#LittleMeToo?

I've been thinking a lot about #MeToo lately. When I first started seeing it on Facebook, I reflected back on my life to see if I should also update my status. I imagine most women did the same thing. Assault and harassment are very serious issues, and I didn't want to update my status if it didn't really apply to me. At the same time, I wanted to make sure I wasn't suppressing anything or in denial.

My initial thought was that I've never been assaulted. Not in the way I think of assault. Not what you see on Law and Order SVU and on the news. But I didn't feel completely sure. Something was blocking me from moving beyond that initial reaction, though there was a splinter in my mind about it.

I wondered (and I'm still wondering) how #MeToo might be impacting women who have been assaulted in the way I do think about it, and who have not talked about it with many people or anyone at all? There are no trigger warnings on these #MeToo posts. What if someone has buried it deep within and far away, and then these #MeToo posts pop up all over their social media feeds with their well-intended, but dangerous shovels, exhuming all that horror and making their news feeds feel as unsafe as they were when it happened?

It definitely exhumed things for me. Things I'd rather not think about. Things I very rarely talk about, and when I do, it's only with a select few. Things that tempt me to shrink and feel shame. Things that steal my words and strangle me. Things I wish I could completely erase from my mind. There's something that resonates in me when I read #MeToo.

What if a teenage neighbor boy catches you and his little brother being curious, and then the little boy's brother tells you to show him what you were doing? What if you remember feeling dirty and scared - like live kiddie porn? What if, later on you're told, before going to another neighbor's house, not to let what happened with the other neighbor happen with this neighbor? What if you feel ashamed . . . like what happened was your fault, but you hadn't even lost your two front teeth yet? Do you post #MeToo?

What if you act on this same curiosity with a relative half a year older than you, and that relative threatens to tell your big sister what you did if you didn't do everything he said? What if your parents weren't there, and this torture lasted for six weeks of your summer vacation while you were staying out on Long Island with other relatives you barely knew? What if you did everything he told you to do for SIX WEEKS, and then he told you he'd tell your sister anyway? What if you cried, and shook inside, and begged him not to tell, and then he told her something else in front of you . . . something benign, and then looked at you and laughed while your sister looked at you confused about why you were so afraid? Do you say #MeToo if you were only six when it happened, and the relative was not much older than you?

What if you're checked regularly to make sure no one has touched you inappropriately, but so much has happened behind closed doors while they played Bid Whist and Spades, and nothing the eyes could see would tell anything about it at all? 

What if an older male relative asks you and another young relative to massage his thighs, and it feels creepy and weird, but you're a little kid, and you don't know that you can say no?

What if you're in junior high school, and after recess every day on the way in from the yard, the boys run through the crowd of students squeezing the girls' butts and laughing? What if you don't want it to happen, and it makes you so uncomfortable to be touched like that, but no teachers are ever watching, and no one ever does anything to stop it?

What about if you're 15 and then 18, and you're told about about the sexual assaults of loved ones, but you have no one to process it with you? What if you witness someone else's damaging response, know that it's so wrong, but don't know what to do because you don't know what the right response is? What if you have to hold it silently? Just hold it, even though it feels way too heavy? What if you feel horrified, and surprised, and sad, and scared, and confused, and soul-achy, but you have no where to put it? No one to talk to about it? What if you are left wondering, "If this happens to me, will I have to be quiet about it, too?"

What if you confide in a loved one as you're seeking guidance about a friend's sexual secret, and instead of supporting you, that loved one threatens to report your friend to the pastor if she doesn't turn herself in, even though doing so would result in your friend being suspended from church, and expelled from the "Christian" college you attend? What if it felt like an assault, and what if you felt complicit, even though that was not your intention? How do you recover from equipping a loved one to violate a friend? When you feel like a paralyzed bystander who unknowingly provided the weapon your loved one threatened to use to destroy her? In this case, would the person post #ItWasMe? How do you feel ever feel safe around that loved one? How do you ever feel safe to open your mouth again?

What if a male co-worker more than twice your age invites you to come out to lunch while you're working as a magazine intern, and he walks you over to a secluded area near the United Nations, and places his arm around your shoulder without asking you? What if it goes on for a long time, and you're sitting there, wanting him to stop, feeling immobilized and numb, so scared that this may not be where it ends even though you're only yards away from a busy Manhattan street, but no one can really see you from where you are? What if it does end there, and you feel like you dodged a bullet, but you shouldn't really say anything about it because you feel like maybe it was your fault because you asked him for all of those extra office supplies to take back to college with you? Thinking that if you tell, maybe your loved one will think you need to be turned in, too.

What feeds shame?
What nourishes it?
What makes it grow?
Secrets. All of those secrets.
Being afraid to speak them.
What do perpetrators always say?
Shhhhh . . .
Don't tell!

But nothing life giving grows in the dark. 
Forget being quiet!
Speak!
Tell!
Cry!
Scream!
Publish your blog post!
Throw the curtains open and let the light in.
No one who means you well requires you to keep a cancer inside you.
No one who means you well would want to see you crushed beneath that weight. 
It'll be so bright that it will ache at first . . .
But when your eyes adjust to the light you were meant to live in,
You'll be okay.
You'll be able to breathe.
You'll be free.

Sometimes I'm in Texas (Ambassador College/University)

Me in front of Daisy (or Bluebonnet?)

My college doesn't exist anymore. When the Worldwide Church of God's doctrines shifted to mainstream Christian beliefs in the mid 1990s, many of the members left the denomination. The loss of the financial support from the departed members resulted in Ambassador University closing a couple of years after I graduated. My school's campus in Big Sandy, Texas now belongs to the International ALERT (Air Land Emergency Rescue Team) Academy.

I started reminiscing last night after hearing about Tom Petty's passing. A friend posted some of the lyrics to Mary Jane's Last Dance on Facebook last night ("Oh my, my, Oh hell yes . . ."), and wow! It took me back!

I can't take Serena and Cairo to visit my old school like other people can take their children to see their old schools. But sometimes I'm in Texas.

Sometimes I'm walking down to the convention center for my work study job with the Shipping and Receiving department. I'm in the office talking with other students about how I can make a little money selling my plasma (which I did once to buy hair for braids 😧, but I digress . . . ). We're making popcorn in the old school popcorn machine, and singing along with Rosco Martinez as he sings about Neon Moonlight.

Sometimes I'm walking down to the equestrian, thinking about things and looking at the horses.

Sometimes I'm in Longview, running across the highway to the movie theater with my friends, hoping to catch a movie and get back to the shopping trip bus before it leaves. 

Sometimes I'm piled in a car with nine other people going to Whataburger.

Sometimes I'm at Pizza Hut drinking from those red cups or in the Winn Dixie parking lot belly laughing after pranking my friends.

Sometimes I'm at a dunk contest, beaming because the best dunk was just dedicated to me.  

Sometimes I'm singing with the other Black women at the Operation Philia tribute to the Black men on campus.

Sometimes I'm running from the fellas who are trying to take me to the Barn Dance jail.

Sometimes I'm putting on a fancy dress, getting all cute for the Sophomore Banquet or the Senior Ball.

Sometimes I'm listening to Little Texas sing My Love, and I'm singing along, completely surprised by how much I like some country music.

Sometimes I hear the tornado alarms, and I'm in the storm shelter waiting for the all clear.

Sometimes I'm shaking the snack machine in the lounge because it kept my money and didn't release the chocolate chip cookies.

Sometimes I'm jumping up and down on my bed in my dorm named after Azaleas, being silly with my friends, and almost getting hit in the head with the ceiling fan.

Sometimes I'm riding my bike across the airstrip down to Lake Loma, pausing, and taking deep breaths of air fresher than I've ever breathed before.

Sometimes I'm in Texas.

Sometimes I'm in Texas in my mind.

You've Got to be Carefully Taught (Education for Liberation)

I spent the last couple of days with my coach colleagues at BetterLesson, and it was so amazing. I work from home most of the time, and I usually see my colleagues in the Boston area on Thursdays. Some of my colleagues work remotely from New Jersey, Montana, North Carolina and Texas, and starting with Coachapalooza at the beginning of the school year, we meet quarterly for our own professional development and time to connect. The time we spend together feels like magic.

At each of our quarterly gatherings we've been leaning into culturally responsive teaching and learning work - defining the work, identifying and unpacking biases, and exploring specific ways to support our teachers with cultural awareness and appreciation, family and community engagement, and with helping students to become socially and politically conscious and to take action against injustice. The work is hard, and the work is great. It helps me to stay all on fire like William Lloyd Garrison talked about.

I've never seen South Pacific, but I've heard of the song You've Got To Be Carefully Taught. The lyrics stayed on my mind the night before the first day of our retreat last week, so I knew I needed to share it with the team as we thought about what learning experiences we'd want to create for ourselves and students if we were still classroom teachers following the tragic, yet not novel, events in Charlottesville. 

You've got to be taught to hate and fear
You've got to be taught from year to year
It's got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught before it's too late
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught

This is so true! Kids don't naturally hate other kids. You put kids together, and their natural inclination is to play - tag, hide and seek, build sandcastles, jump rope, splash in puddles . . . and they don't become hesitant until someone introduces the idea of separation. And even when society/people try to force kids to separate, some kids connect anyway. The Romeos and Juliets. The Other Side by Jacqueline Woodson is a powerful picture book which tells the story of Clover and Annie who become friends in a segregated community.

While kids have to be carefully taught to be fearful of others, the opposite can also be true. Kids can be carefully taught to let go of fear, hatred, prejudice and ignorance. I believe that's where schools and teachers come in. That's a big part of why I do the work I do.

Hatred and ignorance, stereotyping, prejudice, racism and xenophobia are prisons. The prison walls are invisible to some, but they are very real. We are placed in these prisons as children, all of us by the inequities built into American systems and structures from the very beginning, and some of us even more so with the baggage we receive from our families. Some family baggage has us in minimum security prisons, and some of us end up in supermax. As children, we don't have any say in the matter. Genuine relationships with and learning about others across differences (race, culture, gender, socioeconomics, educational experiences, neighborhoods, religions, languages, opportunities for travel, etc.) offer us a kind of parole.

Some of us refuse to be institutionalized, and choose to exit the prison of hatred and ignorance boldly. No recidivism for us. Some exit with curiosity. Some with confusion (when you don't know you've been in darkness, the light can be painful). Some with anger about being put in that prison to begin with. Some choose a halfway house because they're not quite ready to leave all the way. And, unfortunately, some choose to stay in prison, self-imposed life sentences, choosing to live in hate and ignorance, and trying diligently to imprison others. Those who choose to stay imprisoned are loud. Many are in positions of power. Many are all over the internet. They create flyers like this.

My faith tells me that we are all created in the image of God (Imago Dei). My faith tells me that God values diversity by nature of the fact that there's so much of it in this world. My faith tells me that God is love. I believe that love is far stronger than hate. I believe that love wins. Those of us who choose love HAVE to be louder, stronger, bolder, and we must have more stamina. We need to be brave. We need to be willing to be uncomfortable. We need to be willing to hear, do and say hard things. We need to let people know that they are in prison, and we need to offer a loving hand to those who no longer want to be. Jane Elliott offered that hand to the children in her third grade in Iowa after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. If you haven't already, you can see what she did here: A Class Divided, Part I and A Class Divided, Part 2.

Jane Elliott had her path, and we have ours. Find your traveling companions and let's go!

The Window (Washing Dishes)

I walk Rabbit on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday mornings. I love walking Rabbit - that's true. I don't love waking up at 6 AM to do it. My Fitbit vibrates letting me know it's time to get up, unless my bladder beat my Fitbit to it. I lay there, kick my leg up on my Yogibo body pillow in denial, sigh, pull off my covers and get my old bones up out of bed. "But Afrika," you might say . . . "you're so young, still. You don't have old bones!" Tell my knees that! Achy, achy, achy all the time.

One of my first stops in the morning is to the kitchen sink to wash out Rabbit's food and water bowls before replenishing them both, and that's when perspective kicks in.  I see beautiful things out of my kitchen window while I'm washing her bowls. Do I love making mortgage payments? Nah. Being house poor isn't fun. We're not building equity anywhere near fast enough for my taste . . . but life is about more than money. Washing the dishes in front of this beautiful view reminds me about what's important. One of the best times to listen to God's voice is when you're doing mindless things like washing dishes.

You can't see it so well from the picture, but outside the window is our deck.

But the deck is SO old, and the paint is peeling, and it's not the best deck at all!
So? It's your old, flaky deck. When you lived in New York, and up until October, 2005, you didn't have a deck.
But that old, busted grill is out there, too! 
Yeah, and it was a gift. You didn't have to pay for that grill, and when you're ready, you'll throw that one away, and get a new one. Be thankful for the time you were able to use it. Remember when you lost power for several days and had to grill your food? You appreciated it then, right?
True . . . but Rabbit broke my bench, and it's just sitting out there. 
Well, I know that wasn't your favorite thing that happened, but it was old, and when it's time, you'll get a new bench, and it'll be great.
Hmm . . . those bluejays are pretty cool. We've been seeing so many birds at the bird feeder lately. I like that.
Me too! And did you see those cardinals?
Yes! What a beautiful shade of red! And now that you mention it, those squirrels look like they're having so much fun.
Yep. They're not worried about a thing. Just running and jumping from branch to branch.
And I'm noticing that there are lots of different types of trees outside. What types of trees are there?
Pine, birch and sassafras. 
Sassafras is fun to say.
It sure is! You see those tree trunks?
Yep.
You're strong like that. I made you strong like that. I'm thinking of something I said before that one of the disciples wrote down. You know what I'm talking about?
Matthew 6:25-24
What does it say?
Let me see . . . it says, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ [Y]our heavenly Father knows that you need [these things]. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself."
You okay now?
I'm good. 
Enjoy your walk with Rabbit, and when you think of it, write down what I said so other people can read it and be encouraged.
Will do. Thank You, Holy Spirit.

 
 

Missing Rabbit

I didn't think I'd ever have a dog. When we lived in Boston, our lease prevented us from having pets. When we moved into our own home, I discovered that I had developed an allergy to dogs and a thousand other things after my pregnancy with Cairo.

So many people tried to tell me that I should get a hypoallergenic dog, but when I did my research, it turns out that there is no such thing. Whenever I was around dogs - didn't matter what the breed was - I ended up having a hard time breathing.

I tried to convince myself that I didn't want a dog. I had grown up with mostly cats (adopted from the ASPCA in NY mainly to keep the mice at bay), and had only had two dogs. And even then, Blazer and Brownsville were only part of our family very briefly. I didn't have to have a dog. I have a wonderful husband, amazing kids, and a dream job. Life could be just fine without a dog, right? 😩

But it wasn't . . . so I prayed. I was willing to even try allergy shots if that would help. We filled out an application with Survivor Tails Animal Rescue (Adopt - Don't Shop!) and looked at the pictures of the dogs available for adoption. And then there was Rabbit. I fell in love with her picture, and our whole family connected with her immediately at the meet and greet. I sniffed . . . pet her . . . sniffed . . . she licked my face . . . no tightness in my chest. No wheezing, no itchy eyes or throat, no sneezing, no congestion. After asking, seeking and knocking, there Rabbit was. No side effect but pure joy.

Some would say that finding Rabbit was just me figuring out what breed of dog I don't have an allergic reaction to. I can't . . . no, I won't walk through life without faith in God after all that God has done for me!! I'm about to do a hallelujah dance right now just thinking about God. I believe that God answered my prayers - especially considering that I still have a reaction to every other dog I'm around.  Rabbit is my miracle dog, and I'm missing her while we're at camp.

Dear Rabbit:

I hope you're having a great time with Emilia, Nathan and Mabel. I wish you could come with us to camp, but I think with us being so busy and staying at Leever Lodge with so many other people, it wouldn't be fair to you :(.  I'm so thankful that you get to stay with friends who care about you.

When Daddy and Cairo dropped you off, I wonder if you thought you wouldn't see us anymore. I wish there was a way to make sure that you knew that this would be just like when you stayed with Dawn's family. Remember we came back then? We're coming back this time, too!

I wish you like looking at screens, because I sure would FaceTime you, but we've tried that before, you're not really into technology :).  I packed all of your favorite things, hoping that you'd somehow feel connected because you had a lot of things to remind you of home, our rhythms and routines. your bed, your jacket (in case it rains), baby carrots, Greenies, Benebones, SmartBones, your ball, even a new squeaky, flat goose (has to be flat so you have to work harder to dismember it!), and a three page letter for Emilia and Nathan so they'll know all about you.

If my heart could speak to your heart, here is what it would say:

I love the sound of the tags on your collar as you come down the hallway to see me when I wake up in the morning.

I love going on walks with you. Even though you sniff EVERYTHING, I love watching you investigate and discover. You help me to pay attention to things that I typically don't see.

I love snuggling on the couch with you. You're SO heavy. I don't think you understand that you're not a lap dog. But when you lay on me, I feel so loved. I hope you feel loved, too.

I love how fiercely protective you are. 

I love when you jump up on the bed and keep me company in my room.

I love how you look at me and how affectionate you are. Nothing else like it.

I love watching you do scoot butt (zoomies)- usually with Cairo. He's your turn-up buddy and although we fuss at him when he gets you worked up, I think it's really funny 😂.

It drives me crazy, but you sure are a powerful advocate for what you want. If we're working out, you lick/waterboard us while we do yoga, or lay your ratty skunk or snake across our necks. You're such a nut, but no one can accuse you of not letting your needs be known.

I think it's hilarious that you lick Cairo's knees, and for SO long while we eat dinner. I guess he's a tasty boy, huh?

I love how goofy you are. You can make me laugh so hard on my most challenging days.  

Have so much fun! Remember how much I love you, and I'll see you soon!

Love always,
💖Mommy🐾

Beach Day (Letter to My Mom)

Dear Mommy: I'm so sorry that I'm going to miss your beach day next weekend. Although I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to volunteer at New Heights Camp again this summer, it's at times like these that I wish I could teleport 😔.

I haven't been to the beach in a long time. Dishon and I sat on the beach a bit when we were in Puerto Rico, but sitting on the beach isn't the same as being at the beach. Not like how we used to when I was little. What I remember about those beach trips is feeling excited, like the sand was too hot for my toes, and finding out that I could take the heat, feeling like the water was too cold and the jellyfish were too scary, and finding out that my body adjusted to the ocean temperature just fine, and I could avoid the jellyfish. The beach means freedom, relaxation, warmth, fun, walking on a shifting and uncommon, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, sometimes sharp surfaces, and realize that you can adjust faster than you think . . . and experience a kind of timelessness where the sun seems to hang high in the sky forever. 

Mommy - my first home . . . my First Lady . . . You had just turned 24 when you gave birth to me. When I was that age, I had been married for a little less than a year and I was about to start graduate school at Boston College. I had decided to become a teacher, and I was also working at Boston College to pay for my tuition. Dishon and I were living on Commonwealth Avenue down the block from the school in a tiny, tiny apartment with a miniature stove and fridge . . . no closet in our bedroom, and our elevator had that old school gate that you had to pull closed before it would run. In your early 20s you are in the midst of deciding things, and becoming, and I wasn't really sure how the chapters of my story would unfold. Did you feel like that, too, then? Excited and terrified? Bold and scared at the same time? Life is like that, huh?

Some chapters of our lives have made me hold my breath without noticing at first. I was scared when Daddy called to tell us about your diagnosis. His voice didn't sound right. I've heard him sound like that before. You, too. Something like how it sounded when I found out that Ronnette was gone. It was a little too close to how I sounded when I called to tell yall that Dee Dee was gone. Too close to how the words of your text sounded in my head when you wrote that Benjeem was gone. He said you didn't want to talk. Your voice is like a trumpet - strong, certain, compelling - what am I supposed to do when that sound is muted? What do I hear then? What do I do then? Wait . . . keep listening . . . it'll come back. Not muted, really. Just paused so you could catch your breath. Moms have to put their oxygen masks on first. 

When I look back over our stories - individually, and where our lives have intersected - God has been so good! He has made everything beautiful in its time . . . All of our plot lines, valleys and mountains . . . the resolution has always been good, and it always will be.

I was so glad to hear about your prognosis. Felt like I could breathe again. In my heart, I know you'll be just fine. You are my Warrior Queen. Fearless Defender. As the date of your surgery approaches, I pray that your beach day is all that you want it to be - relaxing, full of stories and laughter, connecting and listening and sharing. I hope you have a wonderful, joyful beach day where you not only have fun, but remember that you're stronger than you even remember. Know that I will be there with you in spirit. I always am. As much as I enjoy creating word pictures, there aren't enough words or colors in all the world for me to let you know how much I love you, Mommy.

After I'm all done with camp, and you've recovered from your surgery and returned from your cruise, we need some major hang out time.  We have no where near enough pictures together! We must fix that with a bunch of selfies.  There's so much I want us to do together. Let's make plans. Let's write. Let's sing. Let's lay around, watch movies, eat cookies and just be.

Love always,
💖Baby Girl💋

Ode to Ron, Sandy, Janie and Roberta (Why I Teach)

Fifth Grade - P.S. 397 (Foster Laurie)

Today's post isn't about my novel, my writing, or what I'm wondering about the characters I'm creating. It's about my love for learning, and why I do what I do. I'll write about the novel again when it feels right. I'm getting ready to go to camp in a couple of weeks, so a hiatus will be in order from 8/4 - 8/12 anyway. I'll probably post next weekend and then take a break.

I think I was eight-years-old in this picture. I started school a year early, so everyone else was probably nine, and about to be ten. I spent a lot of my life being the youngest everywhere. In school, in my family. I didn't mind being Baby Girl. My mom still calls me Baby Girl, and I still don't mind. I never will. I love it, actually💖.

My parents tell me that I've always loved learning. My home was my first school. I can still see the bookshelves filled with books by W.E.B. DuBois, Alex Haley, and James Baldwin, and though I didn't understand the title back then, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf. I don't remember a time when I didn't love Sesame Street, and when it was time for me to go to daycare/preschool, I didn't cry. I was excited. See me?

#3 Train Track Shadows Above Little Me

I remember fourth and fifth grades most vividly, and I think it's because I had two amazing teachers both years. Janie Miller and Roberta Kamler.  I remember our big open classroom - no walls, no desks, no chairs. We sat on the rug and we learned. We read Shakespeare - Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet, and MacBeth. We learned Latin. Tempus Fugit. Mater. Pater . . . and when our day was about to end we sang It's quarter to 3. There's no one in the place except you and me . . .  I loved school. Loved our art and musicals - The Pajama Game and Annie Get Your Gun. I loved our annual holiday show. School was like magic . . .

When it was time for me to choose a career, I knew I could go the civil servant route. I could take an exam (which I did when I finished school), wait to be called from the list and then I'd have the security of a steady salary, health benefits and a pension when it was time to retire. I tried. I worked for the Immigration and Naturalization Service for six weeks after college. I hated it, so I left. They were mad, too, because a good deal of money was spent on my background check, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't spend hours and hours day after day in a file room waiting for Washington to approve my login credentials (and no one could tell me when that would happen the whole six weeks I was there) just so I could spend hours and hours day after day in front of a computer. My soul needed to breathe. I know me, and I knew that if I just tried to suck it up, it would have been a constant challenge to stay connected to joy, and that is essential for me. Joyspirit. That's me.

I am so thankful for the generations of ancestors who came before me who never got to experience what it felt like to have choices because they were kidnapped, branded, starved, torn away from one another, drowned, physically shackled, enslaved, tormented, sold, used, lynched, shut out, denied opportunities, imprisoned, excluded . . . but through all of that madness, their dreams never died. They pressed on to survive through hell and brokenness and stored their hopes and dreams and creativity and song and dance and arms wide open deep breaths in the open fields of the future away in their DNA and passed it on to me.

It was scary to try to follow an unfamiliar path hoping that I could make a living doing something I loved. But what did I love? I loved writing, so I started out in a graduate creative writing program at Boston University. I was in a class with Susanna Kaysen (Girl, Interrupted), and I loved being her student just like I loved being in Janie and Roberta's class. She was so skilled at helping me to see the beauty in my word pictures and tell my best story. Susanna Kaysen was an amazing teacher. Teacher? Yes, Teacher. I wanted to be a teacher.

So I transferred to Boston College and became an upper elementary teacher, and then went on to teach teachers as a Literacy Coach, Teacher Developer and Curriculum and Instruction Director. What I have seen too often is that schools (not all schools, mind you, but many of the schools with students who are brown like me ) have become like those locked places my ancestors worked so hard and died to change. Incarcerated, joyless spaces where the laughter, curiosity and wonder all children come into life with is erased and replaced with despair. And some of the schools that allege to be better often try to convince students that in order to be successful, you have to be someone different than who you are, and different from those who raised you.

What I most want now is for every student to be free to love school and for schools to be places where teachers love to be, and for them to honor the places from which their students come. Notice I didn't say love test prep or recite learning objectives, and I didn't say that I want teachers to feel like they work for Kaplan or like they need to rescue students from their families and communities.  School should be a place to grow ideas, create, discover, read books, articles and poetry from all kinds of folks, write, wonder, learn, discuss, understand, be understood, be included, be honored, be inquisitive, be inquired about, dream, plan, reconsider, sing, dance, laugh, connect,  debate, advocate, go on field trips, transform, be transformed, and just be . . .

Not to be suspended for wearing braids.
Not to be yelled at.
Not to receive demerits because you didn't wear the uniform.
No to be ignored or merely tolerated.
Not to complete worksheets.
Not for test prep drills.
Not to rush through content to get it "covered."
Not to be told when they can go to the bathroom. 
Not to be punished.
Not to supply inmates for prisons.
Not to lose hope.
Not to hear about how deficient some people think they are.
Not to be judged and labeled because of demographics, socioeconomics and crime statistics.

Preach, Chris Emdin!
Preach, Clint Smith!

This Sunday as part of Dishon's sermon he asked what we think God put in our hands to do. I see it as a calling to help schools and teachers to transform. I feel passionately about culturally responsive/relevant/inclusive/affirmative/proficient/competent/empowering teaching and learning that helps schools to become the places kids love to be because when they go there, they can shake off all that weight loaded on them by those who can't /won't value who they are and just fly . . . What's stopping us? And why do we let it? Not me. Not on my watch.


 

Where is Subria?

My apologies, readers. I intended to post this last week, but last week was a hard week.  I meant to click save after I wrote the title, but I clicked publish instead, and only realized that I had done that after Dishon asked me what happened to my post. Where is Subria? That's it. That was appropriate, though. In a lot ways, Subria and I are two sides of the same coin, and I had a hard time finding my voice last week in the midst of all that was on my mind. Life is changing as it always does, and I needed some time to adjust to our new normal. I'm taking things a day at a time, and today I'm good, so here I go . . .

If you've been following these posts, you have a pretty good idea of the plot line. Subria and Shiloh meet as kids, they grow (I don't like saying fall) in love, there's baggage, and there are challenges to overcome as there are in any great love story. I just realized that things are going to need to go further between Subria and Kevin than I originally thought, and my mind is a bit blown right now 😩.

World Financial Center

If you're a newer reader, you might not know that I grew up in New York City, and that the World Trade Center was a significant part of my life. In addition to visiting the observation deck of the WTC on a field trip when I was in second grade, I also worked in 6 WTC for two summers - the summer after my freshman year at Brooklyn College I was an Administrative Assistant for the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission. Side note: That was a very interesting summer for me. I was 17, about to transfer to Ambassador College in Big Sandy, TX, and I attended a church with my family that was actually a cult. I did a lot of growing up that summer, because I was really starting to figure out who Afrika was apart from my family and church. I worked with four other young ladies who made that summer a lot of fun. My church taught that I should keep myself separate from "the world," but all of that Black Girl Magic in that office with Michelle, Sherry, Tanane, Tanya, and one other girl whose name escapes me was far too much to resist. I remember this one time that summer when I spent the night with all those young ladies (with the exception of the girl whose name I can't remember) at Michelle's house in the Bronx after work (her mom had passed away and left the house to her, and she was the oldest of all of us, but not by much). I couldn't believe my parents let me go. I had SO much fun. I felt like the female version of Pinocchio. I felt like a real girl.

The next summer wasn't nearly as fun. I worked in 6 WTC again, but this time it was for the Equal Employment Officer at Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF). I was the only one there and the EEO traveled frequently. He rarely left me with anything to do, so I made my own fun by doing a ton of creative writing, eating lunch down by the World Financial Center and hanging out in the mall under 1 and 2 WTC (mostly window shopping). Sometimes I would just ride the elevators in 2 WTC just to pass the time. My parents had moved from the Flatbush section of Brooklyn to Brooklyn Heights. Our apartment was right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, and I walked to work across the bridge almost every day.

I didn't work in the WTC the following summer. I worked nearby, though, for the Summer Youth Employment Program in the Manhattan Municipal Building on Centre Street (if you watch any TV shows based in NYC, you've probably seen the building), and I spent as much time as I could in the WTC plaza, since there were performances out near the fountain at lunch time. I loved sitting out there listening to jazz. One of my favorite memories.

What does all of this have to do with Subria and Shiloh? I'm glad you asked. When Shiloh graduates from college in the spring of 2001, he pursues a career in film. His office is in Tribeca not too far from the WTC. He and Subria are still working through the challenges in their relationship. Here's an excerpt from the Tomorrow Isn't Promised chapter of the novel.

Wait . . . before I go there, I'm going to ask a question of you readers after the excerpt, and it won't be rhetorical. I really want you to really answer the question, either as a comment here, or on FB since the comment feature on the blog can be a bit funky at times. I know you guys are reading - I see the reader count on the post, and I'd love to hear from you. Feedback keeps me going and motivates me to keep moving toward publication.

Also, the excerpt has Subria living with her older sister Song, her husband Josh and their children, Genesis and Gideon. I am seriously considering eliminating Song's character, so once I finish revising, that part of the book will most likely be different. Not sure how - I don't think I want her to live with her parents. Maybe I'll have her living with roommates. I'm still figuring that out. Just don't get too attached to Song 😉. I have some other things I'm wondering, too, like how realistic would the movie deal be, etc., but I'll figure it out.

Okay, here's the excerpt:

Summer, 2001

Subria was so thankful that Song and Josh had central air.  She was also thankful that Future Leaders had an extended year so she could work there during the summer.  Even though Song and Josh didn’t charge her anything to live with them, it was important to Subria to be able to help by buying her own groceries, and helping to pay for the water and electricity.

Mornings like this one, however, made it hard for her to leave the house.  The news report said that it was going to be the first of a three day heat wave.  This would definitely be a good day to take the kids at Future Leaders to the pool at the Harlem Y on West 135^th Street.  Subria needed to pick up a few things from the store before going to Future Leaders, so she ran out to Met Foods on Smith Street, and was about to go upstairs to give Genesis the animal crackers she picked up for her when her phone rang. 

"Hello," Subria said, while putting the ice cream in the freezer.

"Hey, Subria."  She nearly dropped the phone when she heard Shiloh’s voice on the phone.  She had called him a few months back, but he didn't want to accept her calls, so she just kept praying about it, and waiting to see what God would do. 

"Shiloh?  How are you?  It’s so good to hear from you."  Subria closed the freezer door, and sat on the counter.

"It’s good to hear your voice, too.  What have you been up to?"

"I’m working at the summer program at Future Leaders Institute.  I’ll be doing my pre-practicum there in the fall.  How about you?" Subria asked.

"Things are busy," Shiloh responded.

"You should be taking it easy, college graduate!" Subria said.  "Amira told Song about Crafting Freedom winning the Screenwriting and Directing Award at First Cut!  Congratulations!"

"Thank you, thank you," Shiloh said.  "Yeah, $10K never hurt anyone."

"That’s for sure.  Plus I know you always wanted more people to know about the Crafts' escape from slavery.  So, what are you planning to do with all that money?" Subria asked.

"Remember how I always wanted to live on Strivers’ Row?" Shiloh asked.

"Yeah . . ." Subria said, a bit surprised that the conversation was so similar to how it used to be before things became so complicated in their relationship.

"Well, I put a down payment on one of the renovated houses on W. 138^th between Adam Clayton Powell and Frederick Douglass." 

"Are you serious?" Subria asked.  "I thought you’d definitely put that money away for a rainy day.  That down payment probably wiped you out, huh?’

"Not really," Shiloh said.

"What do you mean?" Subria inquired.

"Subria, you’ll never believe the call I got last week," Shiloh said.

"What?" Subria asked.  "You’re killing me over here!"

"I got a call from a movie company.  They offered me a deal."

"Shiloh!!  Oh my gosh!  That’s wonderful news," Subria said, jumping down off the counter.  "Shy, I’m so proud of you."

"Thanks," Shiloh said.  "This is the stuff I always used to dream about."

"You be careful, though.  Do you have a lawyer?  Don’t sign over your rights or anything," Subria warned.

"I won’t sign over my rights, Subria," Shiloh said laughing.  "You’ve always been one of my biggest advocates.  I have a lawyer.  He’s a friend of my dad, and he’s really good." 

Things were quiet for a few seconds.  Subria’s eyes filled up with tears, and she felt an ache in her chest.  She tried to talk without revealing the lump in her throat.  "Well, we’ve been friends for a long time.  I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you.  Anyway, I’m so happy for you.  God is definitely showing you favor."

"Yeah, He is," Shiloh said, surprised to hear Subria talking about God.

"I finally left IFG, Shy," Subria shared, knowing what he was thinking. 

"Really?"

"Yeah," Subria said, smiling.

"Where do you go?" Shiloh asked.

"I go to Chief Cornerstone.  Remember my Auntie Esther's church?" Subria asked.

"Yeah, I do," Shiloh responded.

"Well, when I came back from Charlotte, Song and Josh had joined, and you know Jazz and Nairobi have been going there for years.  I left IFG and started going with Song and Josh after I moved in with them."

"Oh," Shiloh responded.  "I didn't realize you weren't living with your parents."

"Yeah, and guess what else?" Subria asked.

"What?" Shiloh asked.

"My parents left IFG, too, and now they go to Chief Cornerstone with us.  Isn't that great?" Subria asked.

"Wow," Shiloh commented.  "That's really wonderful.  Well, listen, I know we really need to talk, so is it okay if I come over tomorrow?"

"I'd love it if you'd come over tomorrow," Subria said. 

"Okay, I'll email you later so we can set up a time, okay?" Shiloh asked.

"Sounds good," Subria said. 

Subria and Shiloh began to spend time together again, and although Subria could tell that Shiloh was still a bit tentative with her, she focused on being patient.  She believed that everything would work itself out eventually.  

Subria was encouraged when Shiloh took her over to see his new house. The kitchen and one of the bathrooms were almost complete, and Shiloh seemed at peace in his new home.  He even took her to the studio so she could see Crafting Freedom.  With every major thing Shiloh shared with her, Subria hoped that it would only be a matter of time before his heart would melt heart toward her completely, and they'd be dating again.

Sunday, September 9, 2001

"So, what does your week look like?" Shiloh asked, as they sat around his living room. 

"Well, I have classes and work tomorrow," Subria responded, "but my schedule is open on Tuesday.  I need to go down to Borders to pick up a Rites of Passage curriculum that came in for me.  It has some cool team building activities for the students, and I wanted to take them over to the school to meet with the teacher I’ll be working with.  My cooperating teacher has a free period at 11:00, so I was planning to go to Borders at around 8:30, and then head over to the school.  The rest of my week is just classes."

"Which Borders are you going to?" Shiloh asked.

"The one under 5 World Trade, "Subria responded.

"Isn't there one closer to your school?" Shiloh asked.

"Well, this one was the only one that had the curriculum I was looking for.  The rest of them would have to put it on special order.  Besides, it opens early, so I can go there before heading over to the school in the morning."

"Oh, okay," Shiloh responded.  "Let me drive you back over to your sister's house.  I have to go to the studio to help with some edits."

"Okay," Subria said, grabbing her bag and heading out the door with Shiloh.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

Shiloh slowly stretched out his hand to shut off his alarm.  It was 5:30, and even though he didn’t have to be to the Givance Productions studio office in Tribeca until 9:00, he made it a practice to allow himself enough time to pray, study, shower, and make himself a good breakfast.  Shiloh always got into the office early, because he knew it made a good impression. 

Even though Subria had her own kitchen in the basement, she was glad that Song and Josh invited her to have breakfast with the family each morning, even during the week.  When she came upstairs, however, she didn’t smell anything cooking.  That was definitely not typical.  Song usually had breakfast done by 7:00.  It was already 7:15.  No one was even downstairs.

"Song?" Subria called, looking around downstairs.

"We’re upstairs, Bria."

When Subria went upstairs, Genesis was in Gideon’s room with Song. 

"What’s up, Song?" Subria asked.

"Giddy’s sick, Auntie" Genesis said.

"Oh no," Subria responded, grimacing at Giddy’s little sick face. 

"Josh had to leave early, so he doesn’t even know.  I really can’t miss school this early in the year."

"I can stay with him.  Don’t worry about it," Subria said, picking up her nephew.

"Are you sure, Subria?" Song asked.  "What about your classes?"

"I’m positive.  I don't have any classes today.  The only thing I was going to do was pick something up from Borders, and check-in with my cooperating teacher, but my practicum at the school doesn’t officially start until October.  Really, it’s no problem." 

"Subria, you’re an angel.  I’m going to run down and get Genesis some cereal before we go."

Shiloh got on the 2 train at 135^th and Lenox at 7:16 a.m., and transferred to the 1 at 14^th Street just like he did every day.  He got off at Franklin Street by around 7:45 a.m., and by the time he arrived at his office, he was relieved to see that the only other person in the office was Al Givance. 

"Good morning, Mr. Givance.  How are you?" Shiloh said, extending his hand and smiling.

"I keep telling you to call me Al, Shiloh," Mr. Givance responded, smiling and shaking Shiloh’s hand in return.

"I know," Shiloh responded.

"Getting an early start, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"What are you working on?"

"Sending out letters to all these folks who sent queries for their screenplays."

"Do you ever read these screenplays?" Al asked, picking up a pile of letters, and flipping through them.

"Yes, sir," Shiloh responded.  "There’s some good stuff in there."

"Well, son, after seeing your work, I think I’d like you to do a little more than respond to queries.  Leave that to Edward."

"But, Mr. Giv –"

"Don’t worry about it, Shiloh.  You’ve been responding to queries all summer, even though you won that big contest at your school.  I hear you got a movie deal."

"Winning that contest was a blessing, but I still have to pay my dues, sir."

"And that you have.  Edward is a senior in high school.  He should be responding to queries.  You’re ready to move on to reviewing scripts, son."

"Thank you so much, sir.  I don’t know what to say."

"We’ll have lunch later on so you’ll know what I’m looking for.  In the meantime, check out the Writers Guild of America website, and review what they rated as the top 101 screenplays.  I want you to be able to tell me what made five of these screenplays so great."

"Yes, sir!" Shiloh responded.

As Mr. Givance returned to his office, Shiloh sat down at the computer to look up the Writers Guild website, and he became so engrossed that he didn’t even notice when his co-workers came into the office.  He tried to focus on films he already owned, or wouldn’t mind renting.  There were many impressive titles on the list, and he wasn’t surprised by most of them – To Kill a Mockingbird, The Shawshank Redemption, and The Usual Suspects were a few of his favorite films, and his mother would watch Terms of Endearment every day, if she could.  He was saddened, however, by the lack of films by people of color.  The only producer he recognized was Spike Lee for Do the Right Thing.  Although he was proud to see the name of his former teacher, he knew there had to be more work by people of color out there worthy of acknowledgment on this list.  He seriously considered creating his own list and became determined to make quality movies and mentor other people of color who could, too, so that the field would be expanded as well. Shiloh’s concentration was broken by commotion coming from over by the windows. 

"What’s going on, yall?" Shiloh said, running over to the window.

"A plane hit one of the towers," Camille yelled, not making eye contact with Shiloh.  "Eddy heard it on the radio."

"What?" Shiloh said.

"Yeah.  Look out the window," Camille said.

Shiloh looked out the window, and he saw thick, black smoke billowing into the sky from lower Manhattan. 

"Was it an accident?" Shiloh asked.

"We don’t know," Camille said.  "This is bugged, huh?"

Shiloh picked up the phone and dialed Subria’s cell number.  It went straight to voicemail.  He hoped that it was because her phone was turned off.  She was constantly forgetting to turn it on.

"Hey, Subria," Shiloh said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the alarm in his voice.  "I just heard what happened, and I know you said you were going down to Five World Trade today.  I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.  I’ll call again in a minute.  If you get, this, though, call me.  Okay?  All right.  Bye."

As everyone in the office stood at the window mesmerized, Shiloh grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.

"Where are you going, Shiloh?" Edward asked.

"A friend of mine is down there," Shiloh yelled, as he ran down the stairs.

Shiloh left his office a little after 9:00, and was terrified when he looked up and saw that

another plane had hit the second tower.  He couldn’t be completely sure, but Shiloh thought he felt the ground shake under his feet.  The towers were only about 14 blocks away.  He tried Subria’s cell phone again, and it went through to voice mail again.  He ran for the first few blocks down West Broadway.  It was almost like watching a movie with what seemed like everyone from the surrounding office buildings pouring out into the street.  So many papers were falling from the offices in the tower that it almost seemed like a ticker-tape parade.  Almost.  Most people were staring up with their mouths agape.  Some were screaming.  Some were crying, shouting that they had loved ones who worked in the towers.  Others looked up shaking their heads as they shared theories about what they thought was happening. 

Shiloh stopped running when he got to Chambers Street.  Only seven more blocks to go.  He heard one woman say that she thought a misguided pilot hit the first tower, but now with the second tower being hit, she was sure we were under attack.  Another man said that he saw people jumping from the towers.  Shiloh wouldn’t allow himself to believe that.  He continued running, at this point having to dodge through thick crowds of people.  When he got to Vesey Street, the police already had the block sealed off.  He looked up at the towers, and to his horror, he realized that the man had been right.  People were jumping. 

By the time Shiloh left Vesey Street, it was around 9:40.  Firefighters and officers were escorting wounded people over to a makeshift triage area in front of St. Paul’s church yard.  There were even more people on the street, and several buses filled with transit police passed by him on their way to the towers.  Fire trucks raced down to West Street, and Shiloh wondered how they would get everyone out of the buildings.  It seemed as if the people who were above where the planes hit wouldn’t be able to get out at all, and thinking about that made Shiloh feel numb inside. 

He tucked himself into the corner, as many people were doing, and attempted to call his family, but all he could get was a busy signal.  The lines were down.  Everyone in New York was probably trying to call their family and friends. He dialed Subria's number again. No answer. Subria lived just over the Brooklyn Bridge, so Shiloh hoped that she was already heading home and figured he'd have better luck going to her house to make sure she was safe.

Shiloh followed the crowd up Park Row and got over to the bridge by around 9:50. He wanted to get across quickly, but too many people were leaving Manhattan. He just got on to the bridge when he felt the ground shake again.  Shiloh looked back toward the towers, and saw that the south tower was collapsing. Part of him wanted to stay and watch, because it was just so unbelievable, but he was carried along by the rush of the crowd running away from the cloud of smoke, ash, and debris that was overtaking lower Manhattan toward safety in Brooklyn.  Shiloh’s heart broke for all the people who didn’t have a chance to escape the tower before it fell, and even more for those who escaped, only to look up and see the tower descending upon them. 

Shiloh couldn’t tell if he was choking from the soot or from the lump in his throat, but he tried to block everything else out of his mind, and focus on getting to Brooklyn Heights.  

Selah.
I can't believe it has almost been 16 years . . .
Read on when you're ready.

The question: Should Shiloh find out whether or not Subria is safe the same day, or should he wonder for a while? He spent a long time being upset with her for her involvement with Kevin, and things are just starting to get better between them.  I don't want it to come across like I'm trying to exploit a national tragedy, or in any way disrespect those who died or suffered harm that day. I feel deeply connected to what happened that day, and although the impact on me differs substantially from those who lost so much that day, it is an event that I really want to explore in this novel.

I remember trying to contact my family from Massachusetts, and how relieved I was when I found out that every one was safe. I also remember not knowing the fate of friends who worked in the area until much later that day, which was terrifying. What say you, reader? Feel free to share any other questions/observations that came up for you as well. If you want to tell your September 11th story, I'm listening.