Blog

ONE.
A week ago, I tumbled down the marble steps at Grand Central in the beginning swell of rush hour. The neighbor accompanying me and I were sharing our impressions of the meeting we had just attended. Between the conversation,  the upcoming bodies, and my feet negotiating steps, the latter came up way short. For days after, my mind replayed that instant when I realized I’d lost my grounding, a free-fall imminent. The terror came back each time. It was the last thing I remembered until I landed; alert, thankfully.

Faces, bodies encircled me. A woman bent over and asked, “Do you want us to call an ambulance?” I said, “No, I just need a moment.” One guy in shorts and neutral colors, his facial expression somewhat grim said, “I’m a doctor.” By this time, I had been able to stand up. Another guy, in a crew neck, bright yellow shirt, younger, or maybe with fuller affect than the doctor, asked, “Would you like us to lock elbows with you on each side to accompany you down the rest of the steps?”

I gratefully accepted.

As we met each step in deliberate fashion, I shared my experience of having so many people around, looking down at me, how strange it feels. I recalled a fall two years ago in a crowded market, when I misjudged the space to step over a big bag on the floor. I was encircled by a smaller crowd of people, asking if I needed help getting up. They meant well, but I told them “I just need to be for a few moments,” then saying to my lively escort, “I just can’t pop up, I need to see where I am in  my body.” As I relayed this story, the guy in the yellow shirt connected with my sentiment in an animated way; we laughed together.

We reached the main floor of Grand Central and I turned to face both men.  “Thank you,” I said, my hand to my heart.  And as I gingerly walked towards the train track (assuming that meant I had not broken any 75 year old bone in my Black body), I said to my companion, “That was so beautiful. I feel like crying.”

****

Personal acts of kindness sweeten our lives. But alone, they cannot dismantle any system of supremacy. They are loving, thoughtful, relieving moments, months or longer that bear witness to a basic human goodness and shared humanity. 

Can we value, love (un-harming) all kinds of people, like we do with flowers? Without rankings or other structures of being better than. Favorites are one thing but systems of supremacy are structured to empower and institutionalize favorite groups of people, the privileged, at the expense and neglect of the whole. We can instead marvel at the festival of splashing designs, textures and pigments. We fertilize the entire garden, not  just certain sections.

Can we behold magnificence in others without feeling diminished, threatened, or wanting to score from or subjugate it? We commit to actions to dismantle systems kept in place to keep power and privilege in the hands of a few at the expense and exploitation of others and their well-being. We act to honor the well-being and ceaseless offerings of the Earth to all lifeforms. We join the circle of reciprocity. 

That is what it means to me to be civilized and to be a civilization.

 

 

 Wonder

Wonder has its own beauty, an openness, a curiosity, a questioning. A freedom of mind, body and spirit to roam, to imagine, without force on either side of its coming and going in my life over recent months. Wonder is a pleasure of sorts. The tenor of my curiosity seems/is neutral at times (like putting pieces of a puzzle together), and it also exists within a context of unspeakable heart-brokenness and a shattering at the intersections of ancient grief, inflammation, and love.  This, and wonder, are in relationship.

The wonder itself is focused on a different group of people than in Part II of this essay is about those in and out of government who knowingly engage in chronic lying and corruption, who bargain away integrity, democracy, the planet no less, for the personal gains and power they intend to accrue as lapdogs. Many of them in government could secure other well-paying employment, because of their skills and/or education. They could maintain their economic lifestyle, and would not fall into desperation.

It’s the pursuit of more and more that drives their stance. More money and visibility, more power and re-enforcement of supremacy systems. That is, to take us from “Me too,” and legal accountability for sexual abuse by powerful men, to women’s bodies knowing their place,  the servicing of men’s desires and entitlement. From Voting Rights, Affirmative Action, and higher education that includes an understanding of how supremacy systems are infused into every aspect of our daily lives, to an escalation in threat to Black and Brown bodies, to know our place, servicing the claim that White people/whiteness are ‘superior’. From greater visibility of transpeople and opportunities to learn and understand that gender is not binary, in contrast to what we’ve been taught, to banning drag storytelling at libraries, surgeries for transpeople, books about LGBTQ+ people and increasing the threat to their lives.

The wondering centers around the primary question of, What is it like for a body to chronically carry known lies and known truth, to live full time with the enactment of greed and lawlessness and the pretense of being lawful and improving constituents’ quality of life? A body caring betrayal 24/7.

In recent years, the line between opportunism and sociopathy has thinned, in my eyes. Those who are sociopathic or desperate for survival are exempt from my wonder.

Is the body harmed by carrying known deceit and corruption? Is the known betrayal in every cell or limited to specific organs?  Is the body stressed by this?  How might harm appear? We may not know for some time or ever, but I think it would be an interesting piece of research. What I do know is that the body is wise to the reality of what it has done and had done to it, no matter what reframes or denials the mind may spin.

How do the bodies of these individuals of interest interact with their partners, their parents? How do conversations go? I imagine quite well, perhaps pride is engendered, if family members assess the personal gains to outweigh any costs. But what if family members are aghast at the values being forsaken, how does the disappointment and turmoil live in and between all their bodies? I imagine there’s a cost. If my adult children were to emerge as cruel, crooked, crass human beings, despair would sit like a tomb on my body.

But what I ponder most is how it works with parenting, for those raising children. Is there a contradiction between what these parents teach their children and what parents do? “Do what I say, not what I do.”  “Get yours.”  “Lies aren’t bad if they’re white ones.” Or “Honesty is a virtue I want for you, and how I live my life.” What happens inside a parent’s body, living this? Is lying to one’s children as viscerally comfortable as lying to the public?  Is there no thought that their children will become aware at some point of their parent’s base trade?

I wonder too about those who know the Earth’s temperature and scorched forests are rising, the Arctic ice melting, the coral bleaching, and yet deny climate change. Do they give thought to their young children, their grandchildren? As they butcher regulations designed to limit the use of fossil fuels, the disposal of toxic chemicals or byproducts into the soil, air, and water, do they consider the quality of breath their offspring and their offspring will have, whether their lungs will inflate at all? What tricks of mind allow them to barter the lives of their own flesh and blood?  What is it like for a parent’s body, one not shallowed by sociopathy, to perpetrate a deceit that threatens their own offspring?  Does the body mourn in spurts or slowly; does it grow ill? Does it juggle shame like a hot potato?

I can’t imagine that bodies asked to hold truth and lies of corruption aren’t sacrificed in some way, as vessels connected to mind and spirt, and to the flow of energy moving through or stuck in them. The quality of that energy is also in the mix. But perhaps this group of people is banking on seats for them and their family on private space shuttles they can afford. Having poisoned Earth and all life on it, they may feel excited about a new frontier, an opportunity to colonize anew, taking and taking.

I just wonder.

What I know for sure is that such bargains are a reflection of individual choices, and a culture, a way of life that gives lip service to one thing, but defines self-worth and accomplishment in terms of personal power used to dominate, and enrich oneself. A truth, a discrepancy, to be silenced, obscured and unexamined. As Ta-Nehisi says in his book, The Message, that is exactly what education in many schools is designed to do, disseminate information from a singular lens, to be swallowed and regurgitated. Critical thinking and the inclusion of multiple lens as data sources jeopardizes the given normality of injustice and the blanket acceptance of implicit and explicit assumptions.

Afterword:  

Throughout the writing of this piece I’ve thought of so many examples of this behavior; the way money from the NRA paid to political campaigns trumps the saving of lives via regulation, the way money to be made by pharmaceutical companies selling and promoting opioids as non-addictive, trumps the well-being of millions of people, many of whom are privileged by race and gender but not by class. Bernie Maddox popped up as well. His bargain fractured the lives of many families, including his own. The oldest son, Mark committed suicide on the 2nd anniversary of his father’s imprisonment (https://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/12/business/12madoff.html?smid=url-share), his brother Peter spent ten years in jail, and both Bernie and his wife attempted suicide after their sons reported Bernie to the authorities (https://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/27/business/madoffs-tried-to-commit-suicide-wife-says.html?smid=url-share), leaving his sons to bear the shame he apparently did not experience. This provides some support to my belief that such bargains can create major harm to the bargainer and their family. Enslavers did not come up for wonder because I believe the perpetration of White supremacy was a forerunner of slavery, not an aftermath, and so I don’t see enslavers’ bodies as carrying known deceit about our humanity, the beauty of our communal traditions, and the brilliance of our creations. They were ignorant of such and believed or tried to believe in their superiority..

I remain in the dark about why this wonder arose only now.

More than a month has lumbered by since the majority of the country (not as large as I thought) handed the nation over to another round with their chosen one, their spoken reason “the economy.” In the months leading up to this fate, I repeatedly turned over the question, does this nation have to fall to rubble before more people understand the necessity to re-envision the nature of civilization. One beyond smart TVs and toilets in every home, sky-blocking totems, reliable electricity, and billionaires and friends who buy and sell goods, people, and pristine land for show and tell, and above all else power. The answer to my question arrived, with crushing weight. Only now has my body-mind-spirit regained a sense of spaciousness, a lightness to my step, and with it, a preoccupation with two groups of people. One I hold with deep respect and gratitude and the other I hold with many questions.

Cassidy Hutchinson and Olivia Troye keep coming up for me. Two young women, former White House employees, who shared in public venues, the gruesome details of their work experience in the 2016 administration. Women who refused the silence demanded by threats and too often action. I feel a certain responsibility for their safety, to care about it. Do all of us in a community of people wanting a new day in the U.S. have a responsibility to care about their well-being?. I want to know how they are now. Do they move in the world with any sense of safety? Are they being held well?

  I think of Liz Cheney, a serious woman, unwavering in her commitment to clarity of mind and action, truth-telling, and preserving our democracy. She flashed her courage early on, an attribute traditional masculinity prides itself on, I am less worried about her life though, as I presume she has the resources for serious security and is no stranger to firearms. Her dad hunts, for sure.

Do we know, at this very moment how Ruby Freeman and her daughter, Wandrea ArShaye Moss, are doing? Election poll workers in 2020, they had to flee their home and their beloved community because of false allegations and threats made against them. And what about all those whose faces and names are invisible to the wider public, yet worked tirelessly and sleep deprived, to support the Harris/Walz team. Knocking on doors, making phone calls, organizing rallies, strategizing, registering voters, signing up to work the polls, donating repeatedly to the campaign, and bringing coffee and lunch to staff, to save time. Their hearts full of love. A loud, holy shout out to the Black women who are always in the vanguard of moving this nation towards the change we need.

Unlike some who believe winning is everything, I do not. Even though our candidates lost, there is still value in expressing deep gratitude for the effort and sacrifice many made, known and unknown, on behalf of going forward, not backwards. I think of the judiciary and their staff in New York City, D.C. and Atlanta who braved holding the line for judicial integrity, equity, and accountability for lawlessness, no matter the defendant’s acreage and power. D.A. ‘s Alvin Bragg, Fani Willis, Laticia James, Judges Merchan, Chutkan, Engoron, to name a few. I thank their families too, who lived the fear with them. My heart goes out especially to Jack Smith, all the time and excellence he and his team put into their legal cases, despite the menacing behavior they and their families endured, to no avail. Last but not least, a deep bow to Kamala and Tim, who represented the best of humankind; the exception, their veto of a Palestinian voice at the DNC while welcoming the voices of a Jewish couple. Kamala and Tim crisscrossed the nation multiple times a day offering agendas beyond their personal gain –democracy, inclusiveness, breakfast programs for kids, a woman’s right to live, make decisions about her body, and affordable housing and medication.

To each and every one who contributed to a future of a more just, healed and democratic nation, it was not in vain. You are part of the hope that continues.

Thank you is way too small.

A couple of weekends ago, I went to see Wicked, along with my daughter and her nearly nine year-old son. The play is in its 20th year and had been on my ‘go see list’ for some time, because I knew the play was doing something different from the Wicked vs Good Witch formula of the Wizard of Oz classic & The Wiz.  The desire for my grandson to see it motivated me to act, and no persuasion was needed.

Straightaway, the play signals that we’re in for a story told through lens of a wider angle and greater depth than its forerunners. During the celebration of Galinda, the white (Good Witch), a voice of curiosity sounds — “What happened to her (the Wicked Witch), why did she become wicked?” Ah, the transformative power of a question and the assumption it rests upon. And before the plot turns to flashbacks, Galinda shares she was once Elphaba’s friend.  More novelty!

The portrayal of young, blond, Galinda conveys her self-enamored gestures of repeatedly flipping her hair with her hands, or moving it side to side with head turning. Her words project her sense that the world is hers, including the handsome male protagonist. This reveals an awareness of whiteness, as often experienced by people of color, but not commonly represented.  Galinda and green-skinned Elphaba attend the same school. Their teacher, Dr. Dillamond, a Goat, introduces difference in species, along with those of white and green skin. He notes that many more animals, once present, have been run off.

Galinda and the other white-skinned students are ‘different’ from Elphaba, who cares about the unjust treatment of people and animals. Ephaba wears a Black hat, eventually, but I don’t recall her being dressed entirely in Black.  The play does not flip the typical dichotomy, that is, exchange Black/evil for White/evil.  Over time,  Galinda and Elphaba both learn something valuable from the other, and as it turns out Elphaba wins the man prize, a white male who is won over to taking action for social justice.

The  Gershwin theatre’s 1900+ seats teemed with adults and children, clapping, cheering, and engaged throughout.  The creator(s) of Wicked focused their creative eye on transformation. They scrambled the dualism of good and evil, and of good associated with white and evil associated with Black. They offered context, and complicated it to include the value of  fighting for fairness across differences.

In doing so, they lifted hearts like mine and my daughter’s, desperate for it, as well as so many hearts, like my grandson’s, just being hearts.

 

 

 

 

Spaciousness is a word that has come up again and again in recent weeks. I have been thinking how I need to be more “spacious” in my relationships with others and with me, like the sky is with clouds that pass through. Giving them lots of room, without constricting their nature or pouncing on them. Staying its’ vastness. A metaphor that lives in meditation language — letting thoughts and feelings pass through you.

Spaciousness in my relationships amounts to giving people the room to be themselves, to accept them as they are, not trying to rope them into being who we think they should be or would like them to be.  We can let them know how their behavior affects us, be open to how we may have a role in that, and choose to change or not.  The other has the space to choose change too.  But taking on the mission of changing another is to crowd your own and the other’s spaciousness with little chance of succeeding.  

I was raised within a closet of what is appropriate and acceptable. That’s how Black people lived for centuries, in tight boxes of expression and behavior. Stepping outside of them risked torture and death.  So in private, we created music, art, sing-song speech and loving community. We mourned and danced, freed ourselves.   We created space. I created space by rebelling.

How else can we give ourselves space? For those of us who pack it in, not an easy task.  Our hours stacked with things to do, meager time to freestyle or just be. To breathe.  Unscheduled, task-less time feels wasteful or scary, so we sew it up. And we miss so much.  Sitting with the new moon in the sky, being present for the shower jets beating heat against our skin, the comfort of silence, aimlessness and being. Getting in touch with pain that needs our attention.  We cannot depend on others to create space for us.  That is our job.  

In recent months, the words of Rev. Angel Kyodo Williams ring in my ears, “Rest is radical for the Black body,” for which rest was never envisioned.  Rest is space.

We also give ourselves space by not being our own jailers.  By granting ourselves compassion, room to be human and imperfect, and to learn over time.  To be vulnerable to self-doubt, unraveling, and hurt, to be honest with ourselves and others. By loving ourselves through the mud and starlight.

The amount of space we each need varies.  In relationships, it can be a crucial negotiation to honor differences in the need for space, and to cultivate a togetherness that can support that.

Spaciousness is where love breathes, where bluejays fly.  

We are flooded.  We have been flooded. The question comes up in me, how can my body absorb, hold, process yet another round of recurring atrocities and assaults against Black bodies, Black people?  Breonna Taylor, then we learn late of Ahmaud Arbery, occurring a month before Breonna, George Floyd then Rayshard Brooks, now Elijah McClain, we learn of, killed before all of them. More to come, for sure. The only hope — that there will be far fewer until none are strung together in the future, in contrast to the graves under the sea and earth that mark the trail to the present.

I am grateful that my grief spills in loud sobs now or rants. There was an earlier period of months of murdered Black men, women and perhaps gender-fluid people when I fell numb. Like my feelings had burned to ash. I could not feel or express the loss, the rage. It just seemed too long, too big. It was emotionally protective. And yet, the body takes no fakes. It always knows and holds the deal, even when I am/we are cut off emotionally or doing a cognitive thing to distract from the pain. I wonder if my lungs suffered during that period.  My Jin Shin Do massage therapist and friend Debby says that in Chinese medicine, the lungs are vulnerable to grief. I remember the first time she pressed a certain point near my armpit, and suddenly a spell of tears rushed out of me.  From where I could not say. Louise Hays, who published on the relationship between health conditions, organs, and emotional themes, said that as well about the lungs (note: her work is not without criticism).  I’ve recently wondered whether respiratory affliction is another one of the health conditions that Black people suffer from disproportionately. Loss has long slept uninvited in our beds, and those of other oppressed people.

While there is risk in the lack of social distancing among protestors there is also self-care in being there, in acting on the demands for justice, conveying dissent day after day in the moving of their bodies, insisting that they will not “suck it up.” Their bodies refusing to be simply a receptacle.

In another time and space, I likely would have risked being on the streets.  I may still.  But in the meantime, like so many who have chosen to continue social distancing, I have upped the care for my body and spirit.  We each need to find the particular resources that speak to us, that nurture our body-mind-spirit and empower us.  I recently attended a “blacksit” with Rev. Angel Kyodo Williams, a Zen Buddhist and co-author of Radical Dharma, Talking Race, Love, and Liberation.  These words of hers still ring out like the long-running sound and vibration of a large Tibetan bowl I recently brought into my home.

“Rest is radical. Rest is resistance.  It was never dreamed of for Black bodies.”

So I’ve become focused on getting more sleep, along with my other restorative practices and social justice actions.  It’s good to see rest as one of them.

I hope you will too!

I begin with gratitude.  Today, it is for discovering the sound that cardinals make, the scarlet red male ones.  I’ve never known the particular call of any bird. But today, I watched him sing on the edge of a roof, alone, a short, high pitched arc, again and again, blessing me.

Years ago, I coined the expression “Dedicate the Rage” to signify a constructive way of dealing with this intense emotion, a fire ignited by recurrent acts of injustice in bald and wig-covered ways. I advocated for the practice of dedicating the energy of that fire to an act of liberation or healing. Rather than exacerbate our suffering with flames of destruction and death, make that fuel work for us.  And by ‘us’, I mean those systemically targeted for exploitation and dehumanization. Those whose breath is constricted, rendered shallower day by day, or cut off in seconds, our necks in the clench of determined hands. 

Today, I add grief. I could have added it before, but I don’t think I had crystallized back then how tied hurt, grief, and rage are.

In this time of a pandemic, I, like many others, implode with grief and outrage. The tears, the outbursts that come pale to the magnitude of feelings. How can we not mourn the loss of so many who’ve suffocated, with no family at their bedside to ease the irrevocable separation with reminders of having loved well and been loved? How can we not feel the poignancy of the nurses, doctors, physician assistants, respiratory therapists, and janitorial staff who risk their own mental and physical health to fight off germs and the arms of death from clutching the ill? Those who stand in as much as they can for the patients’ families, who wear tomorrow the gowns and masks they wore today, who separate from their own families within their homes or give up going home altogether.  

And in contrast to these vessels of generosity, competence, and kindness, some coming from far away to help, stands the head sociopath in charge, gazing at himself, accusing healthcare workers of stealing equipment they plead for, lying by the minute, and failing to initiate any national efforts to help. Willing to step over fields of bodies extending as far as he and his cronies find necessary to hold on to domination, feed their greed, and mask their emptiness. Killing off any remaining bodies of honesty and accountability around them, preparing for more thievery in the holiness of daylight.

 The election at the top of their list.

This is a traumatic and transformational time, a reckoning. Who can we depend on to rid the federal government of this spreading malignancy?  We are the ones. We have power, if we dedicate our grief and rage, come together and organize.  We people with a collective consciousness, those who suffer and those who ache when witnessing others suffer, can figure it out.  We who value integrity, equity, and the well being of our planet, must begin to heat up a giant cauldron with our rage and grief, to get it bubbling with ideas of how.  It is part of our healing to take action. Our survival, our thriving depend on it.

We. 

My heart and prayers extend to all of us at this time of major risk and transformation.  May we act with the consciousness that we all need to constrict our movement in the physical world and increase our inseparable self- and collective care.  May we use this time to delve more deeply within, to be more present, and to do what we can to be a resource to others.

One of the things I’ve been thinking about in recent days is touch. Specifically, the kind that is not initiated as a prelude to sex. The latter gets mega play in the media of all genres and in our conversations, and I’d like to highlight the balm of affectionate touch in this piece.  I arrived here after listening to some of my family, friends and clients express sadness and a sense of loss in no longer being able to hug friends, cared-for colleagues and in some cases, family.  Governor Cuomo of New York mentioned it today in his press conference, “It is not natural,”  he said, referring to the way he greeted his adult daughter, who has recently come home temporarily. It was not the way he usually does.  I’m glad he validated this aspect of the adjustments we are having to make, sharing his own experience.

Hugs, massages, a hand around a shoulder or the back of the neck. a kiss on the cheek, temple or forehead or a gentle repetitive stroke across the back. These are some of the powerful ways we connect, console, love and heal others through physical touch. We are sensual beings, our skin filled with receptors to take in the feel and energy of touch.  When someone I know has suffered the loss of a loved one, I use my hands and arms more than words, which feel so hollow at these times.  Some of us are more at ease and desirous of touch and touching than others, akin to other individual differences we have.  There is also the matter of the quality of the touch, and certainly, those whose bodies have been violated may have an ambivalent or triggering response to touch.  We cannot presume to touch people willy nilly, even in ‘regular’ times. Touch can also lie. Same as words.  Be a pretense. Nor is touch the only way to convey affection or connect to others, but it is one whose value is often overlooked.

The provisos notwithstanding, touch, as a genuine expression of affection, is magnificent.

I do not know the state of research in regard to adults on this, but I believe we need it to thrive.  In the case of infants and young children, it is well-documented that touch is crucial for their development and for forming attachments.  Skin to skin contact between mothers and newborns has long been shown to have benefits for both infants and mothers and is reflected in practices of OB delivery rooms and neonatal pediatric units.

Shortly after my son was delivered by an emergency Caesarean section, back in the ’80s, my body began to shake uncontrollably. I had no control over it. Nor did the comforting efforts of my husband at the time.  After doctors assessed my son and cleaned away the fluids on his body, they brought him back. Laid him on my upper abdomen and chest.  My body calmed almost immediately.  Pure magic, the shaking stopped entirely.

We all live in different circumstances — alone, with and without partners, children or parents; in our own homes or those of others, and some live in shelters. Those of us living with others are likely as affectionate with them as we’ve been before COVID19 unless they’ve been diagnosed with it or are symptomatic.  I imagine this to be true even in shelters, excluding the strangers who may share the space.  I’m unaware of any guidelines on this.  There may be others, who in their own homes with family, may do as Gov. Cuomo did.  For those who are living alone and avoiding in-person contact with family members and friends, or those limiting touch with family inside our homes out of great caution, the experience of touch, giving and receiving it, has plummeted.  The absence may be subtle, slow to build, and hard to pinpoint. There is no thermometer to register it. It may show up as part of feelings of isolation, loneliness or irritability.

Perhaps this is a time to consider self-touch, a word that likely brings forward the words self-pleasuring or masturbation, terms that still give off uncomfortable vibrations to many of us, despite all the efforts to normalize them.  As I said earlier, I feel no need to advocate for sexual pleasure, well-covered as it is, whether it occurs singularly or with others. But perhaps stroking our own shoulders, rubbing or massaging our faces, feet, and arms, and crossing them over our chest, grabbing our shoulders or back and squeezing them tight with our hands,  can be included in our self-care rituals of breathwork, yoga, dancing, and others. Self-care, self-touch does not replace anything. It is a thing unto itself, an affirmation all its own.

Would love to hear your thoughts on this!

 

 

 

 

One of the things I’ve learned on my journey as a parent is to have faith in the seeds planted in my children, especially if they’ve been well sown and nurtured. I’ve learned too, that children plant seeds in us, but that is not the focus of this piece.

Some seeds grow and manifest in a short time.  For example, a child who frequently witnesses empathy from a caregiver towards him/her/them and/or others will show empathy.  It will not take years.

Other seeds take longer. Years can go by without evidence that what we planted in our children, what we held precious, actually rooted and grew.  We are left in doubt and feeling defeated, especially when the flower we want to blossom is contrary to what blooms in gardens paraded before us as the grandest blooms on Earth.  For a long time, I felt this way about my daughter, who in 4^th grade began to press to straighten her hair.  I had been so determined, given my own childhood trauma around hair, that she experience beauty in her naturally tight-coiled hair.  I had learned to cornrow her prolific hair, sew or tie colorful beads in braids and create style after style.  But when I finally conceded, with middle school on the horizon, I felt like racism had run its tanks over my efforts and won.  It was not until the summer on the heels of her college graduation that she unveiled a ritual she and her girlfriend had crafted, a light Caesar hair cut.  I cried, seeing it. Flooded by feeling that my efforts and determination had not been in vain and by how bold beautiful she looked.

During the past few days of Kwanzaa I’ve had a similar heart full experience.

Young Drummers at Kwanzaa, Cary, N.C.

 

I witnessed a legacy that my children’s father and I passed on to them, being seeded in my five-year-old grandson.  The honoring legacy of Kwanzaa and its principles; a time of celebrating African and African-descended people, our culture and ancestors.

I witnessed his enthusiasm for the nightly, family ritual of Kwanzaa. Talking about the principal of the day, lighting the candle of that day plus the ones symbolizing the prior days’ principles, and concluding with our holding hands, raising them over our heads to the chant of “Harambee.” In Swahili, it means pulling together, and we say it seven times.  On the last one, we hold it as long as we can.

I witnessed my grandson say “Kujichagulia,” unencumbered by the idea that it is too much, too different or difficult to say.  The same with its meaning, “self-determination.”  I listened to his example of  “deciding to do or say something that he thought would be good for him or someone else,” the way I defined it for him.

“When I decided to go see Lucy, because she fell and I wanted to see if she was alright”  (She had fallen while climbing at his birthday party and broken her arm. He insisted to his mother that he go see her a couple days later).

I witnessed him go on stage with other children under twelve, when called up by the African-American Dance Ensemble and dance to the African drums beating in fierce, got to move rhythm.

I witnessed a loving legacy passing down. Kwanzaa, an offering of time to reflect on the legacy we have inherited from our ancestors and on the quality of the one we are handing down.