NAJjustiz

Just finished Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s short story “The Headstrong Historian.” It was fascinating, but the titled is vaguely misleading, and there was NO dialogue. Interesting.

Might that be because the characters speak multiple languages? Perhaps Adichie wanted us to feel linguistically disconnected just like the characters did?

I met my frailties on the mat today, but also realized that I have been empowering those frailties. I have given them a strength they would not have if I didn’t feed them. If I learn to starve my weakness by continually calling my strength to the forefront, I can receive healing in my body, heart, spirit, mind, and soul.

What you focus on expands.
The strength and determination, even the willpower and wherewithal, lie dormant inside, waiting to be activated.

Do you have any idea how close you are?

The sweetest sound in the whole world is a baby’s (younger than 5 years) voice. I was practicing The Lord’s Prayer with my 3-year-old cousin, and then he named me Harvey. Best moment ever. And his little sister, almost 2 years old, says “I love you.”

Those munchkins are so precious to me.

BUT, I’m usually glad they go home with their parents. They would wear me out.

wearethewildnatured:

sad, but very true

true but that’s like comparing an apple to a beach ball. BET hasn’t had anything of substance for years.

Um. Disagree…I just watched two great documentaries on BET today, the one about Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity Inc and the Martin Luther King Memorial, and one about Michelle Obama’s trip to South Africa. I felt pretty enlightened by those.

gaspshelives:

unfollow is you must but I am not to happy right now so sowwey

His mom’s praise break was worth seeing the win. She is so proud of her baby.

They give me nightmares.

Oh sh*t. Better stop looking at Africa, thinking she’s beautiful, realizing that I’ve been missing out.  I might just end up going there, might see something, might change my life.

Don’t play.

Hanging out at Urban Roots has opened my world up a lot.  Everyone who hangs out there is self-aware, confident, they know who they are, where they’re going, and where they came from. 

The where they came from part is key.  A couple of the owners are from Africa - as in lived there in their lifetime - the others have visited, several more than once. 

I often realize when I’m with them how little I know about my ancestors.  I don’t even know the geography of Africa (to be fair to myself, I don’t know the geography of anywhere except the tri-state of places I’ve been. I can’t even draw a map of New England). 

I’ve realized just recently that everything I know comes from stories.  I know Aesop’s Fables and so so many Bible stories.  I know so many fairy tales and so much from Disney.  What if the stories my children grow up knowing are African folklore, and other lore from world literature? Is that possible? Will that make them “weird” in an impractical way?

Not as smooth as a kiss
More like a trick knee
or an amputated leg on some homeless cat
that makes your shin itch
when you try to not make eye contact and pass him by.

Not as warm as a hug
More like an eight-year-old’s loose tooth
that comes out during a bite of tuna melt
at an IHOP, back when they still had those funny-looking roofs,
or the nosebleed you got from your best friend in the fifth grade:
You don’t mind it much except for the mess it makes
and how you’re gonna have to explain that mess later

It’s not as intimate as making love
More like really needing CPR
and getting it from a serpent that smokes GPCs
and starts every morning off with a double espresso:
It leaves you alive
but somehow you feel the breath of air you’ve taken in
will do more than gag your senses
it will funk up your very soul

And this is NOT a bitter poem

In the beginning you believe,
much like the title of your own work,
that the sun will come out tomorrow,
every cloud has a silver lining,
the grass is always greener
and cliches need hugs sometimes too

In the middle you believe
that your work is not that good,
that the moon must be working overtime,
and the sun has taken a much deserved and long overdue vacation,
every cloud proves there are a million different shades of grey,
and cliches don’t get laid much
because they have limited conversation

Oh, and this is not a bitter poem

In the end you believe
that all your work is crap,
the sun got arrested for indecent exposure
and clocks are now set by eclipse,
every cloud drips acid that flows from your eyes upward,
and the next person who quotes something cliche to you
will get strung up by their toes.
Like the person who invented the term “should be”
because you are not poetic, romantic, nor suave.
Your words are not your presence.
They do not change lives,
make people reconsider their religious choices,
and your voice - no matter how deep -
provides you no depth.

You are
broken promises and unfinished kisses,
cold sheets and warmed leftovers,
you are six numbers dialed then hang up,
emails begun and then deleted,
letters written that only the waste basket gets to read.
And it’s speaking to you,
during those marathon nights on computer Hearts or Solitaire saying,
“Hey, buddy, quit fillin’ me up with your baggage
and using me for your three-pointer buzzer-beaters.
And for the love of Pete,
stop shoving notes to the bottom
just to weasle them back out five minutes later.
Make up your fucking mind.”

Oh yeah, by the way,
NOW this is a bitter poem.

Because you have written Ford
and told them that they are building entirely too many fucking Escorts
and by your last count there has to be
3,267,429 give or take a few
just in your neighborhood alone,
and that was just yesterday’s numbers when you thought you saw her pass by

You’re trying to remember the correct combination of numbers
for that really sexy girl you met
wondering if it’s too late
Hell, it’s only been a couple of years,
maybe she’s been busy
or you can say you’ve been getting debriefed
because you’re in the CIA
and well,
you notice you dream of imaginary lives more often these days
and you talk to yourself more,
but its okay since you haven’t told anybody
you keep finding her hair still
and spend Sundays looking for hidden cameras
thinking maybe you’re on some new reality show called “Loser.”
Your mom would return your phonecalls more often
but she’s tired of debating the fact
that you now think of Sade and Phyllis Highman as up-tempo music.

In the beginning it was as smooth as a kiss.
In the middle it was as warm as a hug.
But in the end it was as intimate as making love,
it is called “breaking up”
it’s called “growing up”
it’s called “lettin’ go”

And this is NOT a bitter poem
it’s just your wake-up call

————-

Ed Mabrey is an incredible poet and performer. I was blessed to see him live for one of the first shows I went to. He’s been the National Poetry Slam champion several times.

jstforkicks:

• Microsoft will underline it with red.
• The teacher will butcher it.
• They might get made fun of because of it.
• They will hate me until they mature and learn to appreciate it.
• They will not lose part of who they are, because the world is more “modernized” .

I’m so on the fence about this.

My name is not African; it’s Arabic (no, I am not Arabic. I am latinegra; my father is a native of Panama & my mother is African American. My father gave me an Arabic name ostensibly because he is a follower of Islam). But nonetheless all of those things are/were true for me.

I do appreciate it now. Najah-Amatullah means “successful servant of God.” But people still pronounce it wrong. I still get tired of saying “it’s a hard ‘J’ not soft.

To me it’s not really what the name means to you, but what it means to those who will be saying it. My Arabic name is almost unpronounceable in English. Many Latino names are the same way. African names might be different if the sounds structure is anything like English.

I guess I don’t see the point in torturing my kids with names that will burden them, as long as their names are still meaningful. For a girl, I’ve always loved Eden: where everything started. And it was in Africa. :0)

One of the sweet girls I work with (caucasian) said “oh my gosh I love it! I’m so jealous! I wish I had thick beautiful hair!”

Now that I’m over the shock, I’m gonna go tell her to never wish away what she has. I’m learning to love my hair too, but we all have to find beauty in what we were given.