(I wrote this piece over the summer, but think it's madd relevant during the cold winter months as well. Perhaps most especially during the holidays.)
The blazing yellow sun beat down on the curvy black road so fiercely that I wondered if I would witness a hardened street turn back to the same soft tar it had been when the sturdy brown men had laid it three years ago. I was in that fresh zone that accompanies participation in social movement for positive change; I was full in the throws of it this day a few weeks ago. My homegirl Keisha had called to say we were going to have one of our final building sessions to think through the logistics of this Children’s Social Forum that was to commence in three days, and to ask if we could meet up at my spot. Kate Shapiro and Karen Lopez – two young sisters whose veins pump organizing-type blood – were going to come over so we could talk about lesson plans, order last-minute supplies, and re-check our story telling/music creating/sign painting/capoeria playing schedule for the youth. Keisha, doing her usual million-and-one things at once, was out 20-W by Six Flags, and had decided to come over a bit early. I was running a bit late, because I had taken longer than I planned in the supermarket.
I knew I was trying to make this new dish Lewy had told me about with chicken and onions and tomatoes and garlic. I knew I wanted Italian seasoning in it, and I decided to go with boneless breast meat instead of drumsticks and thighs. The Tyson chicken had a “Manager’s Special” stamp on the price tag, so it was a little less expensive than usual. I thought for a moment about what it means for meat to be on sale. Is it bad? Going bad? Do they just have too much? The sell-by date was still two days away, and the isle was so air-conditioned that I figured the chicken – resting in an even cooler refrigerated shelf – was fine. I decided for sure that the chicken was just on sale because there was too damn much of it. It was stacked neatly from my knees to above my head. Chicken packages stretched several paces. Then the refrigerated meat section turned to turkey. Then to pork. Then to beef. Just beyond the meat section was the fish market. And just beyond that was the dairy…
I was surrounded by food. I regarded my grocery-shopping task as I often do: a necessary errand that was one of many items on my to-do list. I spent time in the produce section, and picked out what looked best. I decided on grapes (green and seedless), peaches (instead of nectarines) and salad-making veggies. I threw cheese in my basket. I figured beer would be nice. I wanted to put the chicken dish over some pasta. Fusilli or Rotini? Rigatoni or Spaghetti? I decided on Linguini, to be on the safe side (??), and realized that I forgot tomatoes. I zig-zagged back to produce hurridly, chose grape tomatoes over cherry or vine, and checked the time on my cell phone.
It’s crazy how we get trapped by goodies that are intended to make life easier.
I picked up the pace and tried to ward off that localized headache that I get sometimes when I am running late. In the line, I chose mint mojito gum, browsed through People and Us, and threw Essence on the belt. The seventy-eight dollars and seventy-eight cents caught my attention not because it seemed like too much money, but instead because it’s the year of my birth, twice. Seventy-eight seventy-eight. Not too much money for a 28-year-old graduate student to spend on some groceries.
Back home, I prepared some food while Keisha read in the living room. The temperature was nearly 100 degrees outside, but “my” air had “my” condo down to 72. I own 800 square feet of property. I am a successful American. I am a successful African American. I am a successful biracial American woman. I chose my identity. I create my subjectivity. I have a bachelors and a masters degree. I’m working on another one still. I say who I am and where I live and what clothes I wear and what kind of tomatoes to buy. I decide when to take out the trash from my little kitchen.
So I did this day, I took out the trash because I wanted my guests to be able to throw away with plenty of space. I jogged down to the dumpster. It was absolutely blazing hot outside.
This is where my memory turns into s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. There is a way that I have to swing my garbage a few times, to get up the momentum to get it in the dumpster out back. It’s the type of industrial-sized dumpster that has a rusty door that slides back to reveal a window opening, about chest high, through which to throw one’s trash. With heavy bags, it’s actually a bit tricky to get it in, but I have had much practice and have come to perfect the craft. “One… two” I said to myself as I swung the trash back and fourth. Just as I was about to swing on three, I looked at my target and saw a man stand up. Inside the dumpster.
I froze.
He put his hands up.
“Excuse me ma’am. I – I’m sorry ma’am.”
His hands were still up, in a freeze-stance I have seen when people deal with cops.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m just looking for some food to eat.”
I stayed frozen.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again softly.
I laid the heavy bag of garbage I was swinging on the side of the dumpster and I gently put up my hands to mirror his. “I’m sorry,” I repeated softly, and I turned on my heels and ran.
Irantothehouseandcollectedlotsoffood:cheese,grapes,crackers,andtomatoes. I hurriedly told Keisha what had happened and I darted back out the door to bring him what I had gathered. I was shaking and running and out of breath.
But when I reached the dumpster and peered in, he was gone.
I stood there, shocked and scared and embarrassed and devastated. Why had I not said anything? Why hadn’t I been faster? Why was he in there in the first place? Where had he gone?
Slowly, slowly, slowly, I headed back up to my air-conditioned space, to build with friends about social justice.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Light From God
Saturdays are fresh in my world. They always have been, and I try to keep them that way (incidentally, I love Sundays and Tuesdays too, for other reasons I may write about later). But Saturdays are extra cool these days, because I have an opportunity to build with a set of super dynamic young folks at the community center where I have volunteered for several years: Refugee Community Center.
I have come to expect madd interesting conversations, whether they unfold with students, other volunteers, or staff at the center. Such is the case, I think, when a small group of folks engage in innovative projects where all the participants are expected to shape it. What I don’t presume to expect is how the conversation will unfold, with whom, or about what. Yesterday was no different.
When I asked one of the students, Nurea, if she knew the meaning of her name, she smiled and told me “Ah yes, there is a story to that actually.” We sat down together, and she organized the papers in front of her, as though she was gathering her thoughts about where to begin. “I asked my father about this, some time ago. He told me my Grandmother had named me, and he told me that she told him that ‘Nur-’ the first part of my name means light in Arabic. The rest my Grandmother just added on… I guess she thought it was pretty or something,” she said and shyly looked down at her hands.
“It sure is,” I told her, and I wanted to clarify what I had heard her say the first part of her name means. “So, the first part of your name means ‘light’ as in…” I asked as I motioned up to the florescent classroom-style lights above.
At this, she laughed briefly and then seemed to check back with me to see if I had been serious. “Well, light, yes, but not this kind of light Ms. Jillian!” I raised my eyebrows as if to say, “Oh? Do explain.”
“No, not this kind of light. I’m talking about the light that shines from God. I mean, you know what I mean, right? The light from God, Ms. Jillian. We all have it.”
I have come to expect madd interesting conversations, whether they unfold with students, other volunteers, or staff at the center. Such is the case, I think, when a small group of folks engage in innovative projects where all the participants are expected to shape it. What I don’t presume to expect is how the conversation will unfold, with whom, or about what. Yesterday was no different.
When I asked one of the students, Nurea, if she knew the meaning of her name, she smiled and told me “Ah yes, there is a story to that actually.” We sat down together, and she organized the papers in front of her, as though she was gathering her thoughts about where to begin. “I asked my father about this, some time ago. He told me my Grandmother had named me, and he told me that she told him that ‘Nur-’ the first part of my name means light in Arabic. The rest my Grandmother just added on… I guess she thought it was pretty or something,” she said and shyly looked down at her hands.
“It sure is,” I told her, and I wanted to clarify what I had heard her say the first part of her name means. “So, the first part of your name means ‘light’ as in…” I asked as I motioned up to the florescent classroom-style lights above.
At this, she laughed briefly and then seemed to check back with me to see if I had been serious. “Well, light, yes, but not this kind of light Ms. Jillian!” I raised my eyebrows as if to say, “Oh? Do explain.”
“No, not this kind of light. I’m talking about the light that shines from God. I mean, you know what I mean, right? The light from God, Ms. Jillian. We all have it.”
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Difference Between Phoung and Phung
It is said that much is held in a name. Step into the Refugee Community Center, and you’ll be surrounded by folks whose names are frequently mispronounced or misspelled. To be sure, the names take on this hard-to-pronounce trait specifically because we are within these walls; within this city; within this context. Mambala and Zlata and Huy and Tuaka and Farishta and Florent are here. No matter that in Gambia and Bosnia and Vietnam and Nigeria and Iran and Sierra Leon their names may ring like John and Jenny and Bob and Bill and Becky and David. In this country, they signify “otherness.” To those with whom these children interact, this impression may carry a positive or negative charge. Neutrality does not emerge here, as they are undoubtedly always the “other.”
I sat with a young child yesterday, and today it seemed as though we had known each other forever. Third graders have a way doing that easily; no consideration of what has come before. It seems that if one is willing to help, one gains instant celebrity status among a classroom of elementary students. So as I entered today, she waved her arms with wild excitement from her seat “Oooo! Miss Jill! Can you help me with my homework?” Pleased that someone remembered me, I smiled and sat down next to Phoung. Or is it Phung.
She asked me quickly, in a high-pitched, third grade intonation, “do you remember my name?” I was pleased I had gone over the names in my head last night, and said (almost proudly), “yes, sweetheart. It’s Phoung.” She giggled and said, “No it’s not! It’s Phung!” Knowing that Vietnamese is a tonal language, but not ever really knowing what that meant, I could hear the slightest difference in the tone and sound of the two names. “O.K., Phung,” I started, “thank you for correcting –” “Noooooooo! It’s Phoung!” I stared at her, trying to discern whether she was teaching me about her culture or simply playing a trick on me. I was suddenly aware of my own brief otherness as I looked around the table and three other Vietnamese children started laughing and speaking to each other in Vietnamese. “Which name to you prefer?” I asked her. “Well, the thing is, Phoung is Vietnamese, Phung is Chinese.” My mind was now racing with Chinese occupation and Vietnam War information, as I tried to fit this conversation into a context that I understood. “You see,” she continued quickly, “ in Vietnamese it means far, far off place; in Chinese it means distant place.” Now it was my turn to giggle, as the stress in her explanation did not fall on “far, far off place” or “distant place” as it would have in this culture. Instead, she stressed the words “Vietnamese” and “Chinese” (which we would do also), but omitted the stress on the differentiating characteristics. So why did I think that Vietnamese was a tonal language and English is not? “Really,” I said, in genuine amazement. “Which do you prefer?” “Well,” she continued, “my real name Phoung, my nickname Phung. My parent call me Phung, my teacher call me Phoung. Around here, they call me Phung.” “O.K., hun. So Phung it is,” I declare, trying to do things as they do “around here.”
“No,” she said as she pulled out her worksheet. “Phoung is fine.”
I sat with a young child yesterday, and today it seemed as though we had known each other forever. Third graders have a way doing that easily; no consideration of what has come before. It seems that if one is willing to help, one gains instant celebrity status among a classroom of elementary students. So as I entered today, she waved her arms with wild excitement from her seat “Oooo! Miss Jill! Can you help me with my homework?” Pleased that someone remembered me, I smiled and sat down next to Phoung. Or is it Phung.
She asked me quickly, in a high-pitched, third grade intonation, “do you remember my name?” I was pleased I had gone over the names in my head last night, and said (almost proudly), “yes, sweetheart. It’s Phoung.” She giggled and said, “No it’s not! It’s Phung!” Knowing that Vietnamese is a tonal language, but not ever really knowing what that meant, I could hear the slightest difference in the tone and sound of the two names. “O.K., Phung,” I started, “thank you for correcting –” “Noooooooo! It’s Phoung!” I stared at her, trying to discern whether she was teaching me about her culture or simply playing a trick on me. I was suddenly aware of my own brief otherness as I looked around the table and three other Vietnamese children started laughing and speaking to each other in Vietnamese. “Which name to you prefer?” I asked her. “Well, the thing is, Phoung is Vietnamese, Phung is Chinese.” My mind was now racing with Chinese occupation and Vietnam War information, as I tried to fit this conversation into a context that I understood. “You see,” she continued quickly, “ in Vietnamese it means far, far off place; in Chinese it means distant place.” Now it was my turn to giggle, as the stress in her explanation did not fall on “far, far off place” or “distant place” as it would have in this culture. Instead, she stressed the words “Vietnamese” and “Chinese” (which we would do also), but omitted the stress on the differentiating characteristics. So why did I think that Vietnamese was a tonal language and English is not? “Really,” I said, in genuine amazement. “Which do you prefer?” “Well,” she continued, “my real name Phoung, my nickname Phung. My parent call me Phung, my teacher call me Phoung. Around here, they call me Phung.” “O.K., hun. So Phung it is,” I declare, trying to do things as they do “around here.”
“No,” she said as she pulled out her worksheet. “Phoung is fine.”
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Stonewall, Davis, & Lee: We are not daunted
Y’all remember the song Things that make you go hmmm? Many props due to C&C for that one. We incorporated it into regular conversation, and it became a common refrain (often said with raised eyebrows) when things just didn’t add up. Is a perfect sentiment to sum up the entity that is Stone Mountain, Georgia.
If you have not been there, imagine an enormous rounded granite stone on otherwise pretty flat terrain. They say it’s the largest mass of exposed granite in the world, but I sense there is some strange loophole-slash-caveat to that statistic. Perhaps I’m just reluctant to give it that recognition. Like many spaces in this region, Indigenous folks were the first to visit what would become Stone Mountain, several thousand years ago. They say that when the White settlers came with disease and destruction in the 18th century, that previously embattled Indigenous nations collected together to form a coalition. But by the early 19th century, with forced removal and genocide virtually complete, Stone Mountain had become a popular resort spot for White Atlantans. And in 1915, inspired by Griffith’s Birth of a Nation, the Ku Klux Klan was re-established at Stone Mountain. That was about the same time that the Stone Mountain Confederate Association funded the start of what would become the largest tribute to the Confederacy in the world. The place has a troubled past, to say the least.
Last week, we brought the Saturday school students from Refugee Community Center (RCC) to Stone Mountain. The irony was deafening, as we gathered in the parking lot at the foot of the mountain. We were Black Americans, White Americans, Sudanese, Russian, Liberian, Afghani, Rwandan, and Iraqi refugees, Latino and Western European immigrants, and mixtures of all of the above. There we stood, about 25 deep, in a super-multicultural clump on the most uniquely “United Statesian” holiday weekend we have. To be sure, we were thankful to be there and to be together. But the majority of folks in our group hadn’t celebrated Thanksgiving earlier that week.
We huddled together to ward of the chilling wind, and we hustled into the Main building to watch the Stone Mountain Movie. Though I have visited the place before, I must have missed the movie, so I was very interested to see how the story of Stone Mountain would be told. To my surprise, the film said very little about the Confederate “heroes” to whom the Mountain is dedicated. Stonewall Jackson, Jefferson Davis, and Robert E. Lee received about as much air time as it takes to say their name on the video. Nor did the film talk about the Indigenous genocide, the founding of the KKK, or the century-long intentional symbolism of the White South. Instead, the film focused on the feat of creating the monument; indeed it really was quite a feat.
Talking with a few of the students after the film, we agreed that our presence was testament to how things have changed. We laughed at the thought of White supremacists seeing our group; we found strength in confronting the hate of the not-so-distant past.
Such is paradox of Stone Mountain and like places in this country and in our world. The sordid past of such places understandably repels some from visiting them at all. But others gain strength from journeying directly to the jaws of the enemy. From celebrating in spite of – perhaps because of – that same history.
To tell you the truth, it fascinates me. The multiple layers of natural and human history make our every step matter in ways that we may or may not know.
Matter of fact, if anyone wants to head out there with me next Fourth of July, I’m down to roll.
If you have not been there, imagine an enormous rounded granite stone on otherwise pretty flat terrain. They say it’s the largest mass of exposed granite in the world, but I sense there is some strange loophole-slash-caveat to that statistic. Perhaps I’m just reluctant to give it that recognition. Like many spaces in this region, Indigenous folks were the first to visit what would become Stone Mountain, several thousand years ago. They say that when the White settlers came with disease and destruction in the 18th century, that previously embattled Indigenous nations collected together to form a coalition. But by the early 19th century, with forced removal and genocide virtually complete, Stone Mountain had become a popular resort spot for White Atlantans. And in 1915, inspired by Griffith’s Birth of a Nation, the Ku Klux Klan was re-established at Stone Mountain. That was about the same time that the Stone Mountain Confederate Association funded the start of what would become the largest tribute to the Confederacy in the world. The place has a troubled past, to say the least.
Last week, we brought the Saturday school students from Refugee Community Center (RCC) to Stone Mountain. The irony was deafening, as we gathered in the parking lot at the foot of the mountain. We were Black Americans, White Americans, Sudanese, Russian, Liberian, Afghani, Rwandan, and Iraqi refugees, Latino and Western European immigrants, and mixtures of all of the above. There we stood, about 25 deep, in a super-multicultural clump on the most uniquely “United Statesian” holiday weekend we have. To be sure, we were thankful to be there and to be together. But the majority of folks in our group hadn’t celebrated Thanksgiving earlier that week.
We huddled together to ward of the chilling wind, and we hustled into the Main building to watch the Stone Mountain Movie. Though I have visited the place before, I must have missed the movie, so I was very interested to see how the story of Stone Mountain would be told. To my surprise, the film said very little about the Confederate “heroes” to whom the Mountain is dedicated. Stonewall Jackson, Jefferson Davis, and Robert E. Lee received about as much air time as it takes to say their name on the video. Nor did the film talk about the Indigenous genocide, the founding of the KKK, or the century-long intentional symbolism of the White South. Instead, the film focused on the feat of creating the monument; indeed it really was quite a feat.
Talking with a few of the students after the film, we agreed that our presence was testament to how things have changed. We laughed at the thought of White supremacists seeing our group; we found strength in confronting the hate of the not-so-distant past.
Such is paradox of Stone Mountain and like places in this country and in our world. The sordid past of such places understandably repels some from visiting them at all. But others gain strength from journeying directly to the jaws of the enemy. From celebrating in spite of – perhaps because of – that same history.
To tell you the truth, it fascinates me. The multiple layers of natural and human history make our every step matter in ways that we may or may not know.
Matter of fact, if anyone wants to head out there with me next Fourth of July, I’m down to roll.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Finding Nana
The Georgia Aquarium is ginormous beyond belief. It is literally the world’s largest aquarium and boasts eight million gallons of marine and fresh water. Eight. Million. They have it set up so that you can explore the Georgia’s water life, tropical coral reefs, river wildlife, and cold water dwellers. There is a space where visitors can sit in front of the second largest viewing window in the world. It’s lots of feet high and madd feet wide. Holding back millions of gallons of water, I was pleased to hear it’s two feet thick as well. Construction was completed in 2005, and there was controversy about it all the way through. Grassroots organizers protested the aquarium’s construction, pointing to the hypocrisy of misguided spending: how would a city support a multi-billion dollar endeavor to house fish, when there are plenty folks without homes themselves? How is it fair to charge $30.00 for a ticket (and $22.00 for kids!), and for whom was this establishment created? I only heard about the activism peripherally, and what I heard sounded real and valid to me. I also know though, that I have had some wonderful times at the Georgia Aquarium.
Notwithstanding the controversy, the aquarium is one of my favorite places to bring my little niece and nephew when they visit Atlanta. They are always mesmerized by the Beluga whales, excited by the petting pond (who knew sting rays were so slippery and star fish so bumpy?), and dazzled by sea otters. My four year old nephew also knows an incredible amount about names of fish and life under the sea. A few visits back, I pointed to a weird but intriguing thing and beckoned my nephew to look at the “funky-looking sea flower.” He looked up at me, confused and with a hint of impatience and said, “Aunt Jiiiiill, that’s not a funky-looking sea flower, that’s a sea anemone!” Wow.
My sister told me he knows that he has so much marine knowledge from watching what no doubt has become this generation’s version of The Little Mermaid: Disney’s Finding Nemo. My nephew, who does not watch movies a lot, loves Finding Nemo with an intense passion. He knows all the characters and the story line, and never seems to tire of it at all.
Appropriately, then, he and his baby sister are always thrilled when they see Nemo really swimming at the Georgia Aquarium, in a small tank with a clown fish sign above it. The window is always crowded with dozens of little kids, waving hi to Nemo and vying for his attention. Incidentally, the aquarium has incorporated the Nemo craze by establishing him as their mascot – except instead of Nemo, they call him Deepo (no doubt a way around Disney lawsuits and a nod towards the Home Depot’s corporate sponsorship).
My niece and nephew adore our mother, whom they call Nana. With her, they do art projects, go on walks, and read read read. My niece leaves frequent messages on Nana and Poppy’s voicemail, just to say “hi,” “bye,” or count to eleven (she always skips five, but never stops at ten). Accordingly, my nephew got very concerned when he looked around at the Aquarium and did not see his Nana. “Where is she? I need to show her this sea turtle. I neeeeeed to find her!” We looked a little bit before I convinced him to come with me to the Ocean Voyager section, and that we might just see her in there.
As my nephew and I entered into the darkness of that section, we were both engrossed in the fish, and I could tell that he has momentarily laid down his worry about Nana separation. We were headed toward what I think is the freshest part of the aquarium: a long acrylic tunnel that has water on all sides. Here, one really feels like one is in the ocean. Off in the distance, I saw a diver coming down, which is something I knew my nephew would enjoy. Before I could draw his attention to it, though, he saw the diver as well. “Aunt Jill!” he screamed excitedly, “Aunt Jill, there she is!” Looking up at the diver, and back at my nephew, I asked him who he saw. With a similar look to that which he gave me when I audaciously called a sea anemone a “funky-looking sea flower,” he said “Nana. There’s Nana, Aunt Jill.”
I picked him up and squeezed him tight. “Yes, sweetie. You’re right. There’s Nana,” I agreed, remembering a time when grandparents were bigger-than-life. As if he could hear our conversation, the diver looked down at my vigorously waving nephew, and gave a thumbs-up.
At last, we had found Nana.
Notwithstanding the controversy, the aquarium is one of my favorite places to bring my little niece and nephew when they visit Atlanta. They are always mesmerized by the Beluga whales, excited by the petting pond (who knew sting rays were so slippery and star fish so bumpy?), and dazzled by sea otters. My four year old nephew also knows an incredible amount about names of fish and life under the sea. A few visits back, I pointed to a weird but intriguing thing and beckoned my nephew to look at the “funky-looking sea flower.” He looked up at me, confused and with a hint of impatience and said, “Aunt Jiiiiill, that’s not a funky-looking sea flower, that’s a sea anemone!” Wow.
My sister told me he knows that he has so much marine knowledge from watching what no doubt has become this generation’s version of The Little Mermaid: Disney’s Finding Nemo. My nephew, who does not watch movies a lot, loves Finding Nemo with an intense passion. He knows all the characters and the story line, and never seems to tire of it at all.
Appropriately, then, he and his baby sister are always thrilled when they see Nemo really swimming at the Georgia Aquarium, in a small tank with a clown fish sign above it. The window is always crowded with dozens of little kids, waving hi to Nemo and vying for his attention. Incidentally, the aquarium has incorporated the Nemo craze by establishing him as their mascot – except instead of Nemo, they call him Deepo (no doubt a way around Disney lawsuits and a nod towards the Home Depot’s corporate sponsorship).
My niece and nephew adore our mother, whom they call Nana. With her, they do art projects, go on walks, and read read read. My niece leaves frequent messages on Nana and Poppy’s voicemail, just to say “hi,” “bye,” or count to eleven (she always skips five, but never stops at ten). Accordingly, my nephew got very concerned when he looked around at the Aquarium and did not see his Nana. “Where is she? I need to show her this sea turtle. I neeeeeed to find her!” We looked a little bit before I convinced him to come with me to the Ocean Voyager section, and that we might just see her in there.
As my nephew and I entered into the darkness of that section, we were both engrossed in the fish, and I could tell that he has momentarily laid down his worry about Nana separation. We were headed toward what I think is the freshest part of the aquarium: a long acrylic tunnel that has water on all sides. Here, one really feels like one is in the ocean. Off in the distance, I saw a diver coming down, which is something I knew my nephew would enjoy. Before I could draw his attention to it, though, he saw the diver as well. “Aunt Jill!” he screamed excitedly, “Aunt Jill, there she is!” Looking up at the diver, and back at my nephew, I asked him who he saw. With a similar look to that which he gave me when I audaciously called a sea anemone a “funky-looking sea flower,” he said “Nana. There’s Nana, Aunt Jill.”
I picked him up and squeezed him tight. “Yes, sweetie. You’re right. There’s Nana,” I agreed, remembering a time when grandparents were bigger-than-life. As if he could hear our conversation, the diver looked down at my vigorously waving nephew, and gave a thumbs-up.
At last, we had found Nana.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Let's Take a Walk... Outside and Together
A couple months ago, I was riding in the car with a young woman I have known for years. She was a 10th grade student in the first period on my first day of my first year of teaching. She is now a senior in college, and doing big things. As cliché as it sounds, I have no doubt learned more from my former student than I have taught her.
This particular day, she was telling me about her new boyfriend, and how other girls were trying to flirt with him. Though clearly not a 21st century issue, she spoke about it in unmistakably 21st century ways.
“I’m saying though. First, she had friend-ed him on MySpace two weeks ago. Then she be leavin comments on his page about three, four times a day. Last week, she Facebook-ed him and then she had the nerve to tag him in some of her photos. All I’m saying is that she better back up, because I will go in his account and block her. And I don’t know why he don’t set his account to private, anyway. He just let anyone friend him, then don’t even require approval on folks’ comments. This is crazy.”
Wow. I tried to be in the conversation, I really did. I followed up with, “Word? What’d she say in the comments? Where were they in the photo? How is ol’ boy handling the situation?” But in my mind, I was thinking, “So ‘friend’ and ‘facebook’ are now verbs, and ‘tagging’ someone in a photo on your page might mean sending a ripple of reactions when that same photo shows up on their page.” I was fascinated by her computer-assisted social network fluency, and was stuck on the technical pieces of how all of this was unfolding for my former student, her boyfriend, and the young ladies tryin to get at him.
It’s phat, no doubt. I chat with my cousins in England regularly, and I found a friend on MySpace that I hadn’t talked with since the sixth grade. I check out several of my folks’ new singles on their MySpace Music pages, and I even set up a Catbook application for Ci-Ci on Facebook. Last week, Ci-Ci was Facebook-ed by Lola, one of my friend’s cats. Ummm, no comment please. I recognize I might be in too deep.
But for real though. What are we really into? In South Korea, they started a boot camp to cure “web obsession.” This is a country that boasts that 90% of homes are wired, and the “PC Bang” Internet cafés are the hub of social life for young folks. They are now taking the lead on addressing what is increasingly emerging as a serious problem (in Korea and the United States): Internet addiction. They set up this boot camp with typical military-style reform flair, where a large set of Korean teenage boys go to get “cured.”
Korean Boot Camp Aims to Cure Web Addiction (from NYT, Sunday, November 18th, 2007)
During their time at the boot camp, the boys are denied Internet access, and (re)introduced to outdoor activities, that involve human interaction and teamwork. Sounds nice, right?
Many of us in our late twenties just missed the friendster-myspace-facebook craze during our school years, which seemed to have resulted in some initial mistrust of the setup. And for myself and many of my friends, we resisted for a while, but curiosity caved in and we too set up pages on all the different networks. It turns out it’s madd fun, actually. There are things that we learn about one another that somehow we didn’t know before; there are styles, comments, and songs we use to design our sites that let others know a bit more about ourselves too.
Like most everything, I suppose the key to sanity is finding a balance. So we can do our shopping and bill paying and newspaper reading and chatting and dating and movie watching and music listening and card playing and museum touring and class taking on-line. But in so doing, we miss out on the beautiful encounters that we have from being out in the world.
And I have a few more points I want to make, but instead I’m gonna head outside. I think I’ll walk up the street, through the community center, and to the library. Inside, I’ll check out a real book (that I can hold) from a live person (with whom I will talk). I'll stop by my neighbor's house and ask if he wants to grab a slice of pizza with me around the corner. If he's not on the computer perhaps he'll come...
Incidentally, when I mentioned my amazement/concern/excitement with my former student during the conversation about her new boyfriend a couple months back, she answered with the clear truth “OMG, Ms. Ford… UR SO OLD-SKOOL!”
This particular day, she was telling me about her new boyfriend, and how other girls were trying to flirt with him. Though clearly not a 21st century issue, she spoke about it in unmistakably 21st century ways.
“I’m saying though. First, she had friend-ed him on MySpace two weeks ago. Then she be leavin comments on his page about three, four times a day. Last week, she Facebook-ed him and then she had the nerve to tag him in some of her photos. All I’m saying is that she better back up, because I will go in his account and block her. And I don’t know why he don’t set his account to private, anyway. He just let anyone friend him, then don’t even require approval on folks’ comments. This is crazy.”
Wow. I tried to be in the conversation, I really did. I followed up with, “Word? What’d she say in the comments? Where were they in the photo? How is ol’ boy handling the situation?” But in my mind, I was thinking, “So ‘friend’ and ‘facebook’ are now verbs, and ‘tagging’ someone in a photo on your page might mean sending a ripple of reactions when that same photo shows up on their page.” I was fascinated by her computer-assisted social network fluency, and was stuck on the technical pieces of how all of this was unfolding for my former student, her boyfriend, and the young ladies tryin to get at him.
It’s phat, no doubt. I chat with my cousins in England regularly, and I found a friend on MySpace that I hadn’t talked with since the sixth grade. I check out several of my folks’ new singles on their MySpace Music pages, and I even set up a Catbook application for Ci-Ci on Facebook. Last week, Ci-Ci was Facebook-ed by Lola, one of my friend’s cats. Ummm, no comment please. I recognize I might be in too deep.
But for real though. What are we really into? In South Korea, they started a boot camp to cure “web obsession.” This is a country that boasts that 90% of homes are wired, and the “PC Bang” Internet cafés are the hub of social life for young folks. They are now taking the lead on addressing what is increasingly emerging as a serious problem (in Korea and the United States): Internet addiction. They set up this boot camp with typical military-style reform flair, where a large set of Korean teenage boys go to get “cured.”
Korean Boot Camp Aims to Cure Web Addiction (from NYT, Sunday, November 18th, 2007)
During their time at the boot camp, the boys are denied Internet access, and (re)introduced to outdoor activities, that involve human interaction and teamwork. Sounds nice, right?
Many of us in our late twenties just missed the friendster-myspace-facebook craze during our school years, which seemed to have resulted in some initial mistrust of the setup. And for myself and many of my friends, we resisted for a while, but curiosity caved in and we too set up pages on all the different networks. It turns out it’s madd fun, actually. There are things that we learn about one another that somehow we didn’t know before; there are styles, comments, and songs we use to design our sites that let others know a bit more about ourselves too.
Like most everything, I suppose the key to sanity is finding a balance. So we can do our shopping and bill paying and newspaper reading and chatting and dating and movie watching and music listening and card playing and museum touring and class taking on-line. But in so doing, we miss out on the beautiful encounters that we have from being out in the world.
And I have a few more points I want to make, but instead I’m gonna head outside. I think I’ll walk up the street, through the community center, and to the library. Inside, I’ll check out a real book (that I can hold) from a live person (with whom I will talk). I'll stop by my neighbor's house and ask if he wants to grab a slice of pizza with me around the corner. If he's not on the computer perhaps he'll come...
Incidentally, when I mentioned my amazement/concern/excitement with my former student during the conversation about her new boyfriend a couple months back, she answered with the clear truth “OMG, Ms. Ford… UR SO OLD-SKOOL!”
Sunday, November 11, 2007
How Might it Look? Truth and Reconciliation in Context
* In the spirit of blogging-for-building, I post these thoughts in response to my homegirl Holiday’s request (see “comments” under last week’s post)… thanks, sis. Looking forward to your thoughts. *
I was in the sixth grade when Nelson Mandela was freed from 27 years in prison. At age 11, I made sense of the news in undoubtedly middle-school ways, as I tried to fit his release into a context that I understood. As a biracial pre-teen, I was in the process of constructing my own hybridized identity: rockin Cross Colours Malcolm X gear while standing to pledge allegiance to the flag; actions that simultaneously set me apart from my White and Black classmates, respectively. Regarding Mandela’s emancipation, I recall a sense of cloudy exhilaration – excited because bad people would now quickly change their ways; fuzzy because the world seemed much bigger then. South Africa seemed so far away.
In the years that followed, we all watched South Africa emerge from the wretched constraints of Apartheid. We watched as the government oversaw the end of de jure Apartheid structures in 1991, and as the people of South Africa elected Mandela president three years later. In line with the tradition of unparalleled strength and progress, Archbishop Desmond Tutu led South African folks into the Truth and Reconciliation Commission process 1996.
History offers us multiple examples of ways to deal with crimes against humanity. It seems that on one end of the spectrum, we have seen criminal court proceedings, including indictment, and conviction (remember the Nuremburg Trials, following WWII). On the other end of the spectrum, we have seen blanket amnesty programs, that often coincide with the inability of those in power to acknowledge that a wrong had been committed at all (remember the lack of repercussions for the thousands of individuals who owned slaves in the United States). Somewhere in the middle of those extremes lie Truth and Reconciliation Commissions (TRCs). If we can imagine the continuum taking on a three-dimensional quality, TRCs may exist somewhere above blanket-conviction or blanket-amnesty programs, as they seek humanity, common ground, and growth. And if we can imagine the continuum taking on a four-dimensional quality, we can begin to understand the way TRCs necessarily transcend time and space to allow people the room necessary for authentic healing. I speak of TRCs pluralistically, because South Africa is not the only place to have participated in such processes. They had TRCs in Sierra Leon, Guatemala, Peru, and several other places too.
Engaging in such a process requires an unbelievable amount of courage, as honesty is the conduit for reconciliation. When brutality has defined groups’ interactions, truth is unavoidably painful. So perhaps we must ask ourselves if acute pain for a finite period is more bearable than dull pain for eternity. Perhaps the hope that is woven into participants’ testimonies has both therapeutic and imaginative powers.
Keeping with the essence of an e-building session, let me pass the mic: if we could initiate a TRC, how would it look? What do we think needs healing? How would a global TRC take shape? Who would participate in a national TRC? How would we design a state-wide TRC? What about one for our cities? Do we need a TRC in our homes?
…and we can keep this going, y’all…
How might we construct a Truth and Reconciliation Commission for ourselves?
I was in the sixth grade when Nelson Mandela was freed from 27 years in prison. At age 11, I made sense of the news in undoubtedly middle-school ways, as I tried to fit his release into a context that I understood. As a biracial pre-teen, I was in the process of constructing my own hybridized identity: rockin Cross Colours Malcolm X gear while standing to pledge allegiance to the flag; actions that simultaneously set me apart from my White and Black classmates, respectively. Regarding Mandela’s emancipation, I recall a sense of cloudy exhilaration – excited because bad people would now quickly change their ways; fuzzy because the world seemed much bigger then. South Africa seemed so far away.
In the years that followed, we all watched South Africa emerge from the wretched constraints of Apartheid. We watched as the government oversaw the end of de jure Apartheid structures in 1991, and as the people of South Africa elected Mandela president three years later. In line with the tradition of unparalleled strength and progress, Archbishop Desmond Tutu led South African folks into the Truth and Reconciliation Commission process 1996.
History offers us multiple examples of ways to deal with crimes against humanity. It seems that on one end of the spectrum, we have seen criminal court proceedings, including indictment, and conviction (remember the Nuremburg Trials, following WWII). On the other end of the spectrum, we have seen blanket amnesty programs, that often coincide with the inability of those in power to acknowledge that a wrong had been committed at all (remember the lack of repercussions for the thousands of individuals who owned slaves in the United States). Somewhere in the middle of those extremes lie Truth and Reconciliation Commissions (TRCs). If we can imagine the continuum taking on a three-dimensional quality, TRCs may exist somewhere above blanket-conviction or blanket-amnesty programs, as they seek humanity, common ground, and growth. And if we can imagine the continuum taking on a four-dimensional quality, we can begin to understand the way TRCs necessarily transcend time and space to allow people the room necessary for authentic healing. I speak of TRCs pluralistically, because South Africa is not the only place to have participated in such processes. They had TRCs in Sierra Leon, Guatemala, Peru, and several other places too.
Engaging in such a process requires an unbelievable amount of courage, as honesty is the conduit for reconciliation. When brutality has defined groups’ interactions, truth is unavoidably painful. So perhaps we must ask ourselves if acute pain for a finite period is more bearable than dull pain for eternity. Perhaps the hope that is woven into participants’ testimonies has both therapeutic and imaginative powers.
Keeping with the essence of an e-building session, let me pass the mic: if we could initiate a TRC, how would it look? What do we think needs healing? How would a global TRC take shape? Who would participate in a national TRC? How would we design a state-wide TRC? What about one for our cities? Do we need a TRC in our homes?
…and we can keep this going, y’all…
How might we construct a Truth and Reconciliation Commission for ourselves?
Sunday, November 4, 2007
"Thanks, but No Thanks"
I do not think the United States Government should give Reparations to Black people for the wrongs committed during slavery. I feel very strongly about it, actually, which sets me in a different camp from many of the folks with whom I often find my arms linked. But my justifications are such that I want the Reparations heads to hear me, and I look forward to building with them to see where we might go from here.
There is no amount of money that can come close to addressing the sinister atrocities of the kidnap, the middle passage, and the centuries of chattel bondage. There is no price that can be paid to address the subsequent lynch mob formations, sharecropping setup, and strange fruit harvests that have so intricately laced “The American Experience,” whether or not folks today choose to acknowledge it. And we don’t have to look hard to recognize contemporary parallels to these historical malefactions, either. Lynch mobs still operate daily, as evidenced by the recent incident in Ithaca, when a Black middle school girl was assaulted by a group of White boys on the school bus. Intentionally-created debt conditions, such as the sharecropping structure that tied newly-freed Black slaves to the land, come today under the guise of predatory lending and too-high interest rates that disproportionately harm folks in poor communities of color. And the Strange Fruit about which sister Holiday sung are so much a part of our contemporary context that nooses are showing up everywhere from small southern towns to Ivy League campuses. The legacy of slavery creates a unique time-space-experience conundrum, where many of us find ourselves struggling against contemporary manifestations of historical hegemonies. We are in constant conversation with our ancestors.
Five dollars, five hundred dollars, five thousand dollars, nor five million dollars can change what has been done.
Thus I clearly do not team up with anti-Reparations folks who claim that what was done is over, and we should leave it in the past (“I certainly didn’t hold slaves, and you were never a slave… so why should my tax dollars go to lining your pocket?”). Neither do I agree with those who assert the impracticability of the plan (“How would they know who to give the money to? What is done with biracial people? What is done with African and Caribbean Black people, whose ancestors were not slaves in the U.S.?”).
I’m saying that we are due an apology: public and grand and sincere and well-publicized. And I’m applauding those state governments and Fortune 500 Companies that have taken the lead in recognizing the ways in which Black slaves contributed to their vast success.
My problem with financial Reparations for Black Americans is the inevitable aftermath that would be linked to such a federal program, both on moral and political grounds. Morally, I am uncomfortable with the connection between sincere apology and money. The capitalistic society in which we live measures the magnitude of most things by the corresponding monetary value. There is a very real danger that even well-meaning folks would feel better about the whole “slavery thing” if at least they had put five on it. Politically, I have no doubt that the federal programs that are already under fire from those who claim racism is over would be wiped out for good. Those who consistently fight to dismantle Affirmative Action, WIC, Section 8 and like programs (which, we know provide aid not only to Black people) will become even more irrational in their leanings: “We gave ‘em money, what else to they expect?”
I agree wholly with Reparations proponents who point to our 40-acre-and-a-mule-less status and the ludicrous historical inaccuracies in our children’s textbooks as ways that we have been robbed our due. I support efforts to address these wrongs, such as targeted first-time home buyer programs and curriculum transformation in primary and secondary schools. And I think of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and wonder how we might learn from it to develop a process that fits our context. But I ultimately believe that the attendant risks of moral or political backlash are too great to accept a check – for any amount of money – from Uncle Sam.
There is no amount of money that can come close to addressing the sinister atrocities of the kidnap, the middle passage, and the centuries of chattel bondage. There is no price that can be paid to address the subsequent lynch mob formations, sharecropping setup, and strange fruit harvests that have so intricately laced “The American Experience,” whether or not folks today choose to acknowledge it. And we don’t have to look hard to recognize contemporary parallels to these historical malefactions, either. Lynch mobs still operate daily, as evidenced by the recent incident in Ithaca, when a Black middle school girl was assaulted by a group of White boys on the school bus. Intentionally-created debt conditions, such as the sharecropping structure that tied newly-freed Black slaves to the land, come today under the guise of predatory lending and too-high interest rates that disproportionately harm folks in poor communities of color. And the Strange Fruit about which sister Holiday sung are so much a part of our contemporary context that nooses are showing up everywhere from small southern towns to Ivy League campuses. The legacy of slavery creates a unique time-space-experience conundrum, where many of us find ourselves struggling against contemporary manifestations of historical hegemonies. We are in constant conversation with our ancestors.
Five dollars, five hundred dollars, five thousand dollars, nor five million dollars can change what has been done.
Thus I clearly do not team up with anti-Reparations folks who claim that what was done is over, and we should leave it in the past (“I certainly didn’t hold slaves, and you were never a slave… so why should my tax dollars go to lining your pocket?”). Neither do I agree with those who assert the impracticability of the plan (“How would they know who to give the money to? What is done with biracial people? What is done with African and Caribbean Black people, whose ancestors were not slaves in the U.S.?”).
I’m saying that we are due an apology: public and grand and sincere and well-publicized. And I’m applauding those state governments and Fortune 500 Companies that have taken the lead in recognizing the ways in which Black slaves contributed to their vast success.
My problem with financial Reparations for Black Americans is the inevitable aftermath that would be linked to such a federal program, both on moral and political grounds. Morally, I am uncomfortable with the connection between sincere apology and money. The capitalistic society in which we live measures the magnitude of most things by the corresponding monetary value. There is a very real danger that even well-meaning folks would feel better about the whole “slavery thing” if at least they had put five on it. Politically, I have no doubt that the federal programs that are already under fire from those who claim racism is over would be wiped out for good. Those who consistently fight to dismantle Affirmative Action, WIC, Section 8 and like programs (which, we know provide aid not only to Black people) will become even more irrational in their leanings: “We gave ‘em money, what else to they expect?”
I agree wholly with Reparations proponents who point to our 40-acre-and-a-mule-less status and the ludicrous historical inaccuracies in our children’s textbooks as ways that we have been robbed our due. I support efforts to address these wrongs, such as targeted first-time home buyer programs and curriculum transformation in primary and secondary schools. And I think of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and wonder how we might learn from it to develop a process that fits our context. But I ultimately believe that the attendant risks of moral or political backlash are too great to accept a check – for any amount of money – from Uncle Sam.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Zulus, Maoris, and B-Boys
the. phattest. performance.teo castellanos. puerto rico. iraq war protest. sons of the diaspora. dope beats. fast breakin. war and death and love and strength.
i felt it in my soul. in the atl. till november 4... you gotta check it out. i'm for real, y'all. expect transformation. 7 stages theatre. little 5 points: http://www.7stages.org/cgi-bin/MySQLdb?VIEW=/plays/viewone.txt&myplay=257
after show (at no extra charge): my mother and i walk arm in arm. she throws her head back in beautiful laughter. dread steps from shadows. shouts what the fuck you laughin at. calls her white racist bitch.
i wrap my arms around her and do not shout back. she says it does not bother her.
he calls her white racist bitch. again.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Abdi's Endless Worksheets
The children at Refugee Community Center (RCC) come from Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East. In this safe place, asking where one is from always follows asking one’s name. I was surprised, then, when Abdi answered that he is from Atlanta. Dressed in his light blue, oversized, Phat Farm t-shirt and baggy jeans, he certainly looked like an ATL-ien, but the context had me expecting something else.
Katherine had told us that a special federal allowance (or perhaps oversight) had broadened the scope for RCC beneficiaries. Like most state and federal policies, her explanation seemed cloaked in a cape of bureaucracy, but the main gist entailed a loosened restriction on the maximum number of years a family could remain in the United States and still receive aid from RCC. Certain families, then, had been here for five years or more and were currently utilizing services from RCC, but Katherine predicts this will be tightened again once those in control figure out what is going on. For the time being, I’m glad that the bureaucratic confusion allowed for Abdi’s family to slip under the radar. For now, I have the opportunity to work with a young brother trying to learn his abc’s.
For the past several days, I have helped Abdi with seemingly countless worksheets. The topics are estimation, spelling, and more estimation. “Estimate the length of your desk,” one problem instructs on a worksheet. “Now, measure the length of your desk.” There are about 15 of these on a page, and Abdi works through it diligently yet absently. It doesn’t require much of his attention; perhaps because the questions are so repetitive and he has had virtually the same worksheet four out of the past six days.
On Thursday, I walked out of RCC with him as his mother rolled up in a gold Nissan Maxima. She is a beautiful Somali woman with a wide smile and a gap between her two front teeth. With a tiny baby girl in the back, Abdi’s mother strained across the passengers seat to ask me how Abdi is doing. “He is doing well!” I reported cheerfully, because he is finishing his homework everyday and he does share with the other third graders and he does engage in conversation with the other tutors and me. He hopped into the backseat, and his beaming mother looked back at him. “Wonderful,” she said, in a way that was so sincere my arm hairs jumped up.
How much faith do parents put in school teachers? How much do they expect that teachers will assign work that will broaden their children’s minds? How much can worksheets really do? How many worksheets does Abdi’s mother think his teacher hands out each day?
I should have told his mother that I think we should devise some more enriching homework for him. I could have asked her if she knew what he was doing each night for homework. I could have, but I didn’t. I probably will tomorrow. For today, though, I just wanted for everything to be as simple as it should be.
Katherine had told us that a special federal allowance (or perhaps oversight) had broadened the scope for RCC beneficiaries. Like most state and federal policies, her explanation seemed cloaked in a cape of bureaucracy, but the main gist entailed a loosened restriction on the maximum number of years a family could remain in the United States and still receive aid from RCC. Certain families, then, had been here for five years or more and were currently utilizing services from RCC, but Katherine predicts this will be tightened again once those in control figure out what is going on. For the time being, I’m glad that the bureaucratic confusion allowed for Abdi’s family to slip under the radar. For now, I have the opportunity to work with a young brother trying to learn his abc’s.
For the past several days, I have helped Abdi with seemingly countless worksheets. The topics are estimation, spelling, and more estimation. “Estimate the length of your desk,” one problem instructs on a worksheet. “Now, measure the length of your desk.” There are about 15 of these on a page, and Abdi works through it diligently yet absently. It doesn’t require much of his attention; perhaps because the questions are so repetitive and he has had virtually the same worksheet four out of the past six days.
On Thursday, I walked out of RCC with him as his mother rolled up in a gold Nissan Maxima. She is a beautiful Somali woman with a wide smile and a gap between her two front teeth. With a tiny baby girl in the back, Abdi’s mother strained across the passengers seat to ask me how Abdi is doing. “He is doing well!” I reported cheerfully, because he is finishing his homework everyday and he does share with the other third graders and he does engage in conversation with the other tutors and me. He hopped into the backseat, and his beaming mother looked back at him. “Wonderful,” she said, in a way that was so sincere my arm hairs jumped up.
How much faith do parents put in school teachers? How much do they expect that teachers will assign work that will broaden their children’s minds? How much can worksheets really do? How many worksheets does Abdi’s mother think his teacher hands out each day?
I should have told his mother that I think we should devise some more enriching homework for him. I could have asked her if she knew what he was doing each night for homework. I could have, but I didn’t. I probably will tomorrow. For today, though, I just wanted for everything to be as simple as it should be.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Cee-Lo on Today
“You don’t wanna hear the truth, so I’ma lie to you, make it sound fly to you…” In his unique lyrically-genius style, Cee-Lo shows us at the end of The Experience (from the Still Standing album, LaFace Records, 1998) that he has what it takes to work in mainstream media today, in that he is willing to lie to those who refuse to hear truth. Only he drops the line at the end of the 2 minute 20 second intro, in which he has already slipped more truth to our ears than we have heard all season from the Today Show, Headline News, or the Fox Report. It is clear, then, that Cee-Lo is mocking both those who would rather hear lies, as well as the liars who decide to evade the truth.
I’ve been mad all week about last Saturday morning’s Today Show, and I only saw about 30 minutes of it as I ironed my clothes and ate my breakfast. It was enough, though, to illustrate the insidious ways that it and like shows use coverage and side comments and “expert guests” to interrupt our quest for truth. In thirty minutes, their pieces on the African Ancestral Burial Ground Memorial, the Duke Lacrosse trial, Marian Jones, and President Bush were enough to make me wonder if this was the “real” news or if my alarm clock had malfunctioned and I had actually woken up in the middle of Amy Poehler and Seth Meyer’s “Weekend Update” on SNL. But when they sprinkled in jokes about O.J.’s fake Rolex and played excerpts from Jessica and Cody’s Today Show wedding, I realized that it was actually the real news: slanted and careless and extremely problematic; but the real news in all its glory.
So it started with Lester Holt announcing what they’d talk about that morning. I was excited to hear that I’d learn about the Ancestral Ground Memorial opening, curious to see what they’d say about the Duke case, saddened to anticipate what Jones would say about her steroid use, and frustrated to think about whatever our president would say today on Today.
The voice over the Ancestral Ground Memorial opening pointed out that “historians say that they discovered the remains of what may have been thousands of Black slaves” who labored and died in what would become lower Manhattan. It caught my attention because the video footage showed archeologists dusting off remains of skeletons from a couple generations back, and ceremonies that commemorated the ways in which we had helped to build New York. Historians “say”? Did the voice over head not believe it was true? I know they don’t qualify other “truths”… especially not those that have been proven by science and recognized for over a decade. The short segment on the unveiling of the memorial space gave way to a much longer piece about the on-going Duke Lacrosse trial mishaps, and I wondered why a lawyer had been invited from North Carolina to join Lester on the couch, but nobody from downtown Manhattan to speak about our Ancestors.
A segment, much longer than that on the Ancestor Memorial, highlighted all the ways that District Attorney Mike Nifong had done wrong, and how the lacrosse players were pulling their lives back together after their terrible experience. Injustice is injustice for sure. Ill-prosecution is wrong, by all means. And no one deserves to be maligned at all. But when the lawyer for one of the young men said that this was the “worst case of prosecutorial misconduct in the history of the country,” I nearly chocked on my eggs. The Worst? Really? Do they not teach about the Scottsboro Trial in law school? Had he somehow slept through the tribulations of the Jena 6? I suddenly felt hyper-aware of my own implication in condoning such foolishness by watching the show at all. Recently gifted with a large-screen television, it dawned on me the danger of letting these images and words into my sacred space. Lester and the Duke lawyer seemed larger than life as they sat on the Today Show couch, and I pulled my bathrobe a little tighter.
The juxtaposition of the next two segments sent me from angry to disgusted. In the days since, it has weighed heavily on my mind, as my disgust has morphed into an unsettling fear. Of what exactly I do not yet know. But it has been seven days and I can’t seem to shake the disturbing sequence of the next two segments.
First, they showed a clip of Marian Jones’ press conference: her tearful apology for using steroids and her intentions to give back all the medals she had won in Sydney. Significantly, this beautiful Black woman stood in front of the world – crying – to admit that she had done wrong. “…it is with a great amount of shame, that I stand before you and tell you that I have betrayed your trust…I want you to know that I have been dishonest, and you have the right to be angry with me,” she said firmly. Instantly, I thought about the many ways that our president and other leaders have made dishonesty an official foreign and domestic policy, and heard myself saying, “Bush would never admit his lies.” Jones went on. “I am responsible for my actions…I have let [my fans] down, I have let my country down, and I have let myself down.”
As she talked on, tearfully, about the sincerity of her apology and her awareness that her apology might not be enough, I tried to picture Bush, standing at a podium, crying and speaking of his own shame, his acts of betrayal, his dishonesty, our right to be angry with him. I thought about the necessarily national rhetoric Jones was using, and the historical ties between Black American Olympiads and the country to which they are tied.
Just as I was about to call my homegirl to express my outrage, the footage of Jones zoomed out and in came our president, talking about his intolerance of any form of terrorism. “We will not stand for (pause… smirk) any form of terrorism (pause… grin) here or abroad.” Blah Blah Blah…
It occurred to me for a second that someone on the Today Show team was feelin me. They had to have done that on purpose, right? Whoever decided to juxtapose Jones and Bush was displaying clearly the audacity of those in our country that can – in the same breath – denigrate Jones and support Bush. I felt tied to the person that had faded one story into the next, and I strangely needed to believe they had done it on purpose.
When the lady behind the news desk laughingly reported that the Rolex that O.J. had given to officials was fake, and followed up by asking Lester and Natalie if they had any fake watches or jewelry, I realized I had seen enough. And as I walked across to turn off the TV, I caught a glimpse of all that is deemed right and good: Jessica and Cody’s Today Show Wedding. Beautiful and blond. Young and able-bodied. Heterosexual and happy… the list goes on and on.
Cee-Lo, please help us.
Oh, and I wrote to the folks at the Today Show, too. I requested a transcript or a tape or on-line access to see the show again, because I wanted to analyze it. I wanted to hold it so I could show racism-deniers that it is being screamed at us, in our bedrooms, from the friendly folks at Studio One-A in Rockefeller Plaza. I need these things, so that my anger doesn’t consume me; so that I can continue to balance righteous indignation and authentic joy. Yea, I realized that I didn’t just want it, I needed it. But when I wrote the e-mail and hit send, I heard a ding in my inbox, signifying a new message had arrived. Clicking on the message, my heart dropped: “Failure delivery. No such e-mail address.” Really? MS.NBC has the wrong e-mail address posted on their website for feedback/questions about their shows??
I suppose lying is easier when you believe that those to whom you are lying don’t wanna hear the truth.
I’ve been mad all week about last Saturday morning’s Today Show, and I only saw about 30 minutes of it as I ironed my clothes and ate my breakfast. It was enough, though, to illustrate the insidious ways that it and like shows use coverage and side comments and “expert guests” to interrupt our quest for truth. In thirty minutes, their pieces on the African Ancestral Burial Ground Memorial, the Duke Lacrosse trial, Marian Jones, and President Bush were enough to make me wonder if this was the “real” news or if my alarm clock had malfunctioned and I had actually woken up in the middle of Amy Poehler and Seth Meyer’s “Weekend Update” on SNL. But when they sprinkled in jokes about O.J.’s fake Rolex and played excerpts from Jessica and Cody’s Today Show wedding, I realized that it was actually the real news: slanted and careless and extremely problematic; but the real news in all its glory.
So it started with Lester Holt announcing what they’d talk about that morning. I was excited to hear that I’d learn about the Ancestral Ground Memorial opening, curious to see what they’d say about the Duke case, saddened to anticipate what Jones would say about her steroid use, and frustrated to think about whatever our president would say today on Today.
The voice over the Ancestral Ground Memorial opening pointed out that “historians say that they discovered the remains of what may have been thousands of Black slaves” who labored and died in what would become lower Manhattan. It caught my attention because the video footage showed archeologists dusting off remains of skeletons from a couple generations back, and ceremonies that commemorated the ways in which we had helped to build New York. Historians “say”? Did the voice over head not believe it was true? I know they don’t qualify other “truths”… especially not those that have been proven by science and recognized for over a decade. The short segment on the unveiling of the memorial space gave way to a much longer piece about the on-going Duke Lacrosse trial mishaps, and I wondered why a lawyer had been invited from North Carolina to join Lester on the couch, but nobody from downtown Manhattan to speak about our Ancestors.
A segment, much longer than that on the Ancestor Memorial, highlighted all the ways that District Attorney Mike Nifong had done wrong, and how the lacrosse players were pulling their lives back together after their terrible experience. Injustice is injustice for sure. Ill-prosecution is wrong, by all means. And no one deserves to be maligned at all. But when the lawyer for one of the young men said that this was the “worst case of prosecutorial misconduct in the history of the country,” I nearly chocked on my eggs. The Worst? Really? Do they not teach about the Scottsboro Trial in law school? Had he somehow slept through the tribulations of the Jena 6? I suddenly felt hyper-aware of my own implication in condoning such foolishness by watching the show at all. Recently gifted with a large-screen television, it dawned on me the danger of letting these images and words into my sacred space. Lester and the Duke lawyer seemed larger than life as they sat on the Today Show couch, and I pulled my bathrobe a little tighter.
The juxtaposition of the next two segments sent me from angry to disgusted. In the days since, it has weighed heavily on my mind, as my disgust has morphed into an unsettling fear. Of what exactly I do not yet know. But it has been seven days and I can’t seem to shake the disturbing sequence of the next two segments.
First, they showed a clip of Marian Jones’ press conference: her tearful apology for using steroids and her intentions to give back all the medals she had won in Sydney. Significantly, this beautiful Black woman stood in front of the world – crying – to admit that she had done wrong. “…it is with a great amount of shame, that I stand before you and tell you that I have betrayed your trust…I want you to know that I have been dishonest, and you have the right to be angry with me,” she said firmly. Instantly, I thought about the many ways that our president and other leaders have made dishonesty an official foreign and domestic policy, and heard myself saying, “Bush would never admit his lies.” Jones went on. “I am responsible for my actions…I have let [my fans] down, I have let my country down, and I have let myself down.”
As she talked on, tearfully, about the sincerity of her apology and her awareness that her apology might not be enough, I tried to picture Bush, standing at a podium, crying and speaking of his own shame, his acts of betrayal, his dishonesty, our right to be angry with him. I thought about the necessarily national rhetoric Jones was using, and the historical ties between Black American Olympiads and the country to which they are tied.
Just as I was about to call my homegirl to express my outrage, the footage of Jones zoomed out and in came our president, talking about his intolerance of any form of terrorism. “We will not stand for (pause… smirk) any form of terrorism (pause… grin) here or abroad.” Blah Blah Blah…
It occurred to me for a second that someone on the Today Show team was feelin me. They had to have done that on purpose, right? Whoever decided to juxtapose Jones and Bush was displaying clearly the audacity of those in our country that can – in the same breath – denigrate Jones and support Bush. I felt tied to the person that had faded one story into the next, and I strangely needed to believe they had done it on purpose.
When the lady behind the news desk laughingly reported that the Rolex that O.J. had given to officials was fake, and followed up by asking Lester and Natalie if they had any fake watches or jewelry, I realized I had seen enough. And as I walked across to turn off the TV, I caught a glimpse of all that is deemed right and good: Jessica and Cody’s Today Show Wedding. Beautiful and blond. Young and able-bodied. Heterosexual and happy… the list goes on and on.
Cee-Lo, please help us.
Oh, and I wrote to the folks at the Today Show, too. I requested a transcript or a tape or on-line access to see the show again, because I wanted to analyze it. I wanted to hold it so I could show racism-deniers that it is being screamed at us, in our bedrooms, from the friendly folks at Studio One-A in Rockefeller Plaza. I need these things, so that my anger doesn’t consume me; so that I can continue to balance righteous indignation and authentic joy. Yea, I realized that I didn’t just want it, I needed it. But when I wrote the e-mail and hit send, I heard a ding in my inbox, signifying a new message had arrived. Clicking on the message, my heart dropped: “Failure delivery. No such e-mail address.” Really? MS.NBC has the wrong e-mail address posted on their website for feedback/questions about their shows??
I suppose lying is easier when you believe that those to whom you are lying don’t wanna hear the truth.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
President Karzai, The Royal Anglican Regiment, and Mujahida: The Strength of Hidden Connections
It didn’t make the front page, but the New York Times headline on page four reads “Bomber Attacks Bus of Afghan Soldiers; 30 Dead.” Just yesterday, a suicide bomber who was dressed in an Afghan military uniform detonated a set of body-strapped explosives on the street next to the bus. Headed for a day of work in Kabul, the 27 soldiers were killed before they could report for duty. Two civilians died in the attack too; officials say this is one of the deadliest bombings in Afghanistan this year. Considering there have been just over 100 suicide bombings this year, with a reported death toll of 290 people, I wonder if it makes a difference that this was among the deadliest. When violence becomes so constant, can those living in it differentiate the magnitude of particular incidents? And what do the two Afghan police officials – who “wandered the street picking up body parts and dropping them into a plastic bag” – have to say about what is happening to their home?
President Hamid Karzai, who visited the United Nations and the White House and the Today Show last week, says now that he is eager to meet with Taliban leaders. He told Meredith Vieira that he is willing to offer members of the Taliban leading positions in the government if they will agree to stop the violence. He told Tim Russert that the $300 billion the United States has spent on the war in Iraq would have been better spent in Afghanistan, and that the United States has fallen far short of supplying necessary and appropriate aid to help Afghanistan rebuild. And he is promoting an amnesty program that is intended to bring non-violent Taliban members back (many of whom have sought refuge in Pakistan) to turn the tide in Afghanistan.
And speaking of tides, an international attempt to rebuild one of Afghanistan’s most crucial mechanisms for industry brings the Royal Anglican Regiment back to the country. I say “most crucial” because the hydroelectric dam in Kajaki has the potential of supplying a great deal of much needed energy to the country; I say “back” because Afghanistan only declared independence from England in 1919, when the Royal Anglicans were there in a different capacity to say the least. The situation in Kajaki today is grim beyond belief. Nearly everyone has left the area, displaced by American/NATO/Taliban violence and poppy-facilitated drug trade routes. There is apparently a small set of folks, including British soldiers and Afghan police officers, who have lived there for over a year, guarding the aged dam and waiting for renovation to begin. They say the Afghan police have not had contact with their family this entire time, and have only just recently been paid for their service. I would imagine the British soldiers have at least these minimal tokens of appreciation, though I dare say they would rather be home as well. When the Taliban attacked the damn last year, foreign promises of dam repairs, school construction, and clinic development fell silent. And as the 40 or so power station workers commute to work each day, through the Taliban-controlled zones that surround it, they continue to maintain this precious resource during their grueling 24-hour shifts. Engineers, who have been on deck since foreign promises to rebuild commenced, have begun to lose hope as the disillusionment of broken promises magnifies daily.
But speaking of engineers, there is hope brewing in places far from the suicide bombings in Kabul and the violence-ridden dam zone in Kajaki. There are thousands of refugees who have been scattered around the world, but who still feel connected to their home and committed to its future. One such example is a young woman named Mujahida[1], a tenth-grade student at Lewiston High School (LHS) and a participant in Refugee Community Centers’ (RCC) Saturday School program. She has been in the U.S. for just over two years and has learned an incredible amount in that short time. Committed to their education, she and her siblings study their lessons intensely, and supplement their LHS education with after school tutoring at the International Aid Foundation (IAF) and Saturday School at RCC. When they leave RCC at noon on Saturday, they ride MARTA down Memorial to the World Community School (WCS) for an adult English as a Second Language (ESL) class. Mujahida rattles off the acronyms effortlessly: her determined quest for knowledge is clear.
Yesterday, three college undergrads came to Saturday School to facilitate a workshop on Internet safety for the high school participants. “Okay, like, we obviously don’t know you yet and, like, you don’t know us so let’s start off by going around the room and saying our names and, like, our goals or whatever,” began the impeccably-dressed sorority girl who spoke with what seemed like a naïve confidence in front of a set of refugee teens who have seen the world. And so we began. “My name is Sarah, and I want to go to law school,” began the college students… “my name is Emily, and I want to go to law school too, actually,” another chimed in … “my name is Amina, and I want to be a teacher,” said one of the refugee students… “my name is Jillian, and I want to be a college professor,” I offered. Around the circle we went, with most of the high school girls saying they wanted to be teachers, and a few of them adding the goal of graduating from high school and attending college. With three people left to introduce themselves, Mujahida whispered, “my name is Mujahida, and I plan to be an engineer,” before she shyly dropped her head and scribbled something else into her notebook.
I had an opportunity to work with Mujahida yesterday, after the Internet safety workshop and during the homework help hour. Her Computer Applications teacher at LHS assigned a group project for the students to design a community business. She is carrying the weight of the three other people in her group, because they don’t speak English and seem lost in class. Like each of her assignments, she approached this one with rigor, and is in the process of creating a hypothetical shoe company that will give a federally-subsidized discount to students and retirees, such that people in these groups can buy shoes at half price. “I want for my company to serve the community,” she explained to me “and students and elderly people have a hard time making money.” For forty-five minutes, she remained entirely focused on “task 5” of a 10 task project, which was to write a letter to the federal government to ask for funding.
I have not talked with Mujahida as much as I have with some of the other students about life outside of school assignments; she remains so focused on her school work that it’s clear she is not in the business of small talk. This is the drive and determination and intelligence needed to become an engineer. And hers is the dream and passion and commitment needed to rebuild her home.
[1] Mujahida is a pseudonym; it is also and Afghani name that means “one who works hard.”
President Hamid Karzai, who visited the United Nations and the White House and the Today Show last week, says now that he is eager to meet with Taliban leaders. He told Meredith Vieira that he is willing to offer members of the Taliban leading positions in the government if they will agree to stop the violence. He told Tim Russert that the $300 billion the United States has spent on the war in Iraq would have been better spent in Afghanistan, and that the United States has fallen far short of supplying necessary and appropriate aid to help Afghanistan rebuild. And he is promoting an amnesty program that is intended to bring non-violent Taliban members back (many of whom have sought refuge in Pakistan) to turn the tide in Afghanistan.
And speaking of tides, an international attempt to rebuild one of Afghanistan’s most crucial mechanisms for industry brings the Royal Anglican Regiment back to the country. I say “most crucial” because the hydroelectric dam in Kajaki has the potential of supplying a great deal of much needed energy to the country; I say “back” because Afghanistan only declared independence from England in 1919, when the Royal Anglicans were there in a different capacity to say the least. The situation in Kajaki today is grim beyond belief. Nearly everyone has left the area, displaced by American/NATO/Taliban violence and poppy-facilitated drug trade routes. There is apparently a small set of folks, including British soldiers and Afghan police officers, who have lived there for over a year, guarding the aged dam and waiting for renovation to begin. They say the Afghan police have not had contact with their family this entire time, and have only just recently been paid for their service. I would imagine the British soldiers have at least these minimal tokens of appreciation, though I dare say they would rather be home as well. When the Taliban attacked the damn last year, foreign promises of dam repairs, school construction, and clinic development fell silent. And as the 40 or so power station workers commute to work each day, through the Taliban-controlled zones that surround it, they continue to maintain this precious resource during their grueling 24-hour shifts. Engineers, who have been on deck since foreign promises to rebuild commenced, have begun to lose hope as the disillusionment of broken promises magnifies daily.
But speaking of engineers, there is hope brewing in places far from the suicide bombings in Kabul and the violence-ridden dam zone in Kajaki. There are thousands of refugees who have been scattered around the world, but who still feel connected to their home and committed to its future. One such example is a young woman named Mujahida[1], a tenth-grade student at Lewiston High School (LHS) and a participant in Refugee Community Centers’ (RCC) Saturday School program. She has been in the U.S. for just over two years and has learned an incredible amount in that short time. Committed to their education, she and her siblings study their lessons intensely, and supplement their LHS education with after school tutoring at the International Aid Foundation (IAF) and Saturday School at RCC. When they leave RCC at noon on Saturday, they ride MARTA down Memorial to the World Community School (WCS) for an adult English as a Second Language (ESL) class. Mujahida rattles off the acronyms effortlessly: her determined quest for knowledge is clear.
Yesterday, three college undergrads came to Saturday School to facilitate a workshop on Internet safety for the high school participants. “Okay, like, we obviously don’t know you yet and, like, you don’t know us so let’s start off by going around the room and saying our names and, like, our goals or whatever,” began the impeccably-dressed sorority girl who spoke with what seemed like a naïve confidence in front of a set of refugee teens who have seen the world. And so we began. “My name is Sarah, and I want to go to law school,” began the college students… “my name is Emily, and I want to go to law school too, actually,” another chimed in … “my name is Amina, and I want to be a teacher,” said one of the refugee students… “my name is Jillian, and I want to be a college professor,” I offered. Around the circle we went, with most of the high school girls saying they wanted to be teachers, and a few of them adding the goal of graduating from high school and attending college. With three people left to introduce themselves, Mujahida whispered, “my name is Mujahida, and I plan to be an engineer,” before she shyly dropped her head and scribbled something else into her notebook.
I had an opportunity to work with Mujahida yesterday, after the Internet safety workshop and during the homework help hour. Her Computer Applications teacher at LHS assigned a group project for the students to design a community business. She is carrying the weight of the three other people in her group, because they don’t speak English and seem lost in class. Like each of her assignments, she approached this one with rigor, and is in the process of creating a hypothetical shoe company that will give a federally-subsidized discount to students and retirees, such that people in these groups can buy shoes at half price. “I want for my company to serve the community,” she explained to me “and students and elderly people have a hard time making money.” For forty-five minutes, she remained entirely focused on “task 5” of a 10 task project, which was to write a letter to the federal government to ask for funding.
I have not talked with Mujahida as much as I have with some of the other students about life outside of school assignments; she remains so focused on her school work that it’s clear she is not in the business of small talk. This is the drive and determination and intelligence needed to become an engineer. And hers is the dream and passion and commitment needed to rebuild her home.
[1] Mujahida is a pseudonym; it is also and Afghani name that means “one who works hard.”
Sunday, September 30, 2007
On Turning 29, Writing the World I See, and Holding onto Light
In November of 2002, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks set a personal goal to write a play a day for an entire year. I love goals like that; I love the goal-setters who achieve them too. So she wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. She wrote a play a day for an entire year, and it developed into a movement called “365 Plays/365 Days” that now is being performed in several cities around the United States. In a fascinating testament to creative genius and grassroots theater organizations, people are now performing the plays that she wrote on any given day, four years ago. That means that if you live in Atlanta, Austin, Chicago, Denver, D.C., L.A., Minneapolis, various Mississippi River towns, Seattle, or San Francisco, you can go this afternoon and check a play that she wrote on September 23, 2003. You gotta check this out. If you don’t live in one of these places, at least “friend” her on myspace, y’all (http://www.myspace.com/atlanta365). Fresh.
Taking a page from Parks’ book, I’m setting a personal goal for myself this year. Except instead of a play a day, I’m aiming for a commentary a week. Taking a page from Kamau’s book, my subject matter is life. And taking a page from Sister’s book, I’m going to stick to it.
Lewy told me that if I lived in China or Japan or France, I would have turned “thirty” this year, because they start counting at one the day a baby is born. That makes more sense, it seems, because then you’re one during your first year, seven during your seventh year, and twenty-nine during your twenty-ninth year. But as it stands, I suppose I’m twenty-nine during my thirtieth year and won’t be thirty till I’m actually thirty-one. Hmmmm. Maybe the folks who thought this best were down with the folks who labeled the centuries.
Whatever we call it, this birthday seemed like a big deal to me. I’m finding myself at a spot on the road just past the intersection, and I’m grateful for being here for sure. Mostly I’m thankful because it wasn’t an easy, four-way stop style intersection, or even one that I could see what lay ahead if I chose this or that direction. Instead, it was one of those crazy intersections, that seems terribly hazardous and perhaps constructed for accidents: one where the people turning left across several lanes of traffic somehow have the right of way, and those going straight are supposed to know that they have to stop. Not to mention the on/off ramp with no signage, the bicycle lane that’s too damn narrow, and the pedestrian crosswalk that’s faded from use. Yea, the intersection I came through most recently was messy and difficult, and stepping on the other side feels super fresh.
My birthday was phenomenal. The constellations of family and friends blended in such peace ways that I was reminded (and re-bodied and re-souled, I suppose) that the goddesses are here with us, pulling for us, and creating circles of strength that are meant to hold us up and push us on. I am thankful for them, and I am thankful for those they inspire. In return, I want to continue seeking ways to live consciously; finding ways to be ever-more present in my own existence.
Maisha and Marlon gave me a beautiful card for my birthday. Inside they wrote, “Live, Love, Laugh… Hold onto some of the light you shine on others.” It seems like a great suggestion for all of us. This year, I plan to do all of that.
Taking a page from Parks’ book, I’m setting a personal goal for myself this year. Except instead of a play a day, I’m aiming for a commentary a week. Taking a page from Kamau’s book, my subject matter is life. And taking a page from Sister’s book, I’m going to stick to it.
Lewy told me that if I lived in China or Japan or France, I would have turned “thirty” this year, because they start counting at one the day a baby is born. That makes more sense, it seems, because then you’re one during your first year, seven during your seventh year, and twenty-nine during your twenty-ninth year. But as it stands, I suppose I’m twenty-nine during my thirtieth year and won’t be thirty till I’m actually thirty-one. Hmmmm. Maybe the folks who thought this best were down with the folks who labeled the centuries.
Whatever we call it, this birthday seemed like a big deal to me. I’m finding myself at a spot on the road just past the intersection, and I’m grateful for being here for sure. Mostly I’m thankful because it wasn’t an easy, four-way stop style intersection, or even one that I could see what lay ahead if I chose this or that direction. Instead, it was one of those crazy intersections, that seems terribly hazardous and perhaps constructed for accidents: one where the people turning left across several lanes of traffic somehow have the right of way, and those going straight are supposed to know that they have to stop. Not to mention the on/off ramp with no signage, the bicycle lane that’s too damn narrow, and the pedestrian crosswalk that’s faded from use. Yea, the intersection I came through most recently was messy and difficult, and stepping on the other side feels super fresh.
My birthday was phenomenal. The constellations of family and friends blended in such peace ways that I was reminded (and re-bodied and re-souled, I suppose) that the goddesses are here with us, pulling for us, and creating circles of strength that are meant to hold us up and push us on. I am thankful for them, and I am thankful for those they inspire. In return, I want to continue seeking ways to live consciously; finding ways to be ever-more present in my own existence.Maisha and Marlon gave me a beautiful card for my birthday. Inside they wrote, “Live, Love, Laugh… Hold onto some of the light you shine on others.” It seems like a great suggestion for all of us. This year, I plan to do all of that.
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