Missionaries

"Money to Blow" by Birdman featuring Drake & Lil Wayne (I had no idea this was Birdman's song)

...no particular lyrics / I just feel like missionaries and churches have money to blow...

I hate missionaries.  I hate the idea of missionary.  I hate the idea of any persons representing a religion going to a developing country, especially, to go and preach their Truth.

It's absurd.  For one thing, the idea of missionaries is nourished by a sense of cultural elitism.  Those going to spread their Truth are typically under the impression that their way is right, that the the 'natives' are pagan, poor, unhappy, and have no idea what they are doing (despite the fact that most of these 'natives' have a history far longer than the few hundred years of these uppity White and Western nations...you really think you discovered the Native Americans?).

It's absurd!!  Additionally, these missionary trips are made somewhat successful due to the poverty of the people who are being preached to.  I know if I were starving and some White lady said she'd feed me if we talked about some man born to a virgin and read some leather book, I'd be all about it.  I'd do it now, even though I'm not starving, if only it would get me out of class and get me a free lunch before I go to work.

I don't say that to belittle the Messiah or the Holy Bible.  But to a starving child, that's what the situation is reduced to when your basic needs are not met.

Why aren't these missionaries lobbying for free trade? Education? Finding a way to bring electricity and clean running water to people?

I have always felt like the issues missionaries have the clout to correct are left unaddressed.  The soul and salvation of a people supercede their physical and material needs.  Heaven is all the compensation you need for the misery (or bliss, depends on who you ask) you currently live in.

I once heard a pastor say, "If you wanna go to hell, you got a right to go".  I love that quote because it's the realest thing they ever wrote.  Religion, believing, God, reading holy texts are all optional activities.  If there is a God, She ain't finna strike you down the minute you decide you don't believe.  We all have free will.

So if religion doesn't come to a people, that is okay, as long as there is a moral code that works (because being religious does not denote being moral).

How about helping people procure the basics for survival and introduce religion in a time of comfort and not as an 'alternative' to their duress?  I think it's cruel  It is the most unappetizing aspect of organized religion, but especially Christianity because Christians go hard body for some missionary stuff.

Don't let me catch a missionary on the streets of Freetown, Sierra Leone.  You are likely to catch fade.

Wind Capacity

"Not Anymore" by Latoya Luckett

...somebody say i don't want it anymore / i don't want it anymore / somebody say i don't want it anymore / i don't want it anymore / cuz i've dried my eyes and realized / i deserve somebody that'll treat me right / because i know my word so you can keep / that drama, i don't want it anymore...


Happy Valentine's Day.

I don't usually have an opinion one way or another about Valentine's Day, at least not anymore. 

Now that I am older, Valentine's Day just becomes another commercialized holiday that means absolutely nothing.  It's a capitalist money experiment that has gone and is going very well.

I don't feel sad if V-Day rolls around and I am single.  I don't really care.  I just want cupcakes.  And I make ally my friend's be my valentines.

I had a good Valentine's Day this year.  In the midst of a death in the family, stress at work and school, and an extremely incommodious breakup, the spirit of romance is beyond me.  As I sat in my office at work on Friday, crying, shaking, disturbed, and worried, I thought it to be some kind of poetic justice that I would be so brokenhearted just before Valentine's day.

I spent the weekend recovering from Friday's agony and the tempest of the last week by getting to see two of my favorite people in the world.  Brittany came down for the weekend and Christina made an appearance!  

And I got a phone call and an email from my husband, both of which were quite sweet and reminded me to remain focused but relaxed in my hectic schedule. He said he was praying for me as we grieve over darling Amina who died last week.  He told me to be strong for my mother, who is taking it hard (I didn't even think he would know what Valentine's Day is but I underestimate the pervasiveness of a global capitalist society. WTF do Afrakans need with Valentine's Day?)

 

I was surprised by Brittany with wonderful gifts.  She got me a build-a-bear!  I love stuffed animals.  I always have one stuffed animal that I'm obsessed with for a while until I get another one.  I sleep with it, put it next to me when I study, watch tv with it.  I love stuffed animals (what a ridiculous tangent).

I got flowers, a wonderful card, eyeliner, a bottle of Moscato D'Asti, and some new clothes from F21 (but of course my focus is this bear, who I named Isaata).  She said all because I deserve to feel special.  I deserve a little distraction and happiness given all I have endured these past few weeks.

The second greatest gift I got for Valentine's Day, however, is strength.

I have given up my strength, my power, my own fortitude and for no particular reason.  I panic, panic, worry, get anxious, panic over things as if I have control over anything.  And while I don't have control over other people's behaviors, I have control over how it will affect me and how I will manage it.


I have been feeling down, out of control, pessimistic, and flagrantly morbid (Death always makes me feel that life is absurd).

And somehow I managed to remember that I am getting better.  I am gaining more control.  I am learning about optimism.

I'm not ashamed of what I've been through.  I'm not ashamed of being "crazy".  I'm happy to know there is something wrong so that I may be able to fix it and live a long life.

My friend Brittany has been trying to remind me of my strength, remind of the wonderful, normal things going on in my life, and encourage me to keep them in focus.

The greatest gift I got was my relationship with God.  I have never forgotten my God.  After all I have been through, I know that I should not be alive and I know that I have been changed.  No matter what beef I have with organized religion or how enamored I get with science, I love my God.

I have been talking with my God and I was finally able to see that my God has never deserted me, but I occasionally stray from my God.

And my God said don't cry.  My God said that my tears are being counted.  My God said that it is not the end of the world.  My God said a broken heart can be mended.  My God said that no weapon formed against me shall prosper.  My God said that revenge is not in my hands and those for whom I shed tears will be duly punished.  My God said my happiness will no longer be elusive.  My God said pray for my enemies, my doubters, my naysayers, my criticizers.

I am worried but I am not afraid anymore.  Fear and anger are incongruent with progress and improvement.

Thank you Brittany for reminding me of my inner strength, my capacity to fight, made possible only by my God.  Thank you for reminding me that I am intelligent, resourceful, and backed by supportive people these days.

I give you no power by disavowing fear.  I just want to be happy Black woman...a student, a teacher, a daughter, a believer and a happy Black woman.

A true friend is someone who sees the pain in your eyes while everyone else believes the smile on your face

Daddy

"Daddy" by Beyonce (duh)

...I want my unborn son to be like Daddy / I want my husband to be like my Daddy / there is no one else like my Daddy / and I thank you for lovin' me...

Snow day number 4,000.  The kids had the day off of school today and I didn't have to go to work (I did pick up that check though!).

I hung out with my new roommates after I did some studying in the library.  They were fun.  Then my Daddy picked me up on his way home from his classes.  I don't know why he didn't cancel them, but whatever.

The adventure began when my Dad picked me up.  We went to my bank to deposit my check but my bank was closing early because of the impending, doomsday snow storm.  So we went to my parents bank so I could deposit it there.  The teller we went to was this nice Indian lady who knows my Mom.  She made small talk about whether or not I went with my Mommy when she went to Sierra Leone.  I told her I'm going in the summer and she said I'm to spoiled to go to Africa, which is true.  Twenty-one years of America spoils you.  Then we picked up pizza for Lima and my cousin MaHawa who babysat him today.

Then Daddy and I went to Chipotle.  I told him he needed to try Chipotle and he agreed to, since he is consistently buying me lunch or dinner from there.

Let me tell you what this man ordered.  My Daddy ordered a burrito with steak, peppers & onions, lettuce and no rice and beans.  I asked him "What's the point of your burrito?"  The lady who was ahead of us busted out laughing at me and my Daddy.

But old man ate his entire burrito in a flash!  That's how his son eats.  Lima doesn't even really chew food for real.

Then we went to Ukrops and bought all these snacks that he and my Mommy eat.  I bought separate stuff for Lima and I because they eat all this strange stuff that I don't think my baby brother should eat.

We finally came home and I was sitting here, dozing off to sleep, I decided to write about my father.  Hanging out with him reminds me of being a little kid, when we were a happier family and I followed him around like I was his shadow.  I thought my Dad was just a little less famous than God (and I still do really).  He knows everything, he does anything for me, and he buys me Chipotle.  That's the way to my heart...Chipotle and Baker's.  Anytime I get mad, I would get food or shoes.

My Daddy has always been my knight in shining armor.  He has always been my hero.  He has always made me smile.  Every second I am with my father, I smile and laugh a genuine smile and laugh.  He is so funny to me.

They say if you laugh too much, expect to cry later.  But I don't believe that will happen as long as my Daddy is around.  

My father has always served as the most brilliant example of a respectable, selfless Black man.  He has always respected and been kind to my mother.  I have never heard him raise his voice at her in my whole life.  He does her laundry, irons her uniforms, gets us ready for school (when we were younger), mediates between me and Mommy (when we were at war), taught me about analytical thinking, the importance of being an educated Black womyn, the importance of compassion, being an activist in the way I live and not just in calculated moments, and most importantly about respecting and loving Afraka.

I should and should have never settled for any man who doesn't make me believe of myself what my father has struggled, coming from the deep poverty of Sierra Leone to make a grand life here, to teach me of my Afrakan queendom.

I love you soooooo much Daddy.

Angela Davis Type Behavior

"Back In The Day (Puff)" by Erykah Badu

...back in the day when things were cool / we used to meet up with these dudes / then we'd roll out on Vogues and Trues / and would ride around the park till its after dark / pumpin the trunk with the windows rolled up, puff...

For Black History Month, I am focusing on my Black Hot Blues blog.  I am writing about topics in the African and African American community that I find interesting, have recently been exposed to, wonder about, and all that.

I have a lot of opinions about the condition of Black people and women in this world.  All of my coursework in the last 2 years has been about these topics and I needed a place to catalog them.  I also want to practice writing some arguments and draw from these entries to incorporate in my lesson plans for the girls I teach (I got to see them yesterday and I was so happy.  I missed them).

So each day, I am supposed to write on some theme I am inspired by conversation, news stories, articles, whatever.  I am running behind because today is the fifth and I only posted "Day 3" a few minutes ago.  I'll catch up this weekend though.

My job, like any place of employment, is full of politics, counterproductive policies, bureaucracy, disorganization, and sometimes even a hostile environment.  I love it.  None of that stuff fazes me at all.  I am not their for the check or to command a tight ship.  I am there for the beautiful Black girls.

Yesterday, the only day I got to see them this week, we had a brief group about adjusting and accepting change.  It was good for them since the program had just been restructured and this was a new class for them.

We had an extended group after mandatory group in which I reinforced the routine of the classroom.  They are to write journal entries everyday that they come to class for the first 30 minutes to an hour, before dinner.  Of late, they have been complaining bout it and I had to redress them about the routine that they helped to establish.  On the first day, I asked them a bunch of questions in order to find out how to facilitate their progress in an engaging manner.  They suggested journal entries and I have sent a list of supplies to administration for my classroom so they can do journal writing and the other activities they said they wanted to do.

Then I had a talk about some other activities, like vocabulary.  I don't use my "SAT" words around them a lot but I don't speak to them as if they are stupid either.  I enunciate and pronounce well around them and clearly define words they have never heard before.  And they appreciate it.  I can't help the Ebonics sometimes.  It just slips out of me.  But I don't apologize for it. It is a unique way of talking that Black people should never lose, lest they lose the little bit of history they have recorded.  I think it demonstrates to them that I am like them but they can one day be where I am (i.e. in college, working, preparing for an independent life, etc.).

They were so excited.  I was so happy.  I said vocabulary and they lit up.  One of my girls said, "That's wassup. We gon' learn to talk like you Ms. Kamarah."  I know that's right boo! Yes you are!

I know I am far more excited about my job than my coworkers and it could be because I am brand spanking new and the frustrations haven't gotten to me yet.  But I don't think this excitement will ever fully dissipate.  For whatever happens in the administration sphere is separate from these girls.  What these girls go home to, go to school to, face in the world is what I seek to give them refuge from.  So I don't give a damn about the bureaucratic stuff.  That's just a part of the job.  These girls are apart of the responsibility I have to this world to leave it better than I found it.  Dig?

Sometimes I feel a little self conscious at my job.  I am an activist, everyday, all day.  Forget what you heard.  I am a rebel with the biggest cause...Afraka and her peripheries.  These Black kids are the all important peripheries.  Some of my coworkers, although I can see on their faces they truly enjoy the kids, are hampered by the lack of efficiency of the program sometimes and their own personal lives.  I fear that I seem ridiculously enthused about my job and they are judging me.  But I am always worried about stuff like that because I'm paranoid...really because I am an artist and I'm sensitive about my shhhhh.... 

Nonetheless, I am an activist and I am accountable to the cause boo.

Doing it for Africa since 1987....booyah!