Monday, December 28, 2009

Kwanzaa -- The Principle Ujima

Today is the third day of Kwanzaa. The principle is Ujima, the Swahili word for collective work and responsibility. When I reflect over the year to when I observed this principle, my mind goes to the last weeks of my mom's life. So many of us -- family, friends, hospice workers, pulled together to enjoy and honor her. One weekend stands out, one particular project -- taking down the king size bed my mom slept in, with her beloved king size electric blanket, and setting up the hospital bed that was to take its place. Bending over to care for mom had begun to take its toll on the back of the bubbly home care worker, Suzette. I had been put off by her at first--her super sunshiny manner--and she had suddenly replaced the Kenyan sister, Annie, I had grown to like. Who knew that I would fight to keep Suzette as long as I could, when the hospice nurse informed us that Suzette's agency did not allow her to give medicine? Suzette had so endeared herself in our hearts because of her loving way with mom. "I feel like a Queeeeeeeeen," mom had said one day after a foot massage.

The day of the bed dismantling the crew that assembled went to Cracker Barrel for Sunday breakfast, where we tossed around what to do with the king bed once it was down. Should it be put up in the other room, where two twins beds were, should one twin bed go into mom's room along with the hospital bed? Where would the components of the king size bed go, or the twin beds if disassembled? We're talking a 2 bedroom apartment here with a furniture filled den. These logistics may seem trite but with a variety of opinions and a need for a decision, it was an impressive task. But over food, the negotiations ended with an agreement that the king size bed would replace the twin beds in the other bedroom and mom's room would only hold the hospital bed--offering more room for visitors.

Back home, the labor began. My son-in law and son, took off their shirts and got to work. Mom was entertaining friends up front in the living room. My daughter, Annie,(there for the weekend), Bernadine, a family friend, and I turned our attention to the folded up hospital bed. Annie informed us it was an old model. Great. We didn't get far because we turned out to be in the way of the parts coming in. I was amazed how quickly that giant bed went down, followed by the twin beds. Slats, mattresses hugged the hallway but slowly Bernadine began stowing them, against the den wall, in the back of a closet,and behind the couch. That hospital bed proved the most difficult, for a good while we just couldn't figure out how to get the crank to work. But then Annie came up with the right placement of metal and niche.

It really did take a village that day. We worried that mom would not like her new accommodations but she responded well, and made it clear that the king size electric blanket meant more to her than the bed. So we folded it to fit her new bed.
UJIMA -- it felt good that day!

photo courtesy of The Insider

Friday, December 18, 2009

Pagans are People Who See God in Nature

I take great pleasure in wishing cashiers, doormen, post office clerks "Happy Holidays" at this time of year. It feels so inclusive and respectful. Not everyone celebrates Christmas and insisting on Merry Christmas as a standard greeting in casual personal exchanges renders other celebrations and people who participate in them invisible. One only has to flip the script and imagine everyone being greeted by "Happy Kwanzaa" or "Happy Hanukkah" to get the flavor. Of course if you know what someone celebrates that's different, and on Christmas day, I return a "Merry Christmas" in kind. In the case of Kwanzaa, a cultural holiday, many people celebrate it along with Christmas.

I've heard some people complain that this is too much trouble or that it's about being politically correct. It's too much of a burden to ask them to change. They are used to being recognized and feel quite at ease in their expectation that those considered outside the norm of Christmas (in this case)should just suck it up. I think it's the same kind of energy that led a school principal I knew to outlaw bi-lingual Latino children from speaking Spanish in the hallways.

The term politically correct is the language of backlash. It ridicules and devalues those (women and other marginalized groups) who were bringing into the public consciousness the ways in which common language and practices oppress. The fact that the media recognizes several traditions at this time of the year is about humanity and I'm glad we got this far. I hope that one day the begrudging will see the beauty in not using the power of a certain gender, race, class, religion or sexual orientation to discredit or deny recognition of the others.

That's why I felt such joy when my one and only bumper sticker came in the mail a couple months ago. It says, God Bless Everyone, No Exceptions.

So let me go further now, to Paganism, a tradition that has been doused with such defamation that I feel a pressure against me as I write in affirmation of it. Pagan has been used synonymously with heathen, the word that conjures up images of simple-minded natives in jungles or prairies, shame-bearing images. Webster dictionary defines heathen as "an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible, an uncivilized and irreligious person."

But yesterday perched on my couch, my eyes fixed to the sky, I watched its sunset dance, bursting yellow gold and poppy red orange, soothing azure cornflower navy blues curling, stretching, parading their kaleidoscopic marvel. I felt the wordless splendor of God and witnessed Divine order bringing nightfall. That is what Pagans do, they see God in Nature. What is shameful about that?

Let's keep looking, deeply, into people and places cast small and aside, and extend our listening to the barely audible voices. Let's turn our gaze within, to the smallness inside of us. Let's see if there isn't more room at the table of wisdom and goodness.

Photo by thandiwe

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Meltdowns & Tiger Woods

I have no interest in golf and unlike Venus and Serena, Tiger has not pulled me into his sport. He hasn't pulled me much at all, though I can't fail to notice he's a handsome guy. I can admire that he's a talented athlete and be touched by the love story between he and his dad, his dad and mom. But I can't get any kind of fire going for him given his reluctance to identify with the African-American and Asian part of his identity, at least based on what I've read. He claims no ethnic identification since he is made up of so many. So I'm neither disappointed in, happy about, or ashamed of his fall from grace.

Meltdowns are not fun to experience,though by the time you get there you couldn't give a speck about how you look or sound. I've had my share. You fall into some pit that feels all too deep, way too familiar, or triggers some old wound still moist. You just don't have the time, energy, or skills to deal with it, and your nervous system goes haywire in revolt or helplessness. And don't let anyone try to get in the way of that energy. Not without armor. It has to spend itself out. Then grown folks and little children resume their lives as functional people.

But a life meltdown is a whole 'nother deal. That's what Tiger Woods is up against now. Day by day, his life as he has known it is burning away, every part of it. And when the ashes stop collecting, he will be left with an unrecognizable life. I've heard brothers at my gym say, Elin should have known what it means to marry a professional athlete. I heard a female commentator on Entertainment Tonight say Elin should leave him straight away, Christine Brenner on Good Morning America say that as a role model who promotes himself with a certain image, his affairs are public business. I myself have been curious to see if any of these alleged mistresses were women of color. Not. When the life of a celebrity melts down it draws all kinds of attention, judgment, and even glee. Come uppance.

The heartbreak, the shattering of trust that goes with these situations is hard enough but to have to bear this pain and shame publicly is an ordeal that imagination cannot capture. TV, who knew how much it would change things. I think back to Edward Kennedy's Chappaquidick, Bill Clinton, and Gov. Sanford. I'm not much convinced that being a professional athlete is the core issue here or sex addiction, for that matter.

Life meltdowns pull the covers, open the trap doors, bare the trees of truth from false words, and insist on greater authenticity, demand some new way of being. If only transformation didn't have to cost so much at times. If only we could learn a little sooner sometimes, heed the messages that come before the meltdowns are needed to get our attention. But who knows what anyone else's spiritual journey is about. I think our hands our full with grasping our own.

It is my hope that the meaning that comes from this meltdown in this family will eventually light an exquisite candle that will benefit them and those around them.

Photo courtesy of Huffington Post

Friday, December 4, 2009

Grace and Forgiveness

I'm about half-way through Defying Gravity by Caroline Myss, my current spiritual read to begin my day. It's the second book of hers I've read, with a long gap in between. The title just pulled me in. On Tuesday I got to the section on Grace. She speaks of seven graces we each have the capacity to manifest, and begins with reverence.

Grace is a word that radiates a rich palette of beauty and meaning. I know the song, Amazing Grace, so well, yet I have rarely used the word. But it surfaced as a perfect description of my experience with my mom and those around her during her last few weeks of life. My cup overflowed with a profound sense of awe, wholeness, and gratitude, and my mind went back there on Tuesday. A couple hours later, I hit the lobby of my building and was nearly out the door, when my doorman, Michael, a generous, gregarious soul, says "Do you have 40 seconds?" What can I say but "yes." "I want to tell you a story," he says.

After spending Thanksgiving day with his parents, he goes to the attic to help clear out some things, and finds the guitar case of his beloved instrument from long ago. A sore point is triggered -- his parents gave it away to another family member when he left home, not with Mike's permission. It was sort of like leaving home and coming back to find your room converted to a gym or some such. But he didn't say anything about the old wound that day, just offered to take the case. At this point, Mike comes towards me from behind the desk, his subcompact digital camera in hand, and says, "Let me show you what I found that night being thrown away down the block from my parents when I was leaving." I reach for my glasses so I can see. There in the small frame is a picture of two guitars leaning against each other. One, he says is a near replica of the one his mom had given away. He pauses momentarily, while my amazement kicks in, then goes on. He is sure that if he had chosen to bring up that old wound, or as he says "slam an 80 year old woman" with it, he never would have found those guitars.

"I think you are so right," I say. I thanked him for sharing the story, and held in silence my thought, that is Grace. I marveled at the story coming to me on the heels of my reading, and know it is no accident. I'm open to understanding its message of forgiveness, fulfilling its wisdom,at the ripe time. For I know matters of the heart cannot be forced by the brain, a bat or dogma. There is a rhythm of the spirit, of Spirit.

Photo by thandiwe

Monday, November 30, 2009

Business as Usual - War, Obama, Disappointment

For the second Monday morning in a row,I met a friend at 7 a.m. to go walking. Everything is virgin then, the daylight, the streets, uncluttered by cars and bodies, the air, quiet. I began the day, the week in energetic motion, noticing the wonders of nearby water, a flock of seagulls, trees nearly emptied of leaves, and a balding man jogging in shorts, his dog running leisurely behind him. I brushed my hand over shrubs still green as I passed by, feeling their coarse and smooth textures alive on my skin. I keep a pace but with no pressure of time, and when I return home the day remains new, yet more vital than when I left. This is not business as usual for me, early morning walks, and I am grateful.

In contrast, sadness and disappointment have been creeping up about Obama's decision to send more troops to Afghanistan. This is business as usual. I can't pretend to know all the arguments for his decision, though I did read the compelling resignation letter of a special envoy to the region, giving his reasons for not being able to support the war. I am not a pacifist, having supported some of the liberation movements in Africa. But I am aware of enough history and current signposts that bode poorly on what can and will be accomplished in Afghanistan except for more horrific deaths and maiming of young people, who along with their families have unjustly borne the burden of this and the Iraq war. And yet, because I have a son in his 20's, I would fight a draft with every muscle in my body. Side by side the injustice and my unwillingness to participate in a fairer sacrifice deeply saddens me. I read Michael Moore's letter to President Obama today on Afghanistan, and I share in his disappointment. I am sad for Obama too, that he should find himself authoring such an old script, like scenes from earlier day movies of a guy stepping into quick sand, sinking deeply up to his neck and then gone. In this version, one body is replaced by hordes. Perhaps there will be more finesse to the lines tomorrow night. But what is at issue here goes beyond art or intellect. This is soul territory, and I pray for us all.

Photo courtesy of

Monday, November 23, 2009

Thanksgiving - Remembering our Ancestors, African and Native Descendants

This Monday, many folks have Thanksgiving on the brain. I made my run to Whole Foods this morning to avoid the crowds that mount the closer we get to Thursday. Other women had the same idea. Still, the energy in the store felt light, wagons and bodies could maneuver without colliding, challenging patience, or lip-tightening. Good food, good company, and good connection are on the way for many of us. There is much to be grateful for, even in the face of adversity. My daughter and her husband will be flying in from North Carolina, my son will travel from Brooklyn, and we will be spending Thanksgiving with our extended family (by connection, not blood) and friends. A cousin, their age, will be flying in with his wife and twins from California, other family and friends will come from Connecticut, and from the local area in New Jersey. I tear up thinking about the love, laughter and communion that will be present when we gather.

Yet for many years, I’ve felt ambivalent about this holiday, rooted in the arrival of the Pilgrims to this land. Native Americans offered their generosity to these newcomers, and in return, got Wounded Knee and reservations. When the food and clothing drives associated with Thanksgiving start up for those less fortunate than others,I never hear anything about Native Americans who may be in need. In fact, I don't hear much about Native Americans period. I’ve come to believe that they are the most invisible group in this country, except perhaps for trips to their casinos, a key hole view at that.

Thanksgiving invites us to reflect more deeply on our blessings and for a more extended period than usual. And so, I give thanks not only to Divine Spirit for the abundance of life that I have been granted but to the ancestors of African and Native descent, who collaborated much more than we know. Thank you is too small for their ability to prevail through the Maafa (The Middle Passage, Slavery), Jim Crow, The Westward Ho massacres, The Trail of Tears, by wit, prowess, wisdom, audacity, love, transcendent faith, stamina, and creativity. I am in awe of them. I love and laugh because of them. Ase.

Photo courtesy of Bernadine Tolbert

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Sarcasm and Teeth Marks

The comment appeared before me on the monitor, ready to go. I only needed to click on 'post comment.' My wonderfully crafted response, every line intelligent and filled with superb sarcasm, would be out there. I had in mind one particular guy who had made some outlandish comments in response to my first post regarding Peggy Drexler's The New Father/Daughter Dance: Changing Lessons in Power ( I largely
agreed with Drexler that while there have been some changes in the relationship between women and men, we are not now post-gender or post-sexism. The second shift, the household and child care that married women often do at home,following their out of home work day, with minimal contribution from husbands, remains an issue for many couples. Hotrod (no joke, his screen name) says "every study has debunked the second shift," and comes back later to say in essence that men will do more second shift work when women stop trying to get the same pay and benefits for doing less work.

I hated to let his comment about studies disproving second shift stand, but last night I chose silence. Why bother throwing my voice to the wind?

But then comes a new day, and I went back to the scene of the crime to see what else had happened. I got the idea that rather than rebut his points I'd just concede that he was right, re-making his points in their full ludicrous glory. What a delicious satisfaction to abandon the straight up debate for a facetious concession. Sarcasm has skills. It delivers anger cool on the surface, seconds before the sting hits. I admit, I'm rather fond of it outside the therapy room.

But then I thought. This will not be the end, even if it's the end for me. Hotrod will be incensed. I mean after all, there would be teeth marks from my comment. It will likely get uglier. And I will have contributed to that, and to what end? I felt a tug, and the wrestling began, slow and strenuous,the advantage going one way then the other.

The match was called when I clicked the 'cancel' button. I felt no thrill or exhilaration, nothing like the pleasure of writing the aborted comment. Still, I feel I won, because I know that as the day wears on, I'll have a peace about my choice to keep my teeth to myself. I don't always win this battle and I don't always want to win it. I leave space for this, but I'm downsizing.

Monday, November 16, 2009

A Shout Out for 'Precious' and Lee Daniels

Lee Daniels, the director of 'Precious,' likes to cut against the grain. That's what stayed with me after I got through the piece in the October 25 NY Times Magazine, The Audacity of 'Precious,': Is America Ready for a Movie About An Obese Harlem Girl Raped and Impregnated by Her Abusive Father? I had forgotten that he did 'The Woodsman,' and 'The Shadowboxer' with Cuba Gooding and Helen Mirren (interesting mix, yes?). I had intended to see both but never did. It's clear -- Daniels is a straight up, gutsy, keep-on-getting up dude who likes to mix it up. He is committed to getting his voice out there, and all the blocking from Hollywood couldn't bring him down. His story left me feeling empowered to take bold up a notch.

I saw the film too. Hard to witness but wonderful, and I especially liked that African-Americans could be the heroines to address the wrongs of other African-Americans. I'd like a sequel, one that widens the story of the mother and reveals that she too can be redeemed.

But before I could settle into my seat I had to deal with my feelings about the 4 and 5 years old children some Black mothers brought to the theater. Why do these young children need to be exposed to this battering that I know is going to be hard for me as an adult to watch? And later during the film showing, I felt sad and angry when one of those mothers, clearly irritated, told her daughter "Shut up," as they were walking out because she was crying. I always tell myself that the issue is a babysitter, that it's not that easily come by for some mothers. But still...I found myself wondering about the young boy a few seats down from me, riveted to the screen. How is he putting this together in his head, how is he feeling? Will there be a conversation later to help him make 5 years old sense of this?

Joy DeGruy,who came up with the concept of Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome,, suggests that our children are not our children but they should be. I kept thinking, how can I address this, certainly not right then in the theater, but how? How can our community provide guidance to parents on the ways of nurturing and protecting children? It's a question worth asking.

Photo courtesy of

Thursday, November 12, 2009

'Precious' - It's Not a Black Thing, It's Universal

This weekend Precious goes into wider release and I expect to see it. Admittedly, I've had some reluctance, knowing the brutal story on which it's based, Push by Sapphire, and hearing the sounds of Mo'nique's words whaling on Precious, whose stolid face reveals her battered spirit in the movie trailer. But it's never been in doubt, I'm going. I'm in full moon love with the powerful message of this work, and want to witness the artistry of these actors and the director in this representation. Stephanie Zacharek in her piece "Precious" Mettle ( the hardships faced by Precious are overkill and threaten to make the film more symbolic than personal. But for me, it is just that layering of poverty, fat, sexual and physical abuse, and illiteracy, that made Push and Precious so compelling. The idea that even when you are beat down from the left, right, an uppercut and cross, a consistent love and belief in you can turn things around. Nor is it unreal that some black people are living these lives, and as Erin Aubry Kaplan, "Precious in the Age of Obama," ( says, there is a bit of Precious in many of us black folks.

Kaplan, a sister, offers a thoughtful review of the film. But the comments to her piece are what really stirred the pot for me, especially the ones in which some whites challenged other whites about trying to appropriate the black experience as their own. It happened when some whites suggested the film was not about the black experience but about any human being -- sharing an identification based on their own lives. And then came that well-versed line that any good art is universal.

Every time I run across that voice, a sick, resentful feeling rises in me, though its intensity pales now, compared to the past. Still, I hear it the same way: If I, of European descent, cannot relate to or find my experience in what you're writing about, it's not good. The particularity of your (black) experience is not valuable, or low in value. In the past, it translated to a burden on me, as long as I entertained it. Could I talk/write about my own experience without worrying about whether others can claim it as theirs too? Toni Morrison broke that wide open by as she says writing about her own experience and letting the mainstream come to her. Yet the Nobel Peace Prize didn't prevent a female interviewer from asking her if she would ever move to the mainstream, and include white characters, or eliminate the need for Morrison to pull her interviewer's coat about the racism underlying her question.

And so it was kind of refreshing to see the comments of two white males who understood how this universality claim that whites sometimes engage in feels to many black folks like a denial of the particularity of our experience, a white wash so to speak, that smooths all the edges of our pain as black people into one we are the world pain. I wish there had been less rancor in making their point. I mean I'd never seen STFU before, but I figured it out (shut the __ up). Interestingly, these two males, while privileged by their race, are marginalized by being gay in one case and transgendered in the other. One clearly had his own experience similar to mine, but in his case, at the hands of straight folks.

So here's my thought about what would be helpful here. Sure, everybody has pain in the world, and it's a good thing that any human being can empathize with the suffering of another. But if you're a poor, fat, white girl, or a well-educated white woman who's been badly abused by your parents, I can hear your ability to relate to the pain of Precious when you can do so without dismissing the particularity of the pain connected to being a black girl. Acknowledge the places you know, as well as those you can only visit through empathy. That's what Erin Aubry Kaplan did when she said there is "a bit" of Precious in nearly all of us black folks.

Monday, November 9, 2009

African-Americans in Therapy: Does Race Matter?

The fact that Barack Obama, an African-American, is our President reflects both healing that has occurred in this nation (not that we're close to being done) and healing to come. There is a freeing, a bit of an exhale, among people of African descent that comes from having one of us shine so bright, so powerful, before this nation and the world. It allows us to relax a little more some of the defenses we've had to build up around our pain, the hurt. Yes, we can ease up some on our super Black woman, our super Black man and say that alongside our strengths,our adaptability to all kinds of hell through the generations, we hurt too. It doesn't make us inferior, simply human.

And so I read with encouragement, A.C. Workman's piece in Therapy in Black and White. She raises some good questions about whether the race of the therapist matters when it comes to African-Americans, and she notes that more and more of us seem to be taking that step -- to enter into a process that traditionally our community has seen as a violation of our boundary around personal business, and a pathway to another negative label slapped on our backs.

Does the race, the gender, the sexual orientation of a therapist matter when it comes to African-American clients? My answer is - maybe. As someone who has been trained in the mental health field and is involved in training, I know that the helping professions have been slow to recognize how issues of race, gender, and class impact not only our clients but the ways that we as therapists think and understand problems. Nor is it simply a matter of discrete assaults, like being followed in a store, or pulled over by a cop, that reflect the impact of race and racism, nor is domestic violence the only way sexism manifests in relationships between men and women. On top of that, therapists come with their training as well as their own life experiences, that also shape what they know and understand.

So while one can't assume that simply because a therapist is African-American that they will be attuned to issues of race and able to go there in the therapy, the odds seem greater based on their life experience. But it may also be that while they're Black, they were shielded by an upper class status, and their training might not see this issue as relevant, and therefore they offer less ability to address these issues in therapy than a white therapist who has been trained in the importance of understanding and talking about oppression, including her/his own position of racial privilege.

What I can say emphatically is that African-Americans, and any marginalized group deserve therapists who can understand, tolerate, and address how marginalization is a mental health issue. So feel free to ask your therapist how open they are to these kinds of conversations, and feel free to keep looking for a therapist until you find one.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Offer Compassion to Bitterness, If You Can

Several years ago, my adult daughter and I had just left a Philly restaurant where we'd had lunch, and were taking a stroll to continue our enjoyment. As we talked, I caught a glimpse of a dark skinned, mildly disheveled Black man approaching from the other direction, amidst some pairs of folks coming and going ahead, nothing particularly noteworthy. But at the moment that we intersected, I caught the brother's eyes, wild with rage, just as he hurled his seething into one word, at me, BITCH!

Though stunned momentarily, my daughter and I did not break our stride, but I was amazed. I had no feeling of being pricked or defamed, not a drop of distress. It was as though the energy he'd spewed towards me had floated elsewhere, and dissipated in the air. I'd never felt so immune to ugliness thrown my way. I think it had to do with how weighed down his male privilege seemed by a poor state of mind and wallet, and the fact that we shared a similar racial position. I felt empathy for this bitter man. Keep everything the same except race, and I’m not sure I would have gotten away so clean…maybe if the mental health issue was off the charts. Leave him Black, and make him a friend or boyfriend in the midst of a heated argument with me, and well, separation would be urgent in the moment, and a question for the long term.

How we respond to bitterness depends a lot on the context, and on the way that bitterness gets voiced. But as I suggested in my last blog, we may sometimes be able to offer something soft, like a magnolia flower or the poem I spoke about -- an expression of compassion. I located the brother and he has given me permission to share his poem here. His name is Segun ( and this is his poem.

The Broken Hearted

Your body you offer
a sacrifice to carnal pleasure.
Your heart you guard
a weighty nugget of pure gold
your lifeline.
I wonder who had hurt you so
my dear.
Claw your anguish onto my face
beat your wild rage onto my chest
wet my neck with your salty sorrow
let my tranquility be a haven for your troubled spirit.
your august scapegoat
noble offering to
absolve you
of this perennial grief
plaguing you so.

By Ségun Ògúntólá, from the collection, In Celebration of All that Burdens Us (Seaburn Publishing Group, New York, 2006)

A magnolia, a tiger lily, a poem, a look of compassion -- gifts to place at the feet of grief, hurt, and anger grown hard and bitter.

Photo by thandiwe.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Black Man's Bitter Letter to Bitter Black Women -- No Way to Heal

An Open Letter to Bitter Women (The Bridge, by Darryl James, unknown to me before now, but apparently an author and radio personality, caught my eye, as did some of the comments. Tough going. It read like a rant about bitter Black women, our generalizing about our bad experiences with men, our failure to take responsibility for our role in the poor relationships we've had, and our need to be more critical of some aspects of feminism (not sure which ones), and about our need to get real, referring to our saying, maybe acting like we don't need men and then complaining about not being able to find any. His points seem reasonable but they came for consumption like cherry tomatoes covered in cactus thorns. It's not surprising that the contempt escalated in the comments. Though Darryl proposes we talk with each other and not at each other, his delivery seems infused with the same animosity he opposes in sisters. It's understandable because harsh energy is such a trigger.
And we have plenty of anger leftover from yesterday and centuries, so holding back, especially when our jobs or lives don't appear to be at stake, is a serious challenge.

A beautiful poem I found in The African magazine some years ago surfaced from memory. It blew me away -- the witnessing by a brother of a sister's shut down heart, his desire to know what in the past had done that to her, and moreover, his willingness to be present to her anger and hurt, to honor it. Now that's a conversation, a connection that portends healing. If I can locate the brother and get his permission I will publish it in the future.

We can't wave bitterness away with a wand or demand it vacate. What is it anyway? I can readily connect to the experience of anger and hurt, but bitter seems to add another ingredient, something like dry ice that burns, or something that can cast a poisonous veil over the future. But what is that if not the most brittle form of self-protection -- to incinerate dreams to keep disappointment at bay, to build a wall a mile out from your heart. Sometimes that's where people need to be -- to stay safe, but if that's where they make a permanent home, healing will not visit.

The caustic tongue of bitterness or what bell hooks calls tongues of fire in Sisters of the Yam may speak of many things that have gone on and are going on in a life. But nonetheless I'm all too aware that it is especially challenging when the heat seems to roar in our direction. Our best, at some moments, is to make a u turn, or to stay the course and return fire. But when we can have the presence of mind to wonder what may have hurt the brother or sister so, maybe we can offer a magnolia, something soft and gentle. I'm working on it.

Photo by thandiwe.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Barack and Michelle: A Balm in the African Diaspora

The interview that Barack and Michelle granted on the subject of their marriage is hot press this weekend. Understandably. I mean who would care to hear about George and Laura's marriage, and it might be too painful for Hillary and Bill. They're due some slack, having paid some serious pain dues already. In her piece in Salon (, Michelle Obama Single Mom , Amy Benfer highlights the reality that this is the first time in nearly 13 years that Michelle and Barack have lived full-time under one roof. And it is apparent that this has been an issue, that Michelle, like many women whose husbands do live under the same roof, wanted him to be more present as a father (and I suspect as a husband too). How refreshing to have this transparency, and the acknowledgment that marriage is "hard work," from this couple who come as close to a Black fairy tale romance on the big screen as we've ever seen. A heady guy with a subtle bop to his stride,a man in his 40's who shoots hoops, throws a valentine smile, and conjures the grandest of visions, joined by a heady woman who speaks her mind, can swing her poise and beauty between J. Crew and Jason Wu, step up and out to support her man, and together,a couple who share a history of activism in the black community, the creation of two adorable daughters,and an affection that is palpable in their touch, the conversation between their eyes, and the teasing soft banter, it's big time magic! It's healing to witness them, sight and sound, to take in the message of what we can be, what we can give expression to in ourselves and in our relationships.

Benfer makes clear that this couple's appeal reaches wide, when she says "they make us ask, Dude, how can we get some of that?"

Friday, October 30, 2009

I Am My Hair And More

I am a big fan of India Arie. I decided to pull up the lyrics to I Am Not My Hair, which I have avoided in the past because that title just didn't settle well with me. It hit me like the commercial where the brother holds one of his locks and says "I want people to look past this," or when people say "I just want to be seen as a person." It somehow seems defensive to me in a way I don't want to own. If I were to paraphrase, it would be something like well I have this kind of hair, or skin, but can't you overlook it, or I'll distance from it so you can see me as a person. I mean when have you seen a white person say I just want to be seen as a person, or I am not my eyes.

Of course India is right. All of us are spirits at our essence, and I do hold the vision of a day when we can all consistently relate at that level of existence. Surely then, most of the world's resources won't be in the hands of very few spirits while so many others eat dirt and drink worms. Surely then, we won't need domestic violence shelters, and black mothers won't be so anxious about our sons going out in the world. And in my vision, no one has to look past whatever form of gender, race, age, hair texture anyone has because it will all be welcomed in.

And that's my idea of personal well-being as an African-American and collective well-being as a society, a welcoming in of differences that have been shamed powerfully around the world. And so, even as I continue to love India Arie's spirit, manifestation and creativity, I want to say, I Am My Hair. My hair is a part of who I am and I'm seeking to embrace all of me.

But of course India is right on another count. She had Robin Roberts, the Good Morning America reporter, in mind with her song. Robin underwent treatment for breast cancer and with courage and poise, shared this health challenge on the air. I remember the day she took the wig off her head playing around with Rosie, a guest that day, and then another day, photos shown of Robin dressed in a long gown and bald. Her beauty was mesmerizing and I welled up that she allowed herself to be seen this way. I even wrote in to the show to say Go Girl, in so many words. And so I understand too that India is saying that the essence of who we are is not diminished if we have no hair, and I agree. My hair is not my essence, and so if I lost it or chose to lose it I'd still want to say I Am My Hairless Head.

Audre Lorde's The Cancer Journals come to mind, her determination to not get a breast prosthesis, to stand firm in the belief that she was not her breast. If Audre or any woman of African descent wrote a poem 'I Am Not My Breasts,' it would settle nicely on me, like soft rain on dry skin. I would hear it as an expression of liberation from being objectified, as women in general have been. Black breasts have not been devalued and so the meaning comes across differently. Shame changes everything.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I Changed My Name

There are times when we just want to change our name. Maybe people have just been calling it too much, and we want silence or a vacation. Maybe people butcher our name and we get tired of the bone sawing sound, or of making corrections like a broken record. Maybe we're so happy to have a partner,confirmed by law or extralegal ritual,we want to add their name, or delete the one we got from our daddies. Note, this only applies to women. It occurs to me to wonder what it would be like if partners of same or different genders each added the name of the other. And sometimes, we just find that another name represents more fully who we are or hope to be.

That brings me to the new name of my blog, Darker than Blue. I think it captures more clearly the focus here. I took Darker than Blue from the Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions song We People Who Are Darker Than Blue, which speaks to the need of Black people to "tell the whole story," to deal with the self-destructive actions that persist even as "we've come a long way." I loved Curtis' music,his butter smooth voice, the messages he had for us, and the jamming, sometimes slow jamming band.

Names are symbolic magic. They are a product of creation and they create in turn. You can often tell an African-American name because there is so much creativity in it. Before people began choosing African names for their children, parents would often take parts of the name of a famous president, like Franklin Delano Jones. Sometimes we'd laugh at this, but we understood what was going on. His parents were imbuing him with the power to do grand things, and we could feel the love. We have instinctively known that names matter -- they can empower, reflect our sparkle,and even carry us -- and they can cut us down.

When we call something dark in the English language, and once you pay attention to it you realize how frequently it's done, the meaning is usually a variant of evil, dirty, death, bad guy, painful, or tragic. I do not see how we can release racism from the cellular level of internalization while continuing to associate and symbolize darkness, the absence of light or a shade of pigment, in this way.

And so, Darker than Blue, celebrates the shade, the People, the time of day --night, as deep, rich with vibrancy and possibilities to be explored.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Good Hair

It's been almost three weeks since I saw Chris Rock's documentary Good Hair. I left the theater with such sadness and a sinking feeling in my stomach. I came of age in the 60's and 70's, a time when we began to reclaim ourselves in public and private as people of African descent with our own expression of human beauty. We reclaimed from shame many things, among them: dark skin, full lips, rounded noses, our culture, and our natural hair. Wearing my hair in a variety of natural styles for the past 30 some years has been one of the most freeing and feel good experiences in my life. There is nothing to hide, no rain or moisture to fear, no forcing its nature to adopt some other nature over and over again.

There was something surreal about listening to the many black women in Good Hair , most of whom seem bound to keeping their hair straight, long and full, if possible, and by nearly any means necessary. It felt like we could be in the 1930's, 40's 50's, the only difference being our methods of straightening. Even in the 60's Odetta stood alone. It saddens me greatly because it seems that so many black women still only experience their hair as attractive or beautiful, to the extent that it matches the straight hair of Europeans and others. As Chris Rock made graphic when he tried to sell black hair, 'nobody wants it.' I think I might have felt better if some of the women had talked openly about how they don't want it, how it's unattractive, undesirable, "not good" to them. The surreal factor would have gone down for me, because at least I would have had the sense of their being connected to the feelings of hair inferiority and ugliness that underlie the intense pursuit of different hair. But I didn't hear this, or any reflections about the meaning, like we did in the 60's and 70's. Why do I feel my kinky hair isn't good, can't be managed? Why can't I see hair beauty in an African (traditional) way, in the way I have?
In the movie, it all seemed light-hearted fun and stylistic.

My sadness has to do with the continuing ways we as African-Americans continue to be impacted by racism, and the ways we have internalized it, that is, subscribe to its values that alienate us from the goodness of our form of human expression. No one likes to admit this, and we are often disconnected from the underlying shame that still lives. But I am fully with Terrie Williams, author of Black Pain, on this. Our healing is limited as long as we keep operating as though the surfaces we paste over the pain are all there is, are good enough. Chris Rock's daughter came inside crying to ask her dad why she didn't have good hair. She was fully connected with the pain. Hair is just one of the aspects of African identity and culture that has borne generational shame, and I have not been immune, as I believe none of us has. But I've committed to being on a healing journey for my own life, my collective community, and ultimately the world community.

And despite my initial reactions to Chris Rock's film, I applaud him for shining this light, for opening this up, because I believe we are in a time in which we can go deeper into the shame-based pain and understand that it does not belong to us. Something shameful has happened but we don't need to own it, bind it to us, or recreate it with someone else. And then there's the issue of courage and power. One of the most brilliant expressions in the film, in my opinion, was "relaxed hair relaxes white people." But how will white people have the opportunity to learn how to relax around natural hair if we keep helping them avoid it. Keeping them comfortable is about power, but it does not empower us, nor does it help whites to look at the way they use their privilege to maintain one standard of goodness.

When I go outside on the streets of New York, Atlanta, even Winston-Salem, there are locks, twists, pullouts, cornrows,women in light Caesar cuts dotting the straightened hairdos. We're not exactly in the 40's and 50's hairdo-wise, but the idea of "good hair" still exists and except for the commercials, representation of black women on TV delivers daily doses of this toxic notion.