aka Sean Combs, aka the devil) and she discovered I had a “mild dislike” for this man. Understatement. I told her my position was too much to fit into a 140 character count and that she may have inspired a new blog post.

To be clear, I have not always disliked Puffy. In his rise to fame, I appreciated his Mary J. Blige remixes. Now that his chest is completely puffed out, I can’t stand him. I appreciate a high confidence level, even to the point of bordering on arrogance (Jay-Z and Kanye West case in point). Puffy, in my opinion, is exploitive. He only feels confident when he slaps someone down to remind him of the power in his pimp hand.

The founder of Bad Boy records who ironically coined the phrase “no bitchassness” is the biggest bitch ass of them all. He sought out young, raw talent from the street for credibility and then did everything in his power to distance himself from the very same image when threatened. Picture him screaming like a girl and running for safety, or his lawyer’s office when shit hit the fan.

When B.I.G. was murdered I, like many others, wondered what the hell he was doing out in L.A. during such a hostile period. In 1997 I was in graduate school and met a young woman who worked for Bad Boy. She told me that Diddy never looked out for them on the road but Biggie did. Though he didn’t pull the trigger, I do feel that Diddy’s narcissism was a definite contributor in Biggie’s death.

As a business man, I don’t respect Mr. Combs’ ethics. The black community would be best served if those with the means utilized their position to uplift the community as a whole. I read a book called the Classic Slave Narratives by Robert McNamara in which former slaves chronicled their experience. This was the first time I learned of slaves buying other slaves. They did so not for their own prosperity but to help free their brethren. In my eyes, Puffy utilizes his wealth for personal gain and is unconscionable about enslaving others to do so. After so many artists (Jadakiss, The L.O.X., Craig Mack to name a few) have had difficulty getting out of contracts in which they were unable to eat from the benefits of their labor, I can’t help but to see Puffy as nothing more than a modern day massa.

With that, I would like to thank my Twitter friend @prisonerswife (she has a great blog you should check out http://thissideofthewall.com/ ) for helping me to take the muzzle off. I may not fit into professional writing circles but I’m okay with that. I’d much rather retain my own voice than attain artificial validation. To borrow from Jay-Z, I’m a Brooklyn girl I might take some getting used to.

Self-Published Monthly Spotlight: Probability Angels by Joseph Devon

2009-09-07T19:57:00.023-04:00

Monthly spotlight to showcase talented self-published authors and support this growing industry to help keep the door open for writers who, by choice, prefer to maintain control of their work and those who have difficulty obtaining consideration from traditional publishing houses.

For those of you new to this blog, please read Commitment to Self-Publishing: Twitter Write Chat Reflection for reference.

I found Probability Angels on a site called published.com “Where Published Authors Promote Their Books & New Authors Learn How To Get Published” (http://published.com/). After perusing several titles and blurbs, I decided on the book Probability Angels by Joseph Devon. Here is the information presented on the site:

Probability Angels
Matthew Huntington’s problems seem to keep growing. Not only is he seeing things in garbage cans but his mentor doesn’t think he’s working up to his full potential, his best friend can’t offer any solace but drunken confusion, and his wife is dying in Central Park. Of course, the fact that Matthew himself died over two decades ago isn’t helping things. And then things start to really go wrong. Come explore the world of Matthew and Epp and see what a samurai from Feudal Japan has to do with the course of modern physics, what a two-thousand year old Roman slave has to do with the summit of Mount Everest, and what a dead man from Brooklyn has to do with the fate of the world. submitted by - Charles Pasadena

· Website: http://josephdevon.com/
· Format: ebook, paperback
· Price: 10.99
· Number of pages: 282
· Subject: Science Fiction / Fantasy
· Date Issued: weekly
· Publisher: CreateSpace
· Year: January 7, 2009
· ISBN: 1441403868
· Blogs Age: 6 years
· Soft Host: Host Gator
· Topic: Blog
· Authors Age: 30
· Media: non-fiction

What made me select this book? I’m not typically a science fiction fan but the description was intriguing. Being from Brooklyn, the idea that “a dead man from Brooklyn” has something “to do with the fate of the world” was worth the read. The price was affordable. (NOTE: I have since learned if you are planning to review a book, the author is willing to send it to you without you having to pay for it.) The length was also an important factor. Thinking practically about my schedule and the commitment I made, a lengthy work would not be feasible to read and review in a month’s time. Finally, I found the author’s age inspiring.

Next step: get the book. I clicked the link to access the author’s website. Here I found the book, complete with excerpts from each chapter, or “part” as the author labels them. There was a link to Amazon and, already having an account, purchasing the book was a rather simple process. Being financially prudent, I chose standard shipping and hoped for the best. The book did thankfully arrive before I left for vacation, taking about five days from time of purchase.

Impressions: The paper quality, the cover and binding were comparable to traditionally published books. The graphics were simple, clean and to the point. The jacket did not contain the typical author photo and bio, though there was an “About the Author” page in the back of the book with limited detail. The book is classified in the genre science fiction but I thought of it more as paranormal suspense. The story is about a man who died and crossed over to an alternate universe, having difficulty understanding and accepting the protocol while his mentor is unknowingly in the midst of a power struggle with veteran opponents. The characters are relatable and the story challenges you to take mental leaps. The author paints a picture in describing each character and setting, demonstrating a level of patience that, as a writer, I strive to develop. The reader is taken on an exhilarating ride through time and several geographical locations. The writing is fluid. I would suggest a handy thesaurus for less avid readers. I particularly liked the way basic life lessons and laws of social interaction are exemplified using metaphorical fiction (don’t know if that was intended or if I see it that way based on sociology training). I’d say, if you like the movie Push, you’ll enjoy Probability Angels. I did.

Follow-up: reaching out to the author. After purchasing the book, I searched Twitter and found the author @josephdevon. I reached out to him to inform him of the Commitment to Self-Publishing series and my intent to feature his novel. Mr. Devon was accessible and receptive. I have invited him to detail his journey into self-publishing.

Are you a self-published author who has a book to be featured in The Spotlight?

WAKE UP!

2009-09-05T20:46:00.030-04:00

“There is no honor in being a rich man in a poor society." The Art of War

Well I’m back from vacation and was all prepared to discuss the beauty of the Shenandoah Mountains. I was going to say that I wish I had a picture of the midnight blue sky hiding the moon to share with you. I was all ready to discuss the cultural difference between concrete and cows. I was going to talk about how crossing the Mason-Dixon Line introduced the dialogue of the Confederacy between me and my son at the Shenandoah County Fair, after fleeing from too many flags, good ‘ole boys and lack of representation of people of color. I was planning to tell you that I didn’t get as much writing done as planned because I heeded the universe and rested. I was going to mention I read the book for the first self-published review and connected with two other self-published authors to continue the commitment series. I was ready to inform you that my husband and I discovered an application called Uber Twitter which revolutionized the way we communicate from our cell phones. Then something happened on Twitter and all these themes fell by the wayside.

On Thursday I was in a silly mood and wandered into Twitter trending topics. To set the backdrop, this was the morning following the Larry King interview of young R&B/fallen role model Chris Brown, the interview in which Chris Brown managed to plead the fifth amendment on any inquiry into the details of the admitted physical assault of former girlfriend Rihanna. The interview led to a silly trending topic with the hashtag #chrisbrownsbowtie, referencing his attire during the interview. I usually am too busy keeping up with the tweets from my friends/followers to even pay attention to the trending topics, which tend to be either sophomoric or popular in nature (though the two are not exclusive). That day I happened to find myself there in the pursuit of a silly pastime and I noticed a hashtag called #maiacampbell. “Isn’t that the young actress that played Tiffany on the L.L. Cool J television series In the House?” I thought to myself. Curious, I wandered into the topic room and confirmed my suspicion only to learn that Tiffany, or rather Maia Campbell was all grown up now, and there were pictures and videos circulating of her, like never seen before. I will not post any links here but I will say they involved nudity and reference to crack-cocaine use.

My playful mood quickly became disturbed and the uneasiness would only grow as I retreated back to my Twitter domain and tweets reflected the outrage at the ignorance of a society that would make light of domestic violence and celebrate the downfall of a young actress suffering from mental illness. I found myself overwhelmed and probably not for the reason you may think. Feeling powerless to convey this sentiment within the 140 character count restriction, I opted to depart for the evening and knew it was bad when I signed off with the Rodney King quote “Can’t we all just get along?”; not before adding the notion that perhaps we all needed a good “ass whipping” to think clearly, frustration apparent.

The reason I felt overwhelmed was not because I sided with either of the polarized extremes but rather because I saw both sides of the coin. The question, as I perceived it, was not whether people, as a rudimentary consideration, thought domestic violence and mocking mental illness were wrong but rather how can people celebrate the downfall of the individuals involved in these tragic circumstances?

Risking accusation of paranoid cognition, I dare to say we live in the Matrix. We are plugged into the system. A simple confirmation of this came to me when I posted my first Uber tweet and my location, down to the closest rock in the mountain, appeared online. We are becoming a reality craving society immersed in anything but due to an overload of popular culture that criticizes the true average lifestyle. If you don’t drive a certain type of vehicle, or live in a grandiose dwelling, or your back account doesn’t reflect enough zeros following a one, then you are not “hot” or you are the dreaded “loser” or you are simply non-existent, a “nobody”.

Given that context, it is not difficult to understand how any misstep on the part of the “somebodies” would be celebrated by the masses. The overabundant exuberance serves to remind the “winners” that the “losers” not only exist but maintain a level of control over their so-called status. Does this excuse the ignorance? Absolutely not. Does it explain the growing indifference? Certainly. Personally I loathe the wealthy disdain for the “subculture”. Truth be told, there would be no “haves” without “have nots”. The problem, as I observe, is the ever expanding lack of balance between the two. Entertainment is as much of a need as food, shelter and clothing. What better source of entertainment is left when all else is out of reach than to mock the very individuals viewed as responsible for your plight? This applies to both sides of the coin, who equally take the validation of the other way too seriously.

Again, I do not offer this as immunity for ignorant thinking. The masses, sans money and fame, do maintain personal responsibility and power. Rather than celebrating another’s downfall, we should use that same energy to change our situation. Instead of making the rich richer, we should support ourselves and our communities to restore the balance. “If I had the money, media and means,” I thought to myself, “I could reach individuals to foster the change”. Then I realized if I were Oprah herself the feat may still be insurmountable. Since this concept is too long to convey in 140 characters or a blog post for that matter, my frustration remains. I feel now, as I felt the night I signed off of Twitter, wishing I could gather everyone together and yell, “WAKE UP!” as the character Dap, portrayed by actor Laurence Fishburne did at the end of Spike Lee’s School Daze when social interaction got out of control.

Love Never Fails

2009-08-23T12:48:00.003-04:00

And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, “You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” Genesis 2:16-17

In my last post I mentioned that I have been told I am too smart for my own good and asked if there were such a thing. The universe has a funny way of answering you so be careful about the questions you put forth. Today I got my answer and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m a spiritual not religious person but it is Sunday morning and we are the product of our experiences. I was raised Catholic, so indulge me as I get a tad biblical this morning.

My eyes are the physical attribute most people comment on. My husband says they captivated him on our first meeting. Eyes represent vision and I cannot help but believe my possession of this blessing and curse is purposed. I see things that many others do not, not like dead people or anything but something I like to call the “larger picture”. I don’t consider myself to be psychic, but I have had dreams that come to fruition. This frightened my sister and as children she thought I was possessed. I see beyond words and when I try to paint the picture for others I am often limited by vernacular.

I have greater success as a third party mediator, when my feelings are not invested. Professionally I have been encouraged to work my “magic” in resolving difficult conflicts. Yet in my personal life, I fail miserably. My mother has told me, “Gale, use your social work skills!” I tell her they don’t work when I’m not working. My husband and I have had an ongoing series of arguments lately and he finally called me “Ms. Know-It-All”. I have said much worse. Without getting into specifics, I will say it is clear that over time I have hurt him with my words.

In this conflict I got my answer. There is such a thing as being too smart for your own good. As a descendant of Eve, I have indulged in the forbidden fruit of knowledge of good and evil and a part of me has died. I have become cynical and the innocence my husband once loved is no more. The seductive glance has turned into a penetrating stare. We have been married for ten years and have known each other since childhood. We have grown up together and we both have changed, for better and for worse. We are each other’s mirror and are both looking to find the frolicking souls that once played freely in Brooklyn’s concrete jungle. We both seek to be baptized in the sea of new beginnings. I do not despair because 1 Corinthians provides hope. Love never fails.

I’m Not Hatin’…Maybe Just a Little Bit

2009-08-21T19:07:00.004-04:00

I have been writing forever, or maybe it just feels that way. I have been told that I am too smart for my own good (is there such a thing?). At four years old, I was ready to graduate kindergarten but got retained because I didn’t meet the age requirement for the first grade private school my parents selected. My kindergarten school allowed me to attend the graduation as an honorary guest. As my mother tells it, they had a hard time keeping me from commenting on the perceived injustice of the ceremony. Pointing to the children receiving their diplomas on stage I remarked, “I can read better than that one! I can write better than that one! And you’re telling me I can’t graduate?”

Far more humbled these days, the arrogance of that little girl has been peaked lately. Ashamed to admit I partake in reality TV phenomenon, I’ve been watching BET's Tiny & Toya and Bravo's The Real Housewives of Atlanta. On the last episode of Tiny & Toya, Toya received notice a publisher was interested in working with her. Nene, of The Real Housewives, announced she was being courted by various publishers in the same breath she announced she wouldn’t be writing a single word of her book.

In case you are new to this blog, I have been discussing the publishing industry (see http://ggspiritwrites.blogspot.com/2009/08/commitment-to-self-publishing-twitter.html). Some feel that a traditional publishing contract marks the validation of a worthy writer. If that argument is true, how do you explain these pending book deals? To be fair, Toya states she has always enjoyed writing and I give her the benefit of the doubt she may actually be talented, verbal expression not withstanding. Despite her insistence she doesn’t want to be known solely for her affiliation to rap artist Lil Wayne, one cannot ignore she will potentially achieve success as a writer based largely on that very connection.

I read books about the publishing industry and one theme reigned supreme, it’s all about who you know. One even urged something along the lines of: If your hairdresser’s third cousin dates a literary professional, get to know that person. So what happens to a talented writer who doesn’t know anybody in the literary world? She sits in the audience as an honorary guest and says, “I can read better than that one! I can write better than that one! And you’re telling me I can’t graduate?”

Damn It I Burnt the Chicken, Sorry Honey

2009-08-19T19:45:00.003-04:00

Okay so I didn’t really burn dinner but for a moment, running back and forth between the computer and the kitchen, I thought I did. Thankfully, I was using the large George Foreman grill, a present from my husband which he reminded me I neglected until his urging to take it out the box, or else we would have had to call it Cajun.

I have been lying to myself lately, telling myself I managed to strike a balance in order to fit the pursuit of writing into my life. My husband has been telling me “it’s okay…I understand…you don’t have to…something has to give”. I am stubborn and have not been listening because I have been conditioned to be superwoman, anything less would be tantamount to failure.

Yesterday evening, as hunger pangs clawed into our stomachs, the question that has worked itself into our regular evening discussions was put forth again, “What are we doing for dinner?” My son is easy, refusing to eat real food anyway so his meals are always there. As my husband and I struggled to decide which take out spot would provide our nourishment, given the fact that culinary art is not a forte in our area he blurted out something along the lines of, “If you would just cook then we wouldn’t have to go through this.” I heard him and suggested we go to the supermarket but he replied, “Not today, I know you are tired.”

Now I know what you might be thinking, why doesn’t he just cook? Our roles are very flexible and trust me, he would if he could. I enjoy cooking; I hate ironing and vacuuming. We had reached a balance that worked for us, not to mention we both appreciate home cooked meals and get sick of fast food after two to three helpings. As we rolled out the McDonald’s drive through, which we managed to avoid for almost a year until I engrossed myself in writing, and three days away from our ten year wedding anniversary I made a mental note-tomorrow, make dinner.

As 4:30 approached, the “official” end of my work day, I thought to myself: What am I making for dinner? Instantly I thought of the George Foreman grill, which I used for the first time this past Sunday. I thought to myself, my husband will appreciate me using his gift and dinner will be done quickly so I can catch up on blog posts and write something. Reflecting on that thought, I have to admit to myself and say, “Honey, I’m sorry and I hear you. My attempts at multi-tasking have been half-assed at best.”

Dinner was pretty good so I thank George Foreman for his innovation and I thank you, love, for having the foresight to purchase one.

Last Night I Cried

2009-08-17T19:29:00.003-04:00

I wasn’t going to write this even though that phrase kept echoing in my head. My reasons against it were: a-I couldn’t figure out how to tie it into writing for redeeming value and b-as much as I appreciate others sharing vulnerability, I’m not very good at it myself.

My sister, four years my senior, once told me that it scared her to see me cry because I didn’t do it often, thus leading her to conclude my tears meant something was seriously wrong. I am a very emotional woman but I am also highly intellectual and the two characteristics tend to form a balance of strategy and control. The times I shed tears are usually when my mind searches long and hard but can’t seem to find any answers, finally yielding to the heart.

Last night I cried and the mind released the flood gates giving way to a heart that has been storing an emotional well. I have reached the height of acceptance and have stood perched on the landing that I now recognize as numbness. Last night my knees buckled, my legs gave way and I fell into an ocean of tears that felt like a baptismal cleansing of the soul. It washed away invincibility and clothed me in the painful realization that I am human.

Last night I cried, not because anything was seriously wrong but because I had to yield. Unable to get to sleep as my mind continued on its search for answers, I somehow ended up on the Christian evangelist channel. I heard the phrase “peace of mind is rest” and the tears came gushing down. I cried because I have not rested in a long time and couldn’t figure out how to obtain peace of mind. I had to admit that I do not control my world and, despite my best efforts, lack the ability to direct this massive production.

Since deciding to truly follow my calling, I have been diligent in taking practical steps. I write regularly, network socially and follow literary trends. I thought this was what I needed to do because it made sense. I was not prepared for the internal obstacles, the relationships resistant to change, the wait for it to finally “happen” for me.

Last night I cried because I realized it is happening, even if it is not in the form I anticipated. I wiped the tears, blew my nose and then I prayed. Today I checked Twitter and an online friend told me the universe had a message for me, “don’t think so much”. I realized I cried to remind myself to feel and let go. Still filled with challenges, today was a better day but tomorrow I may cry again.

Commitment to Self-Publishing: Twitter Write Chat Reflection

2009-08-16T13:54:00.005-04:00

Publication - is the auction of the Mind of Man. ~Emily Dickinson

It’s Sunday, early afternoon and two hours away from a social networking hashtag discussion I participate in on Twitter called #writechat (via @WritingSpirit). To maintain suspense and ensure people wait until the designated three o’clock eastern-time hour to start the discussion, the topic is kept top secret until show time. Last week’s topic centered on publishing issues and I disclosed my intention to self-publish my debut novel, not at all prepared for the stream of tweets that would follow.

One Twitter friend/follower in particular challenged me to name the self-published works I read. To be fair, my fingers couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with all the “@” (response to your tweet) messages but I realized how unprepared I was to answer that question, leading the tweeter to conclude that I do not read self-published works. How then, could I be so determined to achieve success through an avenue I, myself, did not support?

After cautioning this tweeter against such large assumptions, I offered to provide him with a list of self-published works I have purchased but the numbers were not the heart of the discussion. I think the point he was trying to make was that self-published works are not widely purchased or read because the quality of both the writing itself and overall aesthetics (cover, binding, etc.) are not comparable to books published by traditional, large publishing houses.

Personally I find that argument difficult to accept. Obtaining a traditional publishing contract has been likened to the same odds as hitting the lottery, so it is hard to believe that the larger numbers of writers unable to share their work through traditional means or those who have opted in favor of publishing their works themselves are not as good as the chosen few.

There were valid arguments presented on both sides but one hit home for me. I have to admit that I have committed myself to the notion of publishing my work through self-publishing but I have not committed myself to supporting this growing and needed industry as a matter of principle. As self-publishing grows so does the onslaught of criticism from traditional publishers, literary agents and all those who seek to maintain the glass ceiling and control the profits. Until we are able to readily roll off a list of self-published works and authors that are analogous to traditionally published works, the distinction will remain.

Now, I seek to rectify this issue. Following last week’s write chat, I asked people to recommend good, self-published works. I plan to read one each month and as objectively as possible review it on this blog to both celebrate self-publishing gains and challenge those committed to helping this avenue grow to step the game up.

Please leave a comment to share your thoughts on self-publishing, recommend a self-published book or share if you a writer going through the publishing process (self and traditional).

Objectifying Women: Money, Cars, Clothes & Hoes

2009-08-13T16:55:00.005-04:00

Whenever I hear the Drake song Successful, I am strangely reminded of the children’s magazine Highlights because of the “what’s wrong with this picture” brainteaser on the back cover challenging children to find the item that does not belong. Why a children’s item association? Perhaps my mind views his measure of success as infantile.

I have to be honest and admit that, in general, I like the theme of the song. As an aspiring writer, I have often discussed the desire to be successful in my calling so I can relate. I can appreciate the wish for capital, though my choices may be more like financial freedom, house and travel. Then we get to the hoes part and I kick myself for singing the song.

This is not a new debate but it does add another tally in my column of hip-hop cons, which lately has far outweighed the pros. I have heard a few of Drake’s songs and consider him to be a talented Kanye-esque lyricist, disappointing me then that he chooses to use his talent to add to the misogynistic cesspool rap music has become.

This post is not intended to be a male bashing debate so I have to turn my attention now to the women. As long as there are women who will gladly drop it like its hot in the videos for these types of songs and spread eagle the minute these type of men pay them any attention, then women will remain mere objects, rulers in the adolescent penis measuring contest.

Today I was driving and heard Drake’s song but then it was followed by a new Queen Latifah song and I had an “aha” moment. That’s what’s missing! We need the balance of talented female lyricists willing to take these fools to task and ask, “Who You Calling a Bitch?” or in this case a ho. I personally am looking forward to the Queen’s return and wish others like MC Lyte would school these children and bring back the true nature of the art form I once loved. Then, maybe, hip-hop and I could be cool again.

Fun is Not Fun When You Spell It: Exploring Race Issues with Our Youth

2009-08-09T09:58:00.005-04:00

As the school year approaches, I find myself wondering if my son is prepared. He has books, pens and other supplies but does he have the knowledge to deal with the issues he may encounter? The last school year turned out to be a crash course in street education. In the third grade, he learned the f-bomb, the derogatory homosexual f-bomb and the dreaded n-word. His final exam came in the form of a challenge to decipher an acronym presented by a classmate. To my astonishment he informed me, “fun is not fun when you spell it: F (bomb) U (you) N (word)”.

My eight-year-old son attends a gifted program at a local public school. Though his class is a gifted class, the education he receives during lunch and recess is quite different. Acknowledging the distraction from his schoolwork, I attempted to curtail these lessons by requesting he not be with the other children during the breaks. He was assigned as a monitor to other classes during those times and the teacher told me he was miserable. Accepting his need to socialize with his peers and the fact I can’t protect him from the inevitable, I rescinded the imposed segregation. As much as people talk about a “post-racial” America the fact is racial issues are very much alive here and throughout the world.

I have been extremely discriminate in the information I provide to my son, not wanting to project my ideas of race and allowing him to formulate his own opinions. To be honest, I think his innocence is so beautiful and don’t want to shatter it. Now I wonder if I am making the same unintentional mistake my parents did of not preparing him for what he is bound to encounter. Just this summer, young black children were turned away from a private swimming pool in Pennsylvania based on the color of their skin (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/07/09/minority-children-turned-_n_228878.html ). Were they prepared to understand racism?

My parents, young Jamaican immigrants, came from a classist society and didn’t focus on race. My favorite show as a child was The Dukes of Hazzard but I didn’t learn about them good ole boys until college. I attended private, predominantly black elementary schools and did not learn I was a “minority” until high school, my first integrated experience in a gifted public school program. I knew something was different and struggled, alone, to figure it out. All I could come up with was that my world had suddenly suffered a negative change with the introduction of white people. In college, I minored in African American studies and got my answers, leading me down a path of anger, militancy and finally understanding. My parents and I have since discussed this experience and they said, “We were young, new to this country and learning right along with you.”

My son is intelligent and inquisitive but rather naive where race is concerned. He was shocked to learn that his uncle, my brother-in-law, is white. To him, he was just his uncle. Attempting to gain information about one of his summer program instructors, I inquired about race and my son, with a surprised look on his face responded “That’s her business isn’t it?” I bought him a book earlier this year about a black boy living in a settlement of runaway slaves to introduce him to historical content. Unfortunately the name of the book and main character share the name of my son’s friend/classmate, who was killed in a hit and run accident shortly after I purchased the book. My son won’t touch the book because of this traumatic experience.

I believe it is important to provide my son with the proper framework for understanding issues he is bound to encounter. My approach has been to deal with issues as they arise but I feel that is not enough. The street education he was bombarded with last school year was far too much mental stimulation, causing him to be distracted from the book knowledge that had nothing to do with what he was experiencing.

Having had to figure out racial issues on my own, I lack the framework for teaching my son. How much does he need to know and how much is too much? How do I make sure he is prepared but allow him to maintain his innocence? Is that even possible?

Please Put the Toilet Seat Down

2009-08-07T17:20:00.002-04:00

Having a husband and son, I am the outnumbered gender in my home. I am trying to get a recorded reminder placed in the bathroom because I’m tired of repeating myself, “Please put the toilet seat down.” It’s even become an ongoing joke, with me telling the males in my home they are determined to make me go for a dip one day. Then the other day, my 8-year-old came to me to tell on his father and obtain my praise, “Daddy left the toilet seat up, but I put it down.” While thanking him for doing the right thing, a thought crossed my mind for a split second. Am I teaching him the right thing or reinforcing some sort of reverse sexism?

Being that I analyze everything way too much, I am still wondering if there is a right and wrong on this one. On the television sitcom Martin, Martin and Gina once had this debate. She instructed, “You zip it then you flip it.” He had a clever comeback that I can’t seem to remember, something that instructed women to look before they sit but I think it rhymed. If a man sits down to urinate, his masculinity may be questioned. Then if he leaves the seat up, his manhood is criticized. I can see how this could lead him to feel as though he can’t win.

I think back to my childhood and, having one sister, my father was outnumbered. He always managed to put the toilet seat down. Given my mother’s OCD (think Sleeping with the Enemy clean), it is no wonder he was successfully housebroken. Despite pondering the gender issues, I still feel the toilet seat should be down when unoccupied. First and perhaps most shallow reason, it is more aesthetically pleasing. Next, a man taking the time and forethought to put the seat down is chivalrous, much like opening the car door. Chivalry may be on life support but these minor actions may help to revive it. Finally, no man wants to suffer the repercussions of being responsible for a woman wading in the shallow watering hole. Call me a nag, cavewoman or any other euphemisms that may apply but please put the toilet seat down!

Let the battle of the sexes begin…

Divided Loyalties

2009-08-04T19:27:00.005-04:00

Today I felt paralyzed by fear, which fortunately doesn’t happen too often. I haven’t taken my “leap of faith” but managed to still break my body. Yesterday I didn’t feel well and went to the doctor, only to learn my blood pressure was elevated. It was high enough to prompt the doctor to check my heart. Blood work, EKG and some other type of heart machine later I was told I would not be placed on blood pressure medication “yet” and handed a paper for a low sodium diet. The funny thing is I don’t have a high sodium intake. I gave up red meat and pork at least fifteen years ago. I don’t add salt to my meals and I mostly drink water. My palate prefers sweets and my sugar level was fine, a blessing considering diabetes is prominent in my family. Sure I could exercise more but then again so could most of us.

Today was a sick day. With my son at day camp, I should have had all the time in the world to relax and work on my novel but instead I was frozen. I tried and my attempt lasted all of twenty minutes. I took a two hour afternoon nap, finally succumbing to my body’s inability to move. I woke up, still tired but more insightful. I realized I couldn’t write because I felt guilty. Due to my health issues, I was taking time away from my job and part of me wondered how much of this ailment was psychosomatic. I maintain a sense of loyalty to my job because it helps to pay the bills but I don’t love it. When I’m there, I feel like I’m cheating on my calling, cheating myself. But how do I turn my back on the provider for the side gig? I’ve reached a point in my life where I understand what the elders meant when they said love don’t pay the bills.

So now I’m even more torn. Practical reasoning dictates I suck it up and go back to work tomorrow, thankful to have a job during a recession. I’m sure this is what I’ll do but the palpations I feel when thinking of the getting ready to go to work process causes me to question. Is it worth it if it kills me? I can’t help but think that me being salty about having to divide loyalties is what shot my blood pressure through the roof. What diet can I place myself on to address that issue? I have managed to find the balance between writing and marriage, the balance between writing and motherhood but writing and work remain at odds.

I am convinced that I will remain fixated until I resolve this Catch-22. The more I write, the harder it is for me to complete the mundane professional tasks necessary for me to maintain employment. The more I work the harder it is to engage myself in the creative process necessary to complete the novel. And now, to add insult to injury, my physical well-being is being caught in the crossfire.

I’d like to hear from you today. If you are a writer who left your day job to focus on writing, let me know how it’s working out for you. If you are struggling with a professional choice, please share so I know I’m not alone. If stress has ever taken a toll on you physically, feel free to talk about it here. Let’s work through this together.

Tramp Stamp: What does body art say about you?

2009-08-01T12:20:00.009-04:00

(Images: Left: A tattoo on the right arm of a Scythian chieftain whose mummy was discovered at Pazyryk, Russia. The tattoo was made more than 2,500 years ago. Top: A literal tramp stamp. Bottom: A verse from Corinthians.)

“I bet you are written on.” The Skeleton Key

Coming in on the tail end (no pun intended) of a ShoTime documentary entitled Very Young Girls concerned with the plight of teenage prostitutes, the camera focused in on the lower back of one of its subjects, displaying a large tribal tattoo. The term “tramp stamp”, which I have never utilized, came to mind and a few moments later the young lady was in tears, upset that “everyone” in her old neighborhood looked at her as though they knew she was selling her body. Feeling somewhat shallow for not addressing the larger issue of teenage prostitution, I decided I needed to see the entire production before delving in. For now, I want to examine the effect of permanent ink and perception.

According to Wikipedia, tattoos date back to 3300 BC. African, Asian and European cultures have used body art to symbolize tribal allegiance or denote accomplishments. Less poignant modern day examples include tear drops on the face to indicate murder. Not all tattoos are pensive, such as the “I ♥ MOM” scratched into a buttock during a drunken binge. Regardless of the meaning, or lack thereof, body art remains a permanent self-expression, expensive laser art removal not withstanding.

When you choose to express yourself this way, do others interpret it as you intended? Personally, I have always appreciated body art and took the first opportunity away from home for four months to get inked at age 20, a sleek black panther strategically placed on my upper back, allowing me to hide it when dressed for formal occasions. I thought carefully about this while seeing a young woman ahead of me getting a large heart on her upper right arm. A couple years later, having seen many people with the same piece I chose from a shop’s wall, I added a custom black panther partner next to it, designed by my then boyfriend, now husband, a great graphic artist. I returned home and my mother, a devout Catholic, was livid about the desecration of my body. Many religions, such as Judaism and Christianity, consider tattoos sinful. My husband, an ink addict, is convinced the preacher at his mother’s Baptist church takes the opportunity to send him a personal message from the pulpit on the rare occasions we are obliged to attend services. He vowed to get a large piece stating “ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME” before we return.

In addition to religious judgment, body art can have financial implications as well. Every time my husband adds another piece, I view it as affirmation he does not intend to return to mainstream employment. Would an employer be able to see past the ink on the skin to the ink on a resume? Banned in New York in 1961 after being linked to blood-borne hepatitis cases, the practice was legalized in 1997. Tattoos to some say dirty, reckless, immoral and criminal.

Despite the moral, financial, health and legal considerations present for all body art lovers, the term “tramp stamp” is reserved exclusively for women. Is this another double standard aimed at controlling female sexuality or merely a remnant of traditional values? Does it matter where the ink appears on a woman’s body or does it specifically need to be placed on the nape of the lower back to qualify for the term? Is everyone looking at you as a tramp, as the young lady in the documentary feared, if you are a written on woman?

What’s your opinion?

Changing Voice: A Stroll Down Memory Lane with Gloria Watkins

2009-07-29T15:20:00.002-04:00

Responding to a guest blog post (http://soulbrotherv2.blogspot.com/2009/07/fact-is-i-need-youteach-me-how-to-love.html) caused me to revisit a past experience I had not thought about in a long time. I remarked that I had yet to determine if this experience was fortunate or unfortunate, leading me to believe there were unresolved issues. The young guest blogger expressed frustration about being rebuffed for his views based on age or immaturity. I decided to stroll down memory lane in order to make a decision on my past experience. Take a stroll with me.

Following my first year of undergraduate school, I was invited to a party celebrating a childhood friend’s completion of graduate school. She majored in African-American studies and at that stage of my life I just embarked on the journey to learn more of racial issues in America. We lived about five houses down and saw each other frequently. At 19, just returning from school and seeking validation I learned something, I had a conversation with my friend, four years my senior, about a course I had taken which I thought she would’ve enjoyed. Nonchalantly mentioning Professor Amiri Baraka was a dynamic speaker, I was quickly sent back to the drawing board when my friend rebuffed, “You ignorant child you! Don’t you know who he is?” Yeah my professor, I thought to myself, only to learn later he, the controversial Poet Laureate of Newark, was a monumental fixture the American civil rights movement.

I offer that as the backdrop for the experience I would later have at my friend’s graduation party. Home from school, I took a job working at a local shoe store, the first hire of a new manager that fired the pre-existing staff to prevent insubordination. As a favor, he asked me to work the register seven days a week until he could hire new staff. Just so happened the Saturday of the party was my first day off in weeks. I took the opportunity to sleep in and arrived late to the party, hoping to blend into the wall paint. In retrospect, I was likely apprehensive about attending, since the guest list was filled with African-American majors and my friend’s highly regarded Professor Gloria Watkins. She is better known as renowned author bell hooks, prominent voice of black feminism. Ms. Watkins was about 41-years-old at that time, based on her Wikipedia age.

My attempt to fade into invisibility failed miserably and in a twisted irony I became the focal point in Ms. Watkins’ study of young black women. Hit with a barrage of questions about everything from family values to black authors, I did my best to answer concisely hoping the spotlight would move to someone else. Ms. Watkins, seemingly amused by my answers, kept the questions and the mockery coming. She asked me what I thought of author Terry McMillan. Having just finished her first three novels and anxiously awaiting her fourth, I affirmed I enjoyed her work to which Ms. Watkins replied she didn’t care much for McMillan’s soap opera fiction. I asserted that I could relate, either directly or vicariously, to her characters and themes. Ms. Watkins went on to ask me about my future plans. Did I intend to marry and have children? When I confirmed these as goals Ms. Watkins chastised stating she thought it was wrong to bring children into a world of overpopulation. Then she got personal, “Do you intend to stay the way you are when you have these children?”

“The way I am?” I questioned. You’ve known me for all of two hours, what could you possibly know about me? Out of respect for my friend, I kept that thought to myself and withstood the personal attack.

Ms. Watkins clarified. “Well, you seem pretty glamorous. You were late for the party. Your hair and nails are done.” Black feminist my ass! Now I was getting heated. I knew the confrontation was not solely occurring in my head when my older sister, with whom I rarely saw eye to eye, felt the need to come to my defense and inform Ms. Watkins that I was late because I had been working seven days a week. For me, the gloves came off.

“Actually,” I responded glancing down at my acrylic tips, “my nails need to be redone right about now. And since when did being a mother mean you have to appear tattered?” Sensing my growing annoyance, Ms. Watkins offered that when you have parental responsibilities it takes away from personal time. She then shifted the conversation back to Terry McMillan.

“I read an article on Ms. McMillan recently in which she stated success was great but she wanted a relationship because she can’t hug her BMW.” Ms. Watkins snickered, “I don’t know about her but I can hug mine.” How hypocritical I thought, as she placed her hand on her boyfriend’s leg while finishing her statement. The party continued and, prior to leaving, Ms. Watkins thanked me for entertaining her. She remarked she hoped to see me in ten years to see how many of my goals and dreams became reality. This experience left me rather jaded and determined to prove her wrong.

I think part of me viewed this experience as unfortunate because sixteen years have passed and I have yet to achieve my goals. I did graduate from college, get married and have a child. My husband and I often joke that if the marriage fails, we would never marry again. I continue to value companionship but have matured to a point where I learned the value of self-fulfillment. My original dream was three to four children. I stopped after one, learning what Ms. Watkins meant by parental responsibilities taking away from personal time. I’m far from glamorous, but then again that was her assessment, not mine. Personally, apart from wanting to shed a few pounds, I maintain myself to a standard I am quite comfortable with. I have not published a book yet, but I am working hard towards that goal and am proud of the gains I make each day. I can now release the resentment I held from this experience, feeling doomed to failure by a respected elder, and appreciate the exchange as an opportunity to mark the evolution of a changing voice over changing times.

Paying Dues Pays Off When

2009-07-27T20:23:00.004-04:00

"Beginning writers must appreciate the prerequisites if they hope to become writers. You pay your dues—which takes years." Alex Haley

The concept of “paying dues” may appear daunting until you embrace it as a necessary and meaningful part of the process. For a writer, the journey to print is a long, winding road wrought with many stops requiring blood, sweat and tears to proceed. These are precisely the moments we need to remind ourselves of the reason we made the decision to embark on this course. So today I want to have a little fun in celebrating my process and remind myself of the top ten moments when paying dues pays off for me. Some of these reasons are intended to celebrate the gains I have made while others are meant to motivate me to keep pursuing my dreams. Please join me and post your reasons for starting and sticking with your chosen path in the comments section.

Paying Dues Pays Off When…

10 Education becomes a fun reprieve: I have both a bachelor’s and master’s degree and can’t recall such a penchant for learning as I have when researching writing.

9 A goal is reached and a new one is set: Just when I think I have accomplished what I set out to do, the bar is raised reminding me how much more living I have to do.

8 Readers appreciate my words: I’m sure I have yet to reach the level of recognition I hope to obtain one day but the kind feedback I have received to date keeps the hunger alive to keep writing.

7 Literary professionals take the time to provide guidance: Time is money and when a professional takes the time to offer a suggestion or direction, savor the moment.

6 Writers share their work and you learn you don’t have a monopoly on vulnerability: It is wonderful to get the opportunity to read excellent work gratis and realize the most seasoned writers remain protective of their babies.

5 I get to set my own clock and don’t need one: I appreciate my employment but look forward to the day I get to dictate my own schedule and invest my time as I see fit.

4 My husband and I book the villa in Jamaica with the personal chef and bartender: Need to include self-indulgency to remind myself when you work hard you get to play hard.

3 My son has a huge backyard to frolic with his friends: Having grown up in a large, crowded city I have come to appreciate open space and want to provide that for my son.

2 Currency has no meaning: Okay this one is a longshot but then again I never thought I’d see a black American president in my lifetime. Dare to dream! I look forward to the day that paying dues helps me to stop worrying about paying bills.

1 I see my words in print: Looking forward to caressing the pages of my novel; the first, second, third, fourth, fifth…you get the idea.

Onus of Submission

2009-07-24T20:44:00.003-04:00

He added: “In our view there was nothing stupid about what happened. What happened to produce a different outcome was directly under the control of Professor Gates. That’s something the president didn’t fully appreciate.” Mr. McDonald, Attorney, New York Times article http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/25/us/politics/25gates.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&hp

I was going to refrain from writing a piece on the Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. incident because to be honest I felt it had been done to death. Then I read the New York Times article on President Obama’s comments, entitled “Obama Says He Regrets His Language on Gates Arrest” and I couldn’t seem to hold my tongue any longer. It wasn’t the incident itself, or even the President’s attempt at diplomacy to quell the backlash that lit the fuse. It was the last lines of the article (printed above) that left a bad taste in my mouth; a familiar pungent dish that I hoped not to indulge in again called blaming the victim.

The comment implied, or rather blatantly stated, that the situation would not have occurred but for Professor Gates reaction of outrage to being confronted by Cambridge police as an intruder in his own home. Thinking of myself as an objective person, I was forced to ask if it were possible he overreacted but before I could finish the question the opinionated self regained control and answered hell no! What people fail to appreciate is a continuing pattern of authority abuses of power that call for people of color to exercise a degree of submission not required by the majority.

Living in New York, this incident is reminiscent of Sean Bell (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sean_Bell_shooting_incident) and Amadou Diallo so I suppose we should compliment the Cambridge police for allowing Professor Gates to retain his undoubtedly altered life. Diallo, an unarmed immigrant shot to death by forty one rounds from the New York Police Department in the vestibule of his apartment building in 1999, led to outrage in the city. The officers were later acquitted of any wrongdoing by court judgment that stated they were justified based on a perceived threat. I can still remember the regurgitation following the ingestion of that dish. The man was unarmed so what was the perceived threat? Does that mean that officers are given carte blanche to use deadly force based on their own prejudice?

As much as people like to say, slavery is over or even the more laughable racism is dead, these incidents remind us that the damaging effects of such institutions continue to permeate our society. Let’s be real, legal segregation in America ended a mere fifty years ago and the practice still continues covertly today. Given that context, it is no wonder a fear of insubordinate black people still exists. I like to present possible solutions when discussing a problem but unfortunately after processing this incident, like those before I am still left with more questions than answers. Is a black man allowed to be justifiably angry? Should the onus be on blacks to continue to submit to a level of inferiority placing authority at ease or should those people challenge themselves to address their isms before accepting a position of power?

These are powerful and threatening questions best addressed in intimate settings where people feel free to abandon political correctness and bare their vulnerable ignorance in the open pursuit of knowledge and change. In a graduate human behavior course, the professor mocked a study in which people were told they were born of the wrong race and had to set a monetary amount for compensation to go along with correcting the error. Simply stated, white people had to say how much money it would take for them to start living as a black person and vice versa. The white students stated millions and billions would be necessary to live the rest of their life as a black person, unknowingly accepting white privelege as a value. I asserted that there was no amount I would accept because I wouldn't want to change. After class a young white woman approached me in disbelief and asked, "Given all black people have been through, you wouldn't jump at the chance to switch?" I applauded the courage of her inquisitiveness and affirmed that there was a sense of strength and pride obtained through adversity which was pricesless. In retrospect she was left dumbfounded and in the spirit of each one teach one, I wish I took more time to field her questions.

All I can say at this point is I pray for a resolution to these issues because my stomach can’t handle many more helpings of this dish.

Leap of Faith

2009-07-21T17:26:00.003-04:00

I quit my job today. I took that leap of faith in the midst of a national recession. Not really but it feels good to write the words I lack the courage to say aloud. Masking my dissatisfaction must be a growing challenge because the other day my son asked me, “Mommy, do you like your job?” That’s quite a loaded question I thought to myself. Cashing a paycheck from a not-so-bad job that I wish I didn’t have when so many others are having a difficult time finding gainful employment makes me feel like an ingrate. On the other hand, half-heartedly completing the mundane daily duties all the while knowing my energy would be better served investing in my passion of writing makes me a hypocrite. While I struggle to decipher the lesser of the evils, I stay put feeling much like the main character in the movie Office Space, where everyday feels like I’m suffering from a case of the Mondays.

Some might simply say, so just quit and what a wonderful sentiment that is in theory. Years ago an executive told me, “Whenever possible in life, stand by your convictions; unless you have children to feed.” Therein lies the problem. As much I would love to fully trust in my writing ability, practicality dictates dreams won’t feed or clothe my family. This general rule remains in direct conflict with my spirituality which says, Trust in the Lord and He will make a way. Whether successful people attribute their talent to a Higher power or a unwavering belief in themselves, they found the faith necessary to commit whole-heartedly to their calling. I am working to find the inner strength necessary to fall backwards and trust that I will land on my feet.

I went to an awards banquet a few months ago and the keynote speaker was George C. Fraser. He was a dynamic speaker, making me feel he was directly speaking to me despite the other thousand or so people in the room. He said something to effect of, if you won the lotto today and would quit your job tomorrow then you need to go to work tomorrow and resign because you are not doing a good job and are robbing the world of your gifts and talent. A few years ago I took that leap of faith for real and landed on my ass, hard. I have read success stories that began with something like, “I was broke and homeless…” Now that my tailbone has healed, I am not sure that I am willing to take that risk but then again, no risk no reward. Being a fairly good strategist, I often process that timeframe and tell myself, you were not wrong just not well planned. Holding onto this belief, I manage to control impulsivity and swallow the words “I quit”. So tomorrow, I go back to work and hope that Wednesday won’t feel like Monday if I can plan for Thursday.

Pathologising People of Color

2009-07-17T17:20:00.002-04:00

pa·thol·o·gy: 1: the study of the essential nature of diseases and especially of the structural and functional changes produced by them 2: something abnormal: a: the structural and functional deviations from the normal that constitute disease or characterize a particular disease b: deviation from propriety or from an assumed normal state of something nonliving or nonmaterial c: deviation giving rise to social ills - Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary

Yes I am aware that “pathologising” is not a word; pathology is a noun not a verb. I have taken creative liberty to express a growing trend, the action of turning a culturally specific event into a disease in need of treatment. This is not a new notion by any means and on some level we are all guilty. How often have we said, “Ill that’s nasty!” or “That’s sick!” in response to something we don’t understand. I’m not exempt. I am of Jamaican heritage and grew up eating curry goat. To this day, I hear people unfamiliar with eating mutton say ill that’s nasty. Having ceased eating red meat or pork for several years, based on personal experience I can still understand and not judge people for enjoying the tasty treats. Yet in reading Barack Obama’s Dreams from My Father, my initial reaction to his disclosure of eating dog meat in Indonesia was “yuck!”

I offer this example to say that human reaction based on experience is normal and not what this piece is concerned with. Difference of opinion and realities is what makes the world interesting and worth exploring. What I am concerned with is when one deems another to be ill because they don’t fit that person’s paradigm of socially acceptable behavior and, to take it a step further, when the majority perspective is applied as the scale by which to assess and diagnose the minority experience. As a mental health professional, I learned early on that some white professionals view behavior that can be easily understood within a cultural context as deviant and set out on a plan to “fix” the individual.

As a first year graduate student, my internship was at a mediation program in Brooklyn for at risk adolescents and their families. Counseling utilizes a concept known as the blank slate, in which the professional becomes a canvas for the client to make disclosures in a safe (i.e. nonjudgmental) space and allow them to project their feelings. New and naïve, I did as I was told and sat blankly in my sessions, attentively listening to clients disclose everything from drug dealing to homicidal thoughts only to be later chastised by my middle-aged white supervisor for “over identifying” with my clients. I found this interesting since I considered myself completely different from most of my clients, the majority of whom were on public assistance and resided in the projects, a world I knew nothing about and, truth be told, terrified me.

Bewildered by my supervisor’s reaction, I confided in a Latina therapist. She told me that she stopped sharing with staff members after she attempted to get them to understand a client during a case discussion and they in turn began to analyze her for not agreeing with their assessment. She had a teenage boy who was jumping rooftops with his friends and the staff wanted to have him committed to a psychiatric institution for suicidal ideation. She attempted to get them to understand the boys did this not want to kill themselves but were rather exercising youthful grandiosity/invincibility and boredom from a lack of appealing social outlets. After noticing I shut down in our supervisory sessions, my supervisor and I engaged in a discussion in which she apologized for her accusation and acknowledged feeling envious that I would get more information from clients in one session than she would obtain in months. It appeared that my skin color allowed me to build a trust that white professionals worked very hard to gain.

So then, was this distrust on the part of clients of color valid? After ten years working in the discipline I have concluded that it is. I have seen many clients of color medically restrained by psychotropic drugs that in many instances do more harm than good. For the sake of brevity, I will not expand as it would take an entire book versus a blog post to do so. What concerns me is that based on a lack of cultural understanding, medical professionals rush to treat the symptom rather than the problem. For example, classifying the teenage boy who is selling drugs to support his crack addicted mother and younger siblings with an oppositional defiant disorder because he refuses to stop his behavior despite the consequences of prison or death. To “fix” or remove his anger or violent temper while placing him back in the very situation that created the need for his behavior is to leave him defenseless.

Now I don’t proclaim to justify self-destructive or socially threatening behaviors as culturally acceptable. Instead, I offer this piece as the first in an ongoing discussion of understanding the treatment needs of people of color. Perhaps if more professionals were in fact blank slates, they would not rush to judgment and misdiagnose situations they are unable to understand outside their own definitions of normal and become invested in treating the actual problem rather than the symptom.

Preparing for Success

2009-07-13T20:59:00.000-04:00

"If you can imagine it, you can achieve it. If you can dream it, you can become it." William Arthur Ward

How does one prepare for success? I dream big, world peace big, and in color, vibrant gloss. Yet in my wildest dreams I’ve been unable to paint a picture of what success might look like. I’ve become fairly disciplined about my writing and I’ve determined I want to achieve success in this area. However, I have yet to develop a complete vision of what that means to me and, as a result, have refrained from focusing too much energy on imagining success. Common positive thinking dictates that if you don’t focus your energy on success it will evade you. Part of me has pointedly avoided the topic out of fear of jinxing myself or worse, setting myself up for disappointment. Of fear, Carl Jung says, "If there is a fear of falling, the only safety consists in deliberately jumping." So here goes, I’m jumping out the window with this one.

Success for me means moving people with my words that are contemplative and written. I purposefully make the distinction because throughout my lifetime people have said to me, “Remember when you told me,---, it made me ---.” Despite having the memory of an elephant, I often had no clue what they were talking about. Pouring my heart and soul into every word I write, I envision having that experience something like this at a book signing, “Chapter three really touched me and I can relate because---.” As a child I once heard someone say, if you don’t add anything to humanity in your lifetime then you are nothing more than a parasite. Those words were powerful and perhaps inspired my first life goal. I do not want to be a parasite. Success for me means making a valuable contribution.

I am not a materialistic person and have spent perhaps too much energy resisting financial reward. It’s no wonder then financial gain contests me. I never wanted anyone to believe my actions were anything but altruistic. I am now mature enough to admit this notion is false. I want to help people but I would also like to help myself. A load has been lifted in finally admitting that to myself, so I’ll reiterate, I want to be aptly compensated for my talented. I have never desired to be rich and don’t see that as a measure of success for myself. However, I would like to have the financial means to live comfortably and help others do the same. One of my favorite quotes comes from The Art of War and expresses the sentiment far better than I ever could, “There is no honor in being a rich man in a poor society.” Success, for me, is being a woman of means to help others in my community.

I’ve saved the best for last. The final vision I have of success as of this moment is perhaps the most crucial. I visualize myself writing forever. This is the most difficult to admit to myself because it is, to some degree, beyond my control. Though I have disciplined myself to sit at a computer and tap away until the words flow, I consider myself little more than the vessel. Pouring my heart and soul into every word comes from the connection I have made with God. I have seen enough true Hollywood stories to scare the hell out of me that once I achieve success the connection will be broken. I have seen too many examples of gifted people being exploited to the point they have no more to give. Success for me means maintaining the union with the One that makes it all possible.

What's In a Name?

2009-07-12T12:30:00.000-04:00

Shakespeare, in Romeo & Juliet, wrote "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." To some names mean nothing, to others the title means everything. Most of us do not choose the moniker by which we are referred to millions of times in our lifetime. Instead, we are assigned a label which can ultimately define us, a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. If you submit a resume, before even glancing over your qualifications, potential employers see your name and unconsciously imagine who they think you might be.

Initially, I did not appreciate my given name, Gale. Often misspelled Gail or Gayle, I would nonchalantly correct people and tell them the story my parents told me as to how they settled on the name and the spelling, hoping it would provide a mnemonic to help them remember in the future. My mother told me, “I named you Gale, like a gale force wind, because you kicked hard in my belly.” My puerile opinion was this: one syllable devoid of melody. Now I have come to appreciate the name, feeling that I have grown into a strong force.

The soft-spoken demeanor people encounter when first meeting me can be deceptive. Following an internship at a charter junior high school on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the students put together a journal to commemorate the first year. Of me they wrote, “Gale can be as quiet as a mouse but when it comes time to speak up for you, she will roar like a lion.” Their testimony helped land me at a job at a law firm, after the director expressed concern during an interview that my seemingly vulnerable presentation might be intimidated by the assertive legal staff. I ultimately proved I had no problem holding my own.

Almost a decade ago, I experienced what some might call a spiritual enlightenment. Through this journey, I learned to not sweat the small stuff. Issues that once seemed larger than life became trivial. Instead, I choose to focus my energy on global problems. The world, which at times appeared threatening and gargantuan, became minuscule in the higher continuum. Standing a mere five feet tall in stature, I previously felt like an ant lost in the jungle. Then I was anointed with the name g.g. Spirit. Again, I didn’t choose the name but rather felt it was given to me and the meaning, I was told, was spirit of a gentle giant. I accepted it as a good fit, encompassing the aspects of me that people envision. Shakespeare was right. Call me what you will and I am still the same. I have chosen to write under the pseudonym and look forward to the day my roar can be heard throughout the land.

My Word is My Bond

2009-07-08T22:49:00.000-04:00

After feeling uninspired to write, I found myself in a reflective mood. That gave way to a silly playfulness which led me to create a Twitter topic called #whendidthathappen. Mistakenly believing others may relate and contribute to food for thought, I posted five consecutive tweets to get the ball rolling. The next post to appear on my homepage read: Writers remember: Your Word is Your Bond. Perhaps the social worker in me read into this as a personal message, despite the fact it wasn’t directly @ me. In any event, I took heed and stopped posting, opting to return to private reflection.

Then I thought, are writers not allowed to have a sense of humor? Does being a writer mean you have to watch your every word? Are writers required to keep personal reflections to themselves? Are writers restricted from asking politically incorrect questions? The culmination of these questions sent my heart racing in fear and caused me to question, if the answers to those questions were affirmative, do I want to join the elite title of writer after all? I thought writers were a creative group of people, expected to be eccentric and push the envelope at times. If that was the case, then there had to be another reason I would be shunned for my outburst.

I wondered if I broke the rules. Is there an unwritten Twitter code that I was not aware of? I have seen other Twitter pages full of silliness that people readily engage in. I did a little research and it turns out there are rules. It appears I broke rules such as “consider pausing between tweets”. Also, you should make it a point to know your audience. I have purposefully chosen to follow people who are dedicated to writing. I’m sure they have their moments of playfulness in their everyday lives but the response reminded me of a valuable lesson: there is a time and place for everything.

For a split second, I was bitter and disappointed that no one wanted to engage in my topic. After all, some of those who I follow have sent consecutive tweets or had their silly moments. I felt, “Wow, the first time I do it I get tapped on the hand and sent to time out?” Luckily this moment passed and inspired the newbie to learn something and write about it. Good job, Twitter friends, of reminding me why I choose my people wisely. So, as promised, to other newbies out there, I have posted links to helpful guides on Twitter etiquette because the rules are no longer unwritten.

Hip Hop Intro

2009-07-08T19:34:00.000-04:00

Here's a sneak peek at the introduction to a chapter on hip-hop I'm working on:

Hip-Hop. I used to love her now we just cool. Writing this chapter brings up a painful loss for me. I fell in love with rap music around 1988, it’s time to set it straight cuz there ain’t no half-steppin’. What’s up Kane? Excuse me I was reminiscing, when they reminisce over you my God. Shout out to Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth. Sorry, I’ll try to focus now. It was a long courtship that began with Afrika Bambaata’s Planet Rock and grew with Big Daddy Kane, Boogie Down Productions, Slick Rick, Salt-N-Pepa, Queen Latifah, MC Lyte and so forth and so on. Rap, at that time, provided me with a self-affirming avenue to express love and vent my frustration with my changing world. Listening to music and watching videos was my therapy. Self Destruction helped me to hold it together and gave me inspiration that the civil rights movement, though I didn’t know what that was at the time, could continue. It provided the faith I needed that our people would overcome. It allowed me to have fun, shake my booty and explore different styles in my quest to develop a self identity. Public Enemy educated me and I have never sipped a forty ounce beer since witnessing Chuck D’s monologue at the beginning of a Public Enemy concert. It was the air I breathed.

At times I feel like an old person saying, “In my day, music was good.” To be clear, I’m not saying that all hip-hop today is bad. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ll bump Soulja Boy’s Turn My Swag On in my truck, hopped up out the bed…yeah! I can still appreciate Lil Wayne’s crazy ass not to mention Young Jeezy and even Eminem. Yet, even with the differing styles of those artists, what rap lacks for me now is a sense of balance. Back then, you had Public Enemy helping you to fight the power and, after the battle, you could unwind and chill at a block party having a wop battle to The Show. Though I give it to rap for becoming global, a testament to the growth of the art form, I believe old school rap contained a level of lyrical creativity and intellect in simplistic splendor that has yet to be matched. Expletives were used for emphasis, not lack of vocabulary (hats off to Chamillonaire for making a concerted effort to avoid cursing). If I had to drop the volume three times during a record I was playing in my parents’ house, as an unsophisticated censor, that was a lot. On an aside, I told my eight-year-old son he sounded like a broken record one day and he told me he didn’t know what that sounded like! God bless the youth because they just don’t know. Getting back on track, I wonder why they even bother trying to play most songs on the radio nowadays because you hear more of the censor than the song.

Okay enough preaching like an old lady, let’s get into it. What really changed? At that time, rap was new. It was raw and unfiltered. The music was not accepted yet, which gave it the freedom of trial and error. It was a hood commodity that didn’t generate large-scale capital, which mainstream never thought it would and I almost wish it hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that these talented artists were finally recognized and compensated for their gift but the earning potential became the blessing and the curse. More money, more problems. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that years ago you could be fly with a ten-dollar leather, African pride medallion chain you got at the flea market when you picked up your custom, airbrushed graffiti tee-shirt but now you have to be ‘iced out’?

Who Killed Michael Jackson?

2009-07-07T15:55:00.000-04:00

"...there wasn't nothing strange about your daddy, it was strange what your daddy had to deal with." -Al Sharpton, Michael Jackson Memorial.

Today I found myself in a strange place, alongside mainstream America paying tribute to Michael Jackson. I call it a strange place because I typically don't go along with the fanfare and "circus", as some have called it, which accompanies modern day idols. Truth be told, I have been known to label a few celebrities, who will remain nameless, as devils when they reach such heights. Not today. Today, I held my husband's hand, as requested at the end of the memorial, and bowed my head in prayer; a huge feat for someone who has not willingly crossed the threshold of a religious institution in too long to remember.

So what is it about this tragic loss that allowed me to put my personal differences aside and celebrate the life and talents of the man behind the mask? On some level I suppose I felt I owed it to him for the many years I enjoyed listening to and feeling his music. As a child my father, an avid music purchaser, held contempt for fans who invaded celebrities' privacy. He told me, "An artist doesn't owe you anything beyond their product. If I buy your album, you owe me ten good songs. If I buy a movie ticket, you owe me a good show. That's it!" Today I proclaim that Michael Jackson paid his debt to his fans in full and the showing he has received is a way overdue dividend.

As a social worker, I once taught a social responsibility class to a middle school. So it stands to reason in the midst of this madness I must ask, when does society take responsibility, in part, for the tragedy that lead a beautiful black boy, who enjoyed performing to the depths of his soul, to become a man who died trying to please all? Most of us recognize this as an impossible task. Not to be misconstrued, I agree that once you become an adult you must learn to take control of your environment rather than let it control you. Yet I can't help wondering, did he ever have a chance to do so? Personal development takes space, the freedom to learn from your mistakes; a luxury with a price tag too steep for the King of Pop.

In my opinion, Michael's greatest flaw was his need to please others. He possessed the ability to empathisize with others, the very quality that allowed a man, far removed from the masses, to deliver songs and videos that everyone from the 'hood to the corporate office could either sing along to or appreciate. This very quality, essential to his creativity, caused him to internalize the criticism and turn into the being that those whose reverence he sought to regain now came to view him as "strange".

Watching the memorial, I felt the speakers did a good job of addressing the elephant in the room, addressing the critics who seek to take away from his success by pointing to allegations of bizarre behavior and possible pedophilia. I ask you to consider this. Is it possible that Michael Jackson, never given the room to grow and develop enjoyed being around children because he was fixated at that stage of development? Did he, in some way, find a place in his mind that allowed him to remain the little black boy everyone came to know and love? And, if so, is it possible that there was nothing sexual in his interaction with children but rather the sick projections of the fully developed adult mind that learned so-called normal social development? I don't expect to change everyone's mind but hope that I can open some to consider 'what if'.

James Baldwin wrote in The Evidence of Things Not Seen, "To ignore race in this country is to will oneself colorblind." I agree wholeheartedly. The opposition to the Michael Jackson fanfare comes from the very people who wept for Elvis and those who purchase tickets every year to keep Graceland open, leading me to wonder if this international event is the final straw for a nation still shellshocked from the inaugaration of the first black president. Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana and countless other white idols were not perfect but I don't remember such opposition to the over-the-top tributes to those fallen heroes.

This event transcends the debate of racial issues in America. In a rare moment, I choose to will myself colorblind in honor of a man who, at the end of his life did not have black or white skin but instead became a blank slate in an effort to please those who adored him. I watched the footage of him singing with the Jackson Five and, in his eager eyes, I saw the soul of innocence and beauty. Perhaps being the mother of an eight-year-old, I can identify with the look I see everyday; the eyes of a trusting soul who performs at his best when receiving the praise of his loved ones. Listening to Michael belt out Smokey Robinson's Who's Loving You, I heard the power of a confident singer who enjoyed sharing his voice with anyone who would listen, only to have it silenced to a whisper by the very ones who came to love him and smothered by the critics who wished to render him mute, even post mortem.

Today I did my penance and humbled myself to say goodbye and I'm sorry on behalf of those who loved you to death.

Last Surviving Dinosaur: Plea of the Newbie Author

2009-07-06T17:47:00.000-04:00

Writing as far back as I can remember, everything from poems to torment my parents and protest letters to local retailers, I always enjoyed words. I love how they look, how they roll off the tongue and how they make one feel. As I grew up, I came to recognize the importance of language in communication and still believe that the written word is the best form, allowing the reader the opportunity to digest and process the information not often afforded in verbal exchanges.

To that end, I decided to pull my writing out the nightstand drawer, as that is as far as it has ever gone with the exception of letters to loved ones, and pursue writing as a profession. Suddenly, I thrust myself head first into the title of aspiring author only to land in the shallow end of the pool. I looked around and it became apparent to me that I was a dying breed in this new world, the last surviving dinosaur who erroneously thought writing begins and ends with pen and paper or, at best, Microsoft Word.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I opted to stay and fight rather than retreat in fear. Despite having a Master's degree, I was ready to head back to pre-school if that's what it takes to share my words with the world. I thank my Twitter family for recognizing it takes a village, embracing and guiding, rather than eating their young. In the last few months, I have developed a growing to-do list which I now fear may be my longest work to date. I have clocked extensive research hours, possibly topping that of six years of higher education, and learned new concepts from author's platform to beta readers, all deemed essential to aspiring writers. And still, my work is far from done.

So as Will Smith's character in I am Legend broadcasted when he found himself alone in the world, I profess to be here everyday when the sun is the strongest and implore anyone who can hear this message to join me. I started this blog, checking one thing off my to-do list, and hope this will inspire other newbies, who find themselves in the shallow end of the pool, to tread water and veterans to share their knowledge and encourage new talent.