My Son, the Singer

When I began this blog, I had in mind that it would be multipurpose, one of those being to help organize my thoughts as well as some of my memories of Jared as he grows. I've got so many piles of photos, cards, keepsakes and calendars as well as little scraps of paper with notes jotted down, notes that I say to myself I'll write down all neat and orderly like a good mommie should in an album or scrapbook one day when I get time. (Meanwhile, the piles keep growing taller. )


One memory that I don't want to forget is his fondness for music. While he seems to for the most part think he's too cool to dance, my son has been singing since he was two or three months old. Some of the photos of him during his naming ceremony back in October 2006 do, in fact, show him with his cottony hair and velvety skin and mouth frozen while holding the note of song. During his first year, he and I would be out shopping and he would be singing at the top of his lungs in such a way that other shoppers would track us down in our aisle to get a look at the child whose voice carried from one corner of the store to another (which made me sometimes call him O Puxador, like Neguinho da Beija Flor and other singers who stand on top of floats bellowing out carnaval theme songs, no need for a mic). Granted, the stores where this would happen were always small stores, but still I thought it was funny. Even more funny was that when I enrolled the child in Music Together he spent more time investigating the room than he did actually singing or playing instruments.
When some of these people would, perhaps innocently, say to me that my son is destined to be a singer, it seemed laden with restrictive assumptions about the heights a black child should expect to reach. So, in response I would say that he could very well end up being a singer but might also be an orator or a host of other things that require vocal expressiveness.

In addition to his own original tunes, Jared's Fall 2008 repertoire includes:

Old MacDonald

The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Yes, Jesus Loves Me

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Twinkle, Twinkle

Frere Jacques


Of course, mommie can't wait to see what comes next in the little boy's songbook.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Playsuit image from Stardust Kids

Peace

"Icon: Ethiopian Orthodox Style, c. 1750-1855" from Ethiopian Icons: Faith and Science online exhibition at the

National Museum of African Art.

l

Joy to the world.

May peace shine within you, be upon you.

Shalom. Salaam. Salem.

Amen.

l

New Day

(Wednesday, 5 November 2008)

Jared and I woke up at about 6:45 this morning. He'd fallen asleep in the car at about 6 p.m. on our way back from running errands and slept through the night, waking up only to have a couple rounds of milk. So, he was up and at 'em before the sun came up.

One of the first things I did after dragging (or, more accurately, being dragged by a two year old) out of bed was to was hurry to turn the television to CNN to find out the election results. Any who know me are aware that news as a backdrop to my morning routine is a-typical for me.

My grandma Maggie followed a regular news watching regimen: one broadcast of the local broadcast followed by one dose of the national news. On Sundays there was 60 Minutes (which later became somewhat bearable to me because of the suave, intelligent and handsome Ed Bradley.) Grandma tuned in to the news as faithfully as she did her soaps, or "stories," and The Price Is Right. My mother has a similar inborn reverence for news and can take in an entire paper in a day, extracting and absorbing all of the key stories from it, a feat which leaves me awestruck. For my family watching news ranks high among one's civic duties and is the best way to keep informed.

I did not inherit this trait. My general aversion to news comes from its heavy emphasis on conflict, horror, negativity with little given in the way of solutions or hope. As a child, news either bored me to no end leaving me with a dull throbbing headache, frightened me or both. We live in a news-on-steroids era very different from the time when it was relegated to one hour segments scheduled at the beginning or end of the day. I find the endless repetition, the hype, the ticker tape that slides across the bottom of the screen to be too much. I'm much more of a big picture, historical context kind of gal. For me, stories must maintain optimism as well as retain the personal narrative.

Today was different, though. The endless stream of news about the Obama victory was a welcome refreshment. I had the chance to get my fill and still get breakfast cooked, lunches packed, clothes ironed, baby and self washed and groomed and stand in front of the TV for five minutes here and two minutes there as the news cycled back to the parts I missed.

In the coming weeks, I will probably be watching more news than I have ever cared to. When listening to the Obama victory speech today, I was moved to tears because he seems to mean what he says. I search Obama's poetic oratory for the truth and sincerity that has helped him win the trust of so many. He's talking loud, and as far as I can tell, saying something. Who knows what the the Great Change that Barack Obama promises will look like in the final analysis. I agree with the many who say that the most important change might not even be overtly political, but could lie most strongly in his reminding people about what is possible to acheive. Obama is waking up people's spirits in a way that reminds me of this amazing video for the song Sun Moon Child.

The main point of this post was supposed to be my linking to an open letter that Alice Walker wrote to Barack Obama, and so I want to make sure to conclude with that. Like Mama Alice, I often think of Obama's family-- the brilliance of Michelle and the legacy that Barack will leave to his children. I wonder about the way that his power and position will both positively and negatively affect his family. I think of the demands that will be placed upon Obama's mind, body and spirit. I pray the best for them and us all.

That said, I think I'm gonna turn off the radio and TV news broadcasts. No additional posts or e-mails about the election. At least not for today. I've had my fill, and life continues. There's work to do. Tomorrow's another day.

Good Music: Jazmine Sullivan

Okay, a lot of people are probably already up on it, but just yesterday I learned of Missy Elliott's very young and talented protegee, Jazmine Sullivan, and the song "Need U Bad." As the bredren-them used to say-- it's a wicked piece-a tune! It reminds me of Gregory Isaacs, Dennis Brown and the real good stuff they used to spin when I first fell in love with reggae. I'm totally feelin it!

I saw the "Need U Bad" video while in the company of a fifty-year-old elder, and we stopped our conversation tranfixed by what we were hearing. (The elder happened to be the owner of a veritable audio museum of black American music, some on 8-track in fact. She proudly identified herself as a discriminating music fan and disciple of Black Moses, aka Isaac Hayes.) The two of us kept nodding our heads and repeating "Mmmmhumm," "That sho is nice!" and "That's music right there."

Truly, young sister Jazmine's voice goes toe-to-to with the strong roots bass line that carries "Need U Bad." Sir Coxsone would be proud to hear youth like her carrying the old sound system vibes into the future.

Two More

Just thought of some other things I want to add to my tagged list below.

8. Gilmore Girls is one of my favorite recent tv programs. Started watching during my pregnancy and early days of Jared's life. The rapid fire dialogue and cornball humor initially made me wonder "What the...?" but I was all in after about three or four episodes. Some of the many reasons that I like it are that it deals with family love alongside generational conflict and ambition alongside simple, basic human values. Also, it inverts the stereotype of what/who a teenage mother is and what she is able to ultimately achieve.

9. The tejana negra in me would love to have a well-cared-for, early 1970s GMC truck (with a new engine) as a second vehicle.

Tagged

My Hurston-Wright Writers' Week classmate and e-mail buddy, Isunji Cardoso, tagged me and so I'm posting seven trivial facts about myself:

1. I was born on a Sunday.

2. My shoe size is 6.

3. I was once a debutante.

4. One of the best gifts I ever gave myself was my Declaration of Independence Road Trip. It actually happened during Christmas of 2003 and I drove solo from Atlanta to Houston, with a stop in New Orleans in between.

5. I find it hard to throw away keys, even if I've forgotten what they unlock.

6. I One of my all-time favorite meals is gumbo-- with okra, please, cher! On the flip side, I detest the smell (not to mention the taste) of beets!

7. Though I sometimes use it to clean, the smell of bleach (especially mixed with food aromas), nauseates me.

Integration

Putting one of my old poems into the play pen--

Integration

In my wildest, craziest dreams
I am the blue-green Atlantic
hugging the Cabo de Sao Roque;
Billowing cluds of Georgia red clay
kicked up at a sanctified tent revival;
Southeastern sun warm
like the tejana negra that I am;
Polaris guiding
Annie Christmas down the banks
of the mighty Mississippi;
A samba sonata,
A reggae riff,
bebop blues guitar,
Flute and violin
Lilting in an aria,
Nyabinghi drums
and soca-lypso punta rock;
In my wildest,
Craziest dreams
My name is Pangea.

(Spring 2000)

Accounting for Life

I agree with that well-worn metaphor of life being a journey. This space on which I type is a white oasis, a place at which I cannot stay for long. Even if any cared to hear it, I cannot possibly re-tell all that I have seen and felt. No one can. Words pale in comparison to experience. But once any moment is gone, abstractions are all we have to offer. The skin is all that is left behind. The substance has moved on. We make some footpaths here in the world of words hoping that others like us will care to follow and join us for a moment of communion. We must soon trod on, get on back to the adventure, the journey.

This thought is sparked by my feeling that I do not write as much as I would like. Months can pass and my writing might amount to countless to-do lists, e-mail correspondence, scribbled fragments of ideas searching for their completion. My ideas are frequent and would, I'm sure, be more so if I could/would regularly create space and time to not only listen to them but play with them, arrange them, allow them to congregate...

Blogging is my idea of a gathering space for some of my ideas. A kind of play pen. I show up for play rather infrequently, though, since my life (especially in its current state) says that anything that does not yeild cash is a luxury. My basic nature is taken aback by this idea, but its how I'm livin'.

I wonder how others find the time to write about life and attend to all the details of it.

There is no way that I could succintly blog about all the things that have demanded my focus and energy ,seemingly overshadowing the importance of writing. Paradoxically, it is important for me to create something of a personal narrative of how I have spent my time, so that the warmness of words can remind me of what the cold numbers of the calendar and steady marching of time won't: that is how my time was truly spent and how I felt about the spending it.

Here is a basic ledger of my summer and early fall:

• Ended a romantic relationship that spanned most of my adult life.


• Found and set up a new residence.


• Decided whether or not to proceed with a years-old-plan to get an arts degree.


• Decided to proceed with my plan to earn an MFA in Creative Nonfiction and saw to all of the details necessary to attend my first residency in Baltimore.


• Did coursework.


• Figured how to balance new homelife with work (still figuring).


• Hunted for better job and pay (still hunting).


• Hired a lawyer and sought government agencies to iron out visitation, custody and related matters regarding son-shine.

Not to mention cooking, cleaning, playtime and keeping in touch with extended family and friends and that just about two weeks ago we took son-shine in for minor ENT surgery. (Anyone who knows me is aware of how I feel about how emotionally high strung I get about such matters; me being somewhat of an urban-bush type means that I prefer to stick as close to nature as a modern woman possibly can. So, it took a minute for me to be okay with allowing my 2 year-old to go under the knife. And any who may be inclined to point to "bush" practices of ritual scarification and circumcision please, don't even go there...) Then there's the practical end of post-op nurturing and home care of son-shine and attending to my own physical well being.

So, I will repeat the question often asked by modern writers: how do others find time to both live life and as well as write about it, or otherwise preserve moments, with detail sufficient enough to help us to remember or be of help to others (including our children) later?

Writing Residency

As Ms. Celie would say, I’m here. Nervous about my decision, but I'm here: I made it to my first two-week residency for my Master of Fine Arts Program. I’m doing it.

There was a tremendous amount of preparation that went into my being able to come. I got a reprieve from some of my frenzied thinking when I arrived on campus (the frienzied thinking was replaced with an intense class schedule). I found the school to be as much a nature preserve as it is a place of higher education. The campus has trails and when walking along them you come across crows and cardinals, wolves and deer, owls and even a horse or two. A tire swing hangs from one of the walnut trees. Cicadas sound off at night.

One of my classmates joked that she was underwhelmed when she drove onto the grounds. I laughed, because it's true. Our school is understated. It whispers rather than shouts, being especially quiet since we distance learning/low res students, a skeletal admin staff, some construction workers and summer camp counselors and kids are among the only ones on campus. Just beyond the gates is a mall, many retail and grocery stores, a shopping village and the highway. But our school is kind of a world unto itself.

On the side of my dormitory, called the “T,” the resident students are cultivating a garden. Some of the things I recognize are oregano, rosemary, basil, onions, collard greens and kale. There is a scarecrow standing guard; the scarecrow is angular and thin, looking more like the resting sail of a boat than it does anything else. Many of the dishes that the kitchen staff prepare for our meals make use of some of these fresh herbs. Some people complain about the food, but I'm overall pleased with it. The cooks prepare many healthful quasi-gourmet dishes, many of them vegetarian. They always have herb teas and fresh fruit in addition to the standard soda and sweet treat desserts.

As for the buildings, the facades are uniform (great stress is put on uniformity) featuring a type of stone work that I saw used on a number of other homes when I was riding one of the MTA buses through Baltimore. The buildings seem to be inspired by a Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater along with a Natural Home Magazine kind of aesthetic because of their sleek interior design combined with an eco-conscious elegance. The buildings make excellent use of natural light and feel comfortable and inviting. The seem like an extension, rather than a terrible intrusion on, the natural environment that surrounds.

It's a good place to re-charge and prepare for what lies ahead.

Hidden Kitchens

A short while back was listening to NPR and learned of an intriguing documentary series called Hidden Kitchens. The particular segment I heard focused on the simplicity of Basque-American cooking.

I love what people like the Hidden Kitchens folk, Southern Foodways Alliance, Vertamae Grosvenor and Marcus Samuelsson are doing. In particular, since Hidden Kitchens has such broad distribution by NPR the way that the series pays attention to how culture and living history are passed along through culinary traditions is significant. After all, as one of my favorite culinary anthropologists Jessica B. Harris has said: If food is on the table, then history is on the plate.

Now all we need is more folk like Slow Food International to tie a strong knot binding foodways and ecological sustainability . Matter of fact, let's take it a step further and tie in the piece having to do with respecting traditional modes of spirituality and their sacred connection to the Earth.

(Above image from Zanzinet Forum website. )

Zayunu

Within the last month or two, I've come across absolutely lovely sites that remind me of the reach (not to mention the diversity) of the nouveau Afro aesthetic. Just today, for instance, I came across Zayunu by Design, makers of ethnically elegant adornment.

One Thing Leading to Another

"She gathered All before her/And She made for Them a sign to see..."

Photographer: Margaret Courtney Clarke

Recently, rather than do my class prep work at my job, I decided to do it at the library close to my son's babysitter's house as a change of scene. Given as I am to diversions and daydreaming, I cruised through the periodicals section to see if this particular Dekalb county library subscribed to any cool specialty publications, especially since many of their patrons are East African, Eastern European and South Asian refugees in addition to there being large Caribbean and black southern communities. Even if I didn't happen upon any such literary delicacies, perhaps some of the garden variety American glamor or lifestyle magazines had features worth sampling. (As you've surely figured out by now, I had basically decided to treat myself to a little goof-off time.)

Once I finished scouring the shelves, I settled into an armchair next to a sunny bay window opposite an Ethiopian school boy engrossed in a book on Mars. I had, I'd say, half a dozen pop and ethnic magazines stacked at my feet having pretty much given up any pretense of preparing for class. With the help of my school book French, I haltingly made way through a francophone African magazine to find, not surprisingly, that there's international fascination with Obama. I also learned of the dismissal of Manuela Ramin Osmundsen, Norway's first black cabinet member; found out about a few new musicians and got the scoop on old vets like Youssou N'Dour and Manu Dibango.

After this I switched gears to African American mags, reading up New York's new governor, David Alexander Patterson; Nicole Mitchell's Xenogenesis Suite, the flutist's tribute to Octavia Butler; and Vanessa Williams-- someone whose resilience I've long admired-- being really frank about divorce, family, career, health, aging. For the latter, her weapons were a touch of botox blended with yoga. Though I found it funny, I ain't gonna begrudge the sister for being honest with her stuff. (Kudos to Melanie Johnson Rice; she's doing a wonderful job of of upholding the legacy entrusted to her by her father, both appealing to its traditional audience and broadening its scope by including points of international interest.)

Of biggest interest was one of the cultural magazines which featured an extensive listing of exhibits around the world. A few that caught my eye were Inscribing Meaning: Writing + Graphic Systems in African Art, Art of Being Tuareg: Sahara Nomads in a Modern World, and Pharaohs, Queens and Goddesses . Going on a virtual tour of these exhibits led me to the Jewish feminist Judy Chicago's majestic installation The Dinner Party and this passage:

And She gathered All before Her
And She made for Them a sign to see
And lo They saw a vision
From this day forth
Like to like in All things
And then all that divided Them merged
And then Everywhere was Eden once again

I love that these powerful words tell of how those who submit to inner vision--healers/artists of various stripes-- are in prime position to be harbingers of a better day.

Not only does it turn out that the Dinner Party could add a lovely dimension to a project that I'm working on, but I found the above incantation to be an ensouling baptism (Ensouling! What a word. Kind of like inspiring. "Only soooo much better than that!" To borrow a soundbite from Reese Witherspoon and Legally Blonde ;D )

Chicago's words strike the same chords as does the rememberance of Isis' mythical journey to gather the scattered pieces of her Beloved to make him whole again. The women Alice Walker writes about in The Temple of My Familiar and Possessing the Secret of Joy. Ntozake Shange's reminder in Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo that "Creation is everything you do. Make something!" The healing and circle of sisters (Yam, Corn, Rice and Plantain sisters sending telepathic calls to one another, party line style) that Toni Cade Bambara writes of in The Salteaters. And finally, Julia Cameron urging in the Artist's Way to bear in mind that it's not up to the maker of the work to stand in judgement of said work. The maker's job is simply to be sincere, devoted and diligent in what (s)he does and once the job is done, share the harvest.

Crescent City Makeover

Reach Out, a group of young people engaged in service learning at Chicago's Columbia College, has for three years spent their Spring Break in NOLA lending energy to help revive the wounded spirit of that city made of magic. One young man involved made a timely comment about the way that all must recognize that progressive civic action goes far beyond which political candidate one chooses to endorse. "Democracy isn't only about voting," he astutely recognizes. "Voting provides an extremely minute effect. Real change happens in devotion of your time and a change of your lifestyle." I couldn't agree more.

When New Orleans makes herself over she may not look the way we expect her to. (Who can say how she will mask when she studies what’s hanging in her armoire and selects robes to fit the occasion of her revival?) It's also possible that she may not be sighted at the fêtes to which she's been invited. And while it makes me sad to see the very real psychological and economic toll that Katrina and its aftermath has taken, I know that the secret of NOLA's allure is carried more in the living culture of her children than in the inanimate structures left crumbling behind. The real spark is kindled within the people, so no amount of neglect can inhibit its repair from fragility to strength. Einstein knew of this law of regeneration. And Zora Neale Hurston gave poetic testament to the same when she said: “Nothing is destructible; things merely change forms…Why fear? The stuff of my being is matter, ever changing, ever moving, but never lost.”

Lagniappe (A little something extra)

VMXperience New Orleans
A unique experience that gives a virtual tour of some of New Orleans meaningful cultural attractions

Making Groceries in New Orleans
Anyone jonesin' for a real taste of the city might want to take a look at what's in this pantry

New Orleans Priced Out of the Parade
An article written by a native New Orleanean taking a brief look at the past and present of the social aid and pleasure clubs

Coffee and Pie French Quarter Photos

Christopher Porche West Photography

Dark Madonna on the Big Screen

"Our age has a violent face; we feel the need of somebody like [Precious] Ramotswe who offers forgiveness rather than confrontation and recrimination. Such people are there; we need only give them the space to breathe, the chance to talk to us."

It was refreshing to read the Scottish author, Alexander McCall Smith's intention in creating the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series (see BBC's "A Few Words from Alexander McCall Smith"). Smith's story is about a woman from Botswana who loves her self, her life, her people. She is full figured, smart, industrious and incidentally, her name is Precious. She could be the African sister-cousin to mystery writer/community activist Barbara Neely's character Blanche White.

But getting back to AMS, I think that Jung's archetypal Dark Madonna has been talking to the chap and that he's symbolically amplifying her whispered voice for others to hear and be comforted by. How good it is when artists use their super-powers (smile) to awaken hope, possibility and laughter.

And of course, I can't wait to see Jill Scott, Idris Elba, Anika Noni Rose and the colors of the Continent come alive in the recently-made film!

Son Rico

God knows that a sister like me is starved for good, new music with substance. If you feel the same, check out this guy Alex Cuba whom EbonyJet.com just did a feature on.

Honorific

There needs to be some honorific that we give to keepers of our culture -- be they family members, friends or public figures-- who stay the course and who are unwavering in their commitment to serve and to teach.

This name should carry with it as much honor as does Sir when a man has done deeds worthy of knighthood or coronation. Or how in the Southern U.S., Africa and elsewhere folk put Mama or Sister in front of a name. (The thing about these last example is that they have been severed from their root and thus cut off from some of their vital energy, I think.)

This honorifitc should be one that's not pretentious. It must be heavy with honor yet light as a garland on the head or a lei around the neck.

What should this name be? Who would you select for the honor and why?

Historical Irony

I love these pictures of my grandfather's life as a church leader. They mark his journey from "The Door to the Pulpit" (the name of the memoir that he long ago told me he fancied writing about his progression from usher to deacon to pastor), one of the most important rites of passage of his life. Since my mother shared copies with me, I've been struck by their intimate yet journalistic quality. I used to wonder who took them. Not long ago, I got my answer.

The irony that lies beneath these images is just as fascinating as the moments they preserve: Grandpa told me that he and the photographer both worked at the Galveston Wharf Company. Grandpa first worked with the Wharves as a janitor and through the Civil Rights years was gradually promoted until he had a "respectable" desk job.

In any case, in addition to the photographer's job at the Wharf Company he had ties to the local paper and, rumor had it, to the local branch of the Klan. Grandpa shared this in a very matter-of-fact way, with nary a note of anger. Almost like he was recalling the score from a sports match.

Was grandpa extending collective forgiveness toward the photographer and all that he represented by not only inviting him to our family's place of worship, but also granting access to such a private and sacred moment in his life? Or was it simply fear and submission?

A finished photograph tells as much about what a photographer sees with his heart as what he sees with his eyes. Say what you like, but to me these images say that in some small corner of himself, the photographer was testifying to the beauty and tradition of this ceremony. Else how would he have known that the congregation of elders crowning grandpa's head with their arms extended like beams radiating from the sun was worthy of preserving? Why was the photographer interested in attending in the first place?

Such is the irony of relationships in the South.

What a Bad Card

From time to time, I tune in to the televised theatre, that is to say the news carnival that alternately seems to applaud and want to obliterate the mere hope for change that the Obama campaign speaks of. It's funny how they're grabbing for anyone within reach-- Obama's minister, his dog, his third grade substitute teacher-- with the idea that this will pull down the senator and slow his advance.

And it very well could. Who knows.

What I can say is that even if Obama goes no farther than he has gotten at this writing he has traveled so much further than any of us could have imagined. And though his voice contained some tentative and uncertain notes in the beginning, it has grown stronger as the race has gone on. He has acted with intelligence and integrity when his hand was forced, and in that old tradition of "speaking truth to power" has been courageous enough to give voice to things that some would imagine are better left unsaid. For this he gets much respect.

I recently heard some politician say, half-jokingly, that a presidiential race is as much about music as it is about platforms. (Funny that only when tied to politics, and of course profit, is Art deemed to have any worth, that some folk come to recognize it's power and usefulness...but that's kind of beside the point). Obama's folks have made good musical choices that make you want to snap your fingers and wiggle your backside, because you remember. McFadden & Whitehead's "Ain't No Stopping Us Now." Stevie's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." Songs with meaning. And yeah, Soul doggonit.

Wouldn't it be something, though, if their selector were to spin that old Impressions song "We're a Winner" or that one little piece-a tune called "Bad Card" by our brother Bob (big grin + wink an' chuckle):

You a-go tired fe see me face/Can't get me out of the race/Oh, man, you said I'm in your place.../Propaganda spreading over my name;Say you wanna bring another life to shame/Oh, man, you just a-playing a game...

Sunday at the Met

Check out this link to part of the Metropolitan Museum's transcribed lecture series; this one takes a look at Christianity's First Centuries in Africa and features work from one of my favorite photographers, Chester Higgins.







Ethiopian child with Meskel Flowers from
http://www.globalgang.org.uk/images/resized_image_tcm7-26114.jpg

My Soul Says Yes (to the MFA)

I've been thinking about whether or not it is wise to take on the responsibility of the MFA program that I applied to. Getting cold feet I guess, especially considering the cost. One big question that my mind has been asking though is can I afford not to atleast try.

The answer came when I got Round One of my nightly sleep (when I lie down with Jared at his bedtime, I end up drifting off and then wake up between midnight and two a.m., stay up for an hour or so reading, tidying, blogging, e-mail checking, self-tending or otherwise piddlin'...)

Anyhow, questions about security versus pursuing dreams are currently at the front of the line in my mind. Like a telegram response, one of my dreams delivered this: I was in a library researching Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson. I was so absorbed in the research that I went one level beyond my dream and stepped into the past. Kind of like a trip to Colonial Williamsburg, my research was my time shuttle. When I found myself back in the modern era I was back at the library and had collected a bunch of thin strips of paper (research fragments) that I had stacked and was making neat and organized.

For some reason, in order to go any further with my work and return to the library, I had to get permission from one of the staff members. This made me indignant, but I did as required and continued working (and being delighted by the process) and waiting. Waiting for the yes or no answer.

Yes! Remember that down-at-the-creek scene in the movie version of the Color Purple where a choir and the voice of Tata Vega as Shug Avery sing the prelude "Maybe God is Trying to Tell You Something"? Yes. That's what my mind is repeating now. "Trust yourself and know that it's okay to move forward with your dream/plan/ambition. You have what you need to put the tool to use once it is placed in your hands." This is the answer that came. Now I'm feeling a little like Moses and Jonah: do I really have the courage to listen and act?

Labyrinth (Haiku)

Image from www.innerlightministries.com

Walking the labyrinth

Searching for blessed center

To kneel at the throne

My Little River Jared

For lots of people in lots of places, giving a baby a good name is as essential as getting good prenatal care. And so, my "bone memory" told me that I had to pick a powerful name for my son.

I selected his middle name first, and there's no mystery about what it means. "I am with you." With all the challenges necessary to face down, I-- no-- we all needed constant reminders of the promise that the Divine has whispered from the dawn of time to now. "I am with you."

Eventually, the name Jared came to me. I kept it close to the vest, not entirely certain that it would make the final cut. I checked, double-checked and cross checked it in all of the baby name books which repeatedly told that in Hebrew it means "to descend" and "king." I took that "descend" part to mean "to be born of," period. The books were leaving me hanging and what they offered seemed to have implied ellipses trailing behind. To descend...To descend from what? Or who? A little more back story, please, folks!

At one point, I came across a very informative book that added a layer telling that in Greek Jared/Yared means "rose." It brought to mind that Rumi poem that says something like "that which God said to the rose he said to my heart." Not too many boys wanna know that their mamas named them after flowers, but I reasoned that Jared would be my rugged rose. Mighty like a Rose, that old plantation lullaby-- 'cept with an Oscar Brown, Jr./Nina Simone "Brown Baby" kind of feeling. I rolled with it.

Near the time of baby's due date, his daddy's daddy-- a Christian evangelical pastor with Asante roots-- wanted to know my reasons for selecting Jared as the first name (actually, a lot of people wanted to know exactly why.) Grandpa Kwabena then set about combing the Old Testament looking for passages that told a little bit more about the mysterious original bearer of this name. What's this Jared's claim to fame? Was he wise like Solomon? A worker of wonders like Moses? What he found was one simple line mentioning Jared: he was the father of Enoch and Methuselah. That was about that.

We live in Atlanta. Now, anybody who lives here or somewhere like D.C., New York or Philly knows well the Five Percent types who take pride in peering into the deeper, obscure meaning of things. (Not saying this to 'dis, or in a disparaging way. Okay, I am poking a teeny bit of fun. But mostly wanting simply to draw a clear picture for those who know.) So there was this one Five Percent, break-it-down-to-its-very-last-compound kind of brother originally from New York and who works at one of the health food stores near our house. When Jared was about year old, the brother shared that my baby's name meant "The Last." Now, when Brother Man said this, the look on his face and the kind of hesitant way in which he offered his reading sounded a tad ominous. (If it was an old-time soap opera or bad movie we would have heard the grinding of a dramatic organ in the back-- da, da, DAAAAAHH) Who's to say that Jared is going to be my "wash belly? So, I shrugged the comment off and kept a-stepping, knowing that I'd cloaked my child with a talawah name.

Now, here I am-- not quite two years after selecting the name Jared. Being the forever-curious mama that I am I just happened to poke around a little and find confirmation of what Spirit whispered to me early on. Do allow me to share:

Jared in Hebrew is Yarod. Yarod relates to the Hebrew verb "Yarden," which does indeed mean "to descend" as all the baby books noted. However, this descend doesn't simply mean to be born from. In the much more poetic sense of the word, it means "to flow." To flow like a river, as in "Roll, Jordan, Roll." Like blessings or a cup running over.

Yar-Dan is the name of the Jordan River in Hebrew. Also, Yardenit means a baptismal place. Yar-Dan. Yardan. Yarden. Jordan. Think of the expression, "Where there is water there is life." A river being a place of cleansing, renewal and a source of nourishment. Rivers are also avenues of transport with important civilizations having flourished along river banks. And, incidentally, in Arabic the name Yardan also means "king."

Am I sounding a bit Five Percent? It's all good, because now this story is full. And as Bob says, it satisfies my soul.

Book Note: I'm Every Woman

One of the many books currently competing for space amidst the papers, baby toys and whatnot beside my bed is I'm Every Woman: Remixed Stories of Marriage, Motherhood and Work by Lonnae O'Neal Parker.

The title sounds scholarly-- and at present my mind is generally saying pass on anything promising charts, tables and figures-- but I pulled it from the campus stacks anyway. It found its way into my bag mainly because I heard Chaka Khan's loud, familiar, beautiful voice pulling me to see what was inside.

Happily, it is full of first-person recollections fattened with some interviews and historical tidbits. Mostly it reads like a combo of journal entries turned editorial. I'm enjoying it pretty well and find that the author and I have a similar way of seeing and feeling. (Her commentary on hip-hop is very much on point, completely resonant. )


The book centers, for the most part, around what the Caribbean writer Merle Hodge once said in an interview: "They didn't ship all of us over here to keep house." Clarified, black women's balancing of home, family and work is made challenging by a unique set of realities (And--
ahem-- do excuse me, but the librarian in me can't resist giving a citation: "We Are All Activists: An Interview with Merle Hodge," Callaloo, Autumn 1989, p. 656)



With all that being true, and recognizing that this little fact of history has great bearing on the present time and that Home is amongst the most sacred of places, how do women of color set about achieving harmony in the places that matter-- in our hearts, heads and domestic spaces?

I appreciate the way that I'm Every Woman has strung together strands of personal history, humor, history and social commentary. It would be a good complement to books like bell hooks' Sisters of the Yam and the Double Stitch: Black Women Write about Mothers and Daughters anthology.

Mother Goddess Image above from http://www.astrologycom.com/mothersday.html

Honor and Respect to the Good Sister Maggie

As always, many thoughts and a number of significant happenings, yet I haven't posted a thing since the fall.

Most significant was the passing of my sharp dressing/gun totin'/straight-talking/"Cadillac-steerin' it"/fisherwoman and church musician grandmother, the Good Sister Maggie Lee Simpson.

It's an understatement to say that my grandma was (is) one of the people who has most profoundly inspired me. She was of those women who lived her life as she "damn well pleased." Grandma's spirit was the sort that Alice had in mind when she conceived Shug Avery and Sophia for the Color Purple. And I can envision my grandma composing, in the privacy of her own heart, her own version of the "Gospel According to Shug" as proclaimed in The Temple of My Familiar.

I'll be recalling grandma's life a little here and a little there as time permits, so please, stay tuned.