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.

That Old Black (Literary) Magic

During the Christmas that I was pregnant, my mother bought me the book African American Writers: Portraits and Visions by Lynda Koolish. Recently, while doing my ongoing research on Maud Cuney-Hare, I happened upon this recorded interview with Koolish.

Blues, Jazz and R&B: American Roots Music

Turkish instruments from the Yurdan Online Ethnic Music Store

Earlier this year on the Grammy Awards, as they honored various elders who have passed on. Ali Farka Toure and Ertegun were two.

Then, last night PBS broadcast documentary titled Atlantic Records: The House that Ahmet Built about the Turkish-American founder of one of the biggest record labels in United States history. The story was so interesting that I was up 'til 2 a.m. (okay...not just because of the film. I had to clean the kitchen afterward. I've gotta stop staying up so late. But that's beside the point.)

Learning about Ertegun's sacred drift of body and spirit along the path of music was fascinating. And the journey was guided by love, a love of roots blues and jazz. One must also pay attention to how the historical-political, artistic strands of his family history came together to in this man to form this vision and passion. He was no saint, and who can truly claim to be, but was definitely influenced by way of the mystic.

This statement of his talks about living a fiery life fueled by passion...

"I think it's better to burn out than to fade away... it's better to live out your days being very, very active - even if it destroys you - than to quietly... disappear.... At my age, why do you think I'm still here struggling with all the problems of this company- because I don't want to fade away."

Compare it to how such inner fire is connected to the idea of spiritual alchemy/transformation.

If you're interested in more, this article captures the gist of the film. (And be looking out for the quote where he ties together Ray Charles, Carl Jung and the unconsious. I think Ertegun felt this way about all honest contributions to Soul music.):

PBS American Masters: Ahmet Ertegun

Imago

Minnie Evans image http://www.folkstreams.net/film,71

An imago is a very deeply charged image. An image becomes an imago when it activates an archetypal energy field and thereby touches on not just this present occasion but activates our whole history as well. ~Curlee Raven Holton, artist & professor

Looking up the varying definitions of "imago," I found that most references relate the term to the development of insects or, on the opposite end, an idealized vision that one may hold of a parent. Beats me what common ground lies between these two, but whatever.

Many months back, I saw the Curlee Raven quote at an art exhibition that featured the work of a woman named Robin Holder. The idea had a pull that called me to jot it down, yet it took me until today-- as I went about arranging baby's toys and clothes and weeding through the tons of paper I tend to accumulate (usually always with the intention of sharing) to frame it with these gathered thoughts. I'm taking this moment while baby boy naps on the floor nearby to put it here, where it belongs, hoping that some of you friends will think to yourselves and talk to me and one another about the images that really mean something to you.

There are a number of visual artists that I feel are crafting important and beautiful work of the sort that Professor Raven speaks of. Sankofa kind of work that embodies clear knowledge of history and which also gleams with faith in and hope for the future. This kind of work is intimately connected the expanse of heaven and the deep recesses of earth by a starry bridge called dreams. Natural dreams that descend upon clean minds and open souls...

The best Haitian art has this kind of spirit. Renee Stout with her clever Madame Ching and Fatima Mayfield personas, too. Whitfield Lovell is also coming to mind, as are the departed John Biggers and Minnie Evans, Faith Ringgold and Bettye Saar. And then, I'm thinking of a recent issue of the International Review of African American Art; it featured the collection of Samella Lewis. Thumbing through those pages and being reminded of the aesthetics of some of the art from thirty, forty or more years ago...wow!

Surely there are many more that I could mention. But since Little Mr. Son-shine is taking his after-breakfast nap and I've yet to get showered and dressed for the day, I'd best get on and use my time wisely.

Catch you in another post.

Sacred Water

Image from Shinto and Jinja website

[One of pure-heart] will be like a tree planted by streams of water, Which yields its fruit in its season And its leaf does not wither; And in whatever he does, he prospers. ~Psalm 1:3


As the saying goes, "Where there is water, there is life. " Certainly, our physical life begins with us floating in the waters of the wombs of our mothers before our feet ever touch Earth's dry land. As I think about the struggle that we all must endure to remain in balance another proverb-- African in origin, I think-- comes to mind: "Where there is mud, there's water." I take this to mean that even in the messiest of situations there is the opportunity to grow. Before this can happen, though, we must point our divining rod into the direction of the Source. Set out on a sojourn to get to the hammam, or better yet, the Great Stream. The place where the soul thirsty for purification and rebirth can go to be cleansed. This is one of the reasons that the idea of river baptisms, especially ones of the old south, are beautiful to me. (It made me happy to learn that one of my relatives, Aunt Ora Lee, proudly recalled being baptised in the Guadalupe River near Victoria, Texas.)

In any case, listening to the radio yesterday, I heard a Jewish-Canadian neuroscientist and author named Esther Sternberg speaking about her book The Balance Within: The Science Connecting Health and Emotions. The main idea that she brought forward was that at some point there was a break between the once-unified domains of science and spirituality and that the people of today are slowly accepting that the split can (and must) be mended. Her outlook could not be compactly fit into the New Age category; instead her philosophy sounded as if it were inclined toward osteopathy.

Another of the profound, yet simple things she said was that in ancient times, healing temples or sanctuaries were usually built beside fresh water sources with sloping banks. The slope made it so that people who were too ill to immerse themselves could be eased in with the help of others. A beautiful vision. During her interview Dr. Sternberg spoke often of Asklepios, the Greek god of healing (known in Egypt as Imhotep, to whom temples were dedicated in Memphis, on the west bank of the Nile River.) During the writing of her book and the healing of her body from painful arthritis, Dr. Sternberg said that she visited Greece. One of the things she did while there was visit one of Asklepios' shrines.

She did not imply that the water in and of itself had any magical properties. Simply, the idea was that something unexplainable happened-- an awareness sparked or epiphany occurred. A Jungian kind of thing, I suppose. As a result, she was able to access a power that helped move her toward healing. (Another resonant point that she mentioned was that there is a center of the brain reserved for the meditative, read: hypnotic or trance, state. This made me think of Eknath Eswaran continually pointing out the importance of the personal mantra)

As I type, another image comes to mind is that of the master teacher Yeshua/Issa/Jesus taking a moment during his secret Passover feast to bathe the feet of his disciples. Most of the time we think of this gesture as being a lesson in selfless service, humility. Could He also have been saying, "There's more where this came from." In the same way that he was but a small sample (the Son) drawn from the vast Source (the great Mother-Father), the small bowl of water that He used to perform His act of outward purification was a sample of the guaranteed mind-body-spirit healing available to the disciples if they continued to walk along what Buddhists refer to as the Enlightened Path or The Way?

Green Collar Jobs

Yesterday while driving and running errands I was listening to News and Notes on one of the NPR stations and heard an interview with a man named Van Jones who works with the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights in Cali's Bay Area. His interview centered around a Green Collar Jobs bill that he and some others are working to push through Congress. If accepted, it will allot money to teach the poor/working class about environmentalism and train the people to work in the "green" jobs sector. He raised some really interesting points about the feasibility of the idea and the way that companies are choosing to send the majority of manual labor, blue collar jobs (once avenues that people of color took to escape poverty) to various overseas countries. Since green collar jobs are being phased out and there is such a push for all things "organic," "sustainable" and "eco-friendly"-- especially on the West Coast of the U.S. -- green jobs can occupy the place that blue collar jobs once did.

VJ also spoke about the ways that environmentalism has typically been the domain of the privileged and that they often have goals that seem abstract or remote to people who have concrete economic and health concerns related to the here and now (cuz it's all about the money, ain't a damn thing funny...). When environmentalism is "broken down," spoken about plainly (solar panels as a way to decrease grandma's electric bill, cleaning up the air so that little sis won't have to walk around with an inhaler in her pocket) it opens environmentalism up to a wider audience of people willing to work toward its ends.

Of course, I must say that this attempt to rally such interest is ironic being that most "people of color" are descended from ones for whom there was no name given to environmentalism; it was simply a way of life. Think of truck gardens from back in the day. Or Alice Walker's observations in In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens about rose bushes sprucing up the weathered rural shacks. Even recently it was common to pass by housing projects and be uplifted by the sight of the container garden of a ghetto grandmama (herself a vibrant trans-PLANT from some country locale). And Latinos are still, by and large, landscapers and gardeners and migrant workers. In my neighborhood, many Latino families keep beautiful home gardens. As a matter of fact, just before I gave birth last year, I begged/bought a few tall sunflower stalks (my Oxum side couldn't help herself) from a Mexican family whose yard was filled from one end to the other with them.

In any event, there are lots of little (actually major) sidebars and environmental justice corollaries to this Green Jobs bill, the most obvious and exciting being that such training would be a benefit to the overall health of the workers, their (our) families and communities. Rather than take any more detours allow me to direct you to this Green Options Interview .

(Housing project image at top from The Welcome Project website)

Afro-Latinos

The Miami Herald recently published a gorgeous multimedia project on blacks in Latin America.