Where The Brightest Minds Have The Darkest Corners
Category Archives: thinkinglife

“I’m Not…” by Ralph Wiley

by The AOMuse

Editor’s Note: Around midnight as I wrestled with the insomnia of an active mind, I saw this image appear in my Facebook newsfeed once again. While invoking a passing glance in the early afternoon, the combination of my rambling thoughts and the nighttime calm made me recall reading an essay during my adolescent years entitled “I’m Not…” by sports analyst and social critic Ralph Wiley from the text “Why Black People Tend To Shout”. In a brief two pages, Wiley employed a wry and satirical wit in order to surreptitiously attack a series of assumptions encountered by Black people in a society that has a terrible time sorting them as individuals.

Mistaken Identity

I am not a politician, therefore I don’t know where to go to have political buttons made up. If I did, I surely would go there now. I would be out the door this minute, on my way to ordering up about fifty millions buttons for Black (my capitalization) people. The buttons would say in simple, uncertain terms.

I’M NOT…

Next to I’M NOT would be a space for the Black button wearer to write in the necessary name of the moment. These buttons would cut down on confusion, because of the sad tendency of white people to think that every Black person they meet is just like the last Black person they saw.”

For example, if you are trying to negotiate a labor contract, or just trying to get a raise from a white boss or a loan from a white bank, you need a button that says:
I’M NOT GENE UPSHAW
If you are an actor, you need a button that says:
I’M NOT EDDIE MURPHY . . . BUT I MIGHT KNOW HIM
If you are stopped by a policeman for some traffic violation, whether real or imagined, you need a button:
I’M NOT CARRYING NARCOTICS
If you want to be President, you need:
I’M NOT JESSE
If you’re thinking of converting to Judaism, you need:
I’M NOT SAMMY DAVIS, JR.
If you want to be an educator, you need:
I’M NOT JOE CLARK
If you want to be a baseball hitter, you need:
I’M NOT JOE CLARK
If you want to be a dancer, you need:
I’M NOT BEN VEREEN OR MICHAEL JACKSON
If you just want to be left alone, you need:
I’M NOT READY FOR NO DAMN PAROLE BOARD
If you want to attract more attention, you need:
I’M NOT REALLY BLACK–THIS IS JUST A PHASE
If you want a taxi, you need:
I’M NOT HEADING UPTOWN
If you are African, you may need these:
I’M NOT KUNTA KINTE or I’M NOT IDI AMIN DADA
There would also be a universal button:
I’M NOT WHO YOU THINK I AM
If you want to be a writer, you’d probably want this:
I’M NOT RALPH WILEY, AND THANK GOD
If you want to work in the cabinet of the next administration, you will need a button that says:
I’M NOT FOR SALE

Unless of course you are for sale, in which case you’re on your own.


The Language of Touch: Navigating the Body of Black Spatial Intimacy

by The AOMuse

“Touch helps.” ~ TiGi Nii

Habit.  Over the course of the prior month, she and I had cultivated a habit of physical mapping; exploring the landscape of the body through touch.  Birthmarks.  Moles.  Tufts of hair.  Dents.  Dimples.  Blemishes.  Hidden imperfections composing the perfect human whole.  The matter of habit was crucial.  What is casually ignored upon first knead conditions itself into keen awareness over time.  Certain muscles become taut and stiff more frequently than others.  You discover where stress settles in the body and begin to manipulate it loose with greater ease.  We learn each other.  I came to know that if nothing else was done, if sleep threatened to overtake me before I could chart the entirety of her form with my hands, I must apply the utmost care to her feet.  Habit.  Touch.  Discovery.

Most encounters were punctuated by a meal.  The careful handling of the body seeming somehow related to both preparing food and sitting down to eat in the company of silence.  Compassion must guide you in either task amplifying the clarity of communication suffusing through it.  Preparation of the pan for sauteing; coating the surface with a layer of olive oil over low heat.  Warming friction of hands rubbing briskly against one another excavating the healing scent of tea tree and ginger essence in an almond oil base which penetrates skin and muscle while calming the senses.  The methodical chopping of an assortment of greens like unto discerning the precise stroke for knuckling into her back, shoulders and thighs.  Details.  Routine.  Touch.

The relationship ended though not before I was reminded of the renewing intensity of touch which had for a brief time escaped me.  Long before words arrived easily, it was an elemental and concise form of expression.  As a tiny infant being touched, cradled and rocked in the arms of my mother, learning to appreciate the art of affection and look into eyes of love.  How could I know my brain was being developed as it sought to understand the loving acts this woman showered upon one whom had nothing to give her in return.  If nothing else, I could clutch hold upon that extended digit she offered me; laugh when she made sounds I failed to interpret.  It lives in the nostalgia of street crossings alongside Jah’kaya where a gentle squeezing of the palm reminded her that the cross walk was a place of danger where she should hold strong to my hand as we made our way to the other side.  “Grip tight Jah’kaya.”  A short, stern lecture on outdoor safety reduced to a simple act of attentive compression of five coupled fingers.  Touch.  Parenting.  Protection.

Black Love In Public.  A restoration of the intimate art of a physical embrace performed in an avenue where it would be most accessible for sensory consumption by all members of the community.  Out of this convergence of living beings was conceived the mantra, “Free Black Hugs!”, a statement of our collective intent to valiantly fracture the dam holding back the flood of Black spatial intimacy by simply appearing before others unafraid to express a loving physical moment.  Not so frozen by our unawareness and invisibility amongst one another in public spaces that we are frightened by such a thing as touch.  Returning safety again to the sharing of personal space with each other through embrace, rich conversation or the silent connection of two pairs of eyes reflecting a smile of acknowledgement.  Familiarity.  Touch.  Community.

Touch renews.  Touch builds.  Touch sustains.  Social media has created a conversation on the distance that exists between people who grapple with the expanse of those far away even when sharing the present company of friends.  This tool is only a justification offered for the emotional distance which already existed between us.  Remember to hold hands.  Touch the fingers.  Appreciate the tips of them.  Do they bite their nails?  Do they pluck their cuticles?  Touch is an informal method of acknowledging the human being who stands before you as worthy of recognition and necessary.  You notice them.  You know them.  You SEE this person.  Sight.  Touch.  They are connected.  Listen.  Feel.  The senses should necessarily blend together in the mind if we are to build stronger relationships as whole beings.  Binding.  Building.  Touch.

Kiss the lips.  When was the last time you remembered a kiss?  Do you remember each one?  Do you know how well each of your lovers has kissed?  Neat form or sloppy?  The kiss is one of many forms of touch which has been overpowered as an expression of loving intimacy.  The shape and contours of the lips.  How the mouth puckers and two lovers search those contours seeking a configuration which locks them together in a passionate embrace.  Do you use your hands when you kiss?  Where do you place them?  I lay them gently on either side of the face or if drawing back from a hug, they may both be beneath the arms, clutching the upper back; left hand below, right hand above.  What do all of the things that we are touching or not touching say about our level of intimacy with our partners or friends?  Touch.  Kiss.  Caress.

Hug the body.  Massage that human form in 120 seconds or better.  Once you teach yourself to be long distance lover of touch, you may find that hugs grow longer and more profound.  Both arms under, hands in center of back.  Diagonal; one arm under, the other over the shoulder.  Hands cupping under to touch the shoulder blades.  The big squeeze which is accompanied by a lift.  Do you practice your hugs?  Do you notice how well you hug;  acknowledge when you have held back your best hug?  Do you go back in for a second round?  I need 3 or 4 hugs from someone I haven’t seen in a while and 5 or 6 from those I see often.  I’m backwards though and quite aware of this issue.  Embrace.  Touch.  Breathe.

Touch develops.  Touch is an amplifier.  It can make good communication so much better or bad communication that much worse.  Let us rediscover touch once again and to our comfort, find ways to allow it to radiate throughout our lives again with friends and lovers alike.  Have you touched someone today?

“So since we know touch can be used to heal and aid in communication, it becomes a useful tool in sustaining relationships. If when we’re having difficulty, we choose to come closer instead of pulling away, we can usually find the strength to work it out. Touch helps. Try it! ” ~ TiGi Nii

“What I long for, for myself, and for all who need it is touch that is not facilitated by capitalism. Touch that, in its demand for our vulnerability, our giving of our whole selves, does not exact from us psychic violence. Touch that is healing, and intimate, and loving, without the necessity of being sexual. And yet, access to safe, healthy sexual touch, when we want it.” ~ Crunktastic from Taking It All Off: Black Women, Nudity, and the Politics of Touch


The Daily Life Of House Slaves from “Black Women In White America” edited by Gerda Lerner

by The AOMuse

Editor’s Note: In the history of Black rhetorical discourse, there are numerous mythological constructs including the “house/field negro”, “Uncle Tom”, “Willie Lynch” and others which are both outdated and outmoded by our ability to speak clearly to the traits which operate against the building of community across social divisions.  In the clip below which is the first acquaintance many have with the “house/field negro” concept, Malcolm employs it as an oratorical flourish to the larger point that he refuses to be submissive to a system which seeks to destroy his people.  In moving the term beyond the pulpit, we exchange a layer of critical thinking for a colloquial shorthand covering a whole slew of attributes which we consider detrimental to the Black community while being interpreted widely amongst the members of that group.  I left religion and jettisoned the need or desire to have a “Good Word” preached for me ages ago.  As I can think a scant more deeply about these topics, I choose to do so and call those around me to consider them as well.

I thought sharing this passage might make us consider more thoughtfully how we engage these terms.  No one is bound to respect the struggle of an ancestor whose every action may have been taken in the context of survival, but there were a multitude of experiences and dispositions amongst house and field negroes that we can glean from reading narrative testimonies.  House negroes were no more likely to love massa’ and field negroes were no more likely to kill an overseer.  In fact, during the Civil War, house negroes found themselves in a uniquely subversive position to listen and convey information to those outside about the positioning of Northern troops.  This is not something requiring exhaustive debate, but merely a means to help us find an evolutionary language when crafting anti-racist, anti-sexist and anti-exploitative progressive humanist dialogue which furthers action of the same type.  Survival is a form of resistance.

Excerpt From Text: The utter disregard of the comfort on the slaves, in little things can scarcely be conceived of by those who have not been a component part of slaveholding communities….In South Carolina musketoes [!] swarm in myriads, more than half the year–they are so excessively annoying at night that no family thinks of sleeping without nets…yet slaves are never provided with them…and yet these very masters and mistresses will be so kind to their horses as to provide them with fly nets

Only two meals a day are allowed the house slaves–the first at twelve o’clock….They are often kept from their meals by way of punishment.  No table is provided for them to eat from….Each takes his plate or tin pan and iron spoon and holds it in the hand or on the lap.  I never saw slaves seated round a table to partake of any meal.

As the general rule, no lights of any kind, no firewood–no towels, basins, or soap, no tables, chairs or other furniture, are provided….I have repeatedly known slave children to be kept the whole winter’s evening, sitting on the stair-case in a cold entry, just to be at hand to snuff candles or hand a tumbler of water from the side-board, or go on errands from one room to another.  It may be asked why they were not permitted to stay in the parlor, when they would still be more at hand.  I answer, because waiters are not allowed to sit in the presence of their owners, and as children who were kept running all day, would of course get very tired of standing for two or three hours, they were allowed to go into the entry and sit on the staircase until rung for.  Another reason is, that even slaveholders at times find the presence of slaves very annoying; they cannot exercise entire freedom before them on all subjects.

I have also known instances where seamstresses were kept in cold entries to work by the staircase lamps for one or two hours, every evening in winter–they could not see without standing up all the time, though the work was often too large and heavy for them to sew upon it in that position without great inconvenience, and yet they were expected to do the work as well with their cold fingers, and standing up, as if they had been sitting by a comfortable fire and provided with the necessary light.  House slaves suffer a great deal also from not being allowed to leave the house without permission.  If they wish to go even for a draught of water, they must ask leave, and if they stay longer than the mistress thinks necessary, they are liable to be punished….

It frequently happens that relatives, among slaves, are separated for weeks or months, by the husband or brother being taken by the master on a journey, to attend on his horses and himself.–When they return, the white husband seeks the wife of his love; but the black husband must wait to see his wife, until mistress pleases to let her chambermaid leave her room….

The sufferings to which slaves are subject by separations of various kinds, cannot be imagined by those unacquainted with the working out of the system behind the curtain.  Take the following instances.

Chambermaids and seamstresses often sleep in their mistresses’ apartments, but with no bedding at all.  I know of an instance of a woman who has been married eleven years, and yet has never been allowed to sleep out of her mistress’s chamber.–This is a great hardship to slaves.  When we consider that house slaves are rarely allowed social intercourse during the day, as their work generally separates them; the barbarity of such an arrangement is obvious.  It is peculiarly a hardship in the above case, as the husband of the women does not “belong” to her “owner” and because he is subject to dreadful attacks of illness, and can have but little attention from this wife in the day.  And yet her mistress, who is an old lady, gives her the highest character as a faithful servant, and told a friend of mine, that she was “entirely dependent upon her for all her comforts; she dressed and undressed her, gave her all her food, and was so necessary to her that she could not do without her.”  I may add, that this couple are tenderly attached to each other….*

Persons who own plantations and yet live in cities, often take children from their parents as soon as they are weaned, and send them into the country; because they do not want the time of the mother taken up by attendance upon her own children, it being too valuable to the mistress.  As a favor, she is, in some cases, permitted to go to see them once a year….Parents are almost never consulted as to the disposition to be made of their children; they have as little control over them, as have domestic animals over the disposal of their young.  Every natural and social feeling and affection are violated with indifference; slaves are treated as though they did not possess them.

Another way in which the feelings of slaves are trifled with and often deeply wounded, is by changing their names; if, at the time they are brought into a family, there is another slave of the same name; or if the owner happens, for some other reason, not to like the name of the new comer.  I have known slaves very much grieved at having the names of their children thus changed, when they had been called after a dear relation….

The slave suffers also greatly from being continually watched.  The system of espionage which is constantly kept up over slaves is the most worrying and intolerable that can be imagined….

In the course of my testimony I have entered somewhat into the minutiae of slavery, because this is part of the subject often overlooked, and cannot be appreciated by any but those who have been witnesses, and entered into sympathy with the slaves as human beings.  Slaveholders think nothing of them, because they regard their slaves as property, the mere instruments of their convenience and pleasure.  One who is a slaveholder at heart never recognises a human being in a slave.

*The case here referred to is that of Stephen and Juba.  See pp. 42-45.

Testimony of Angelina Grimké Weld, in [Theodore D. Weld], American Slavery As It Is: Testimony of a Thousand Witnesses (New York: American Anti-Slavery Society, 1839).

The unabridged testimony of Angelina Grimké Weld can be located here.


This I Believe: Co-Parenting

by The AOMuse

“Parenting is a dance.” ~ from This I Believe: Communication & Dance

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Out of a bedrock of false starts, opaque walls and denied inspiration does this essay arise amongst the most difficult feelings I have struggled to capture thus far in this series.  I find myself fixed between the desire to indulge the fierce honesty which courses beneath the surface my present writing life while being careful of the temptation towards copious verbiage realizing that saying too much can be as broad a shield as saying too little.  My art is the proof and substance of that proverb.  Poetry is a whimsical suit fashioned in an attempt to clothe my failures and frailties in colorful garments that you might attend to them more readily than you do those other ugly things you are soon to learn about me.  This is why I am ever in conflict when writing about a thing which inspires either vexation or pain.  Do you see how I crouch behind the myth of my words?

“Co-parent” and “co-parenting” are two terms for which I have developed a certain zealous affinity as of late.  The story begins in the course of one typically awkward moment which most co-parents may find familiar where both are present in some social situation and a third party poses the question “Is this your wife/husband?”  Always accompanied by a precocious smile.  Both parents turn to each other for a brief, uncomfortable glance before issuing a nearly simultaneous “No.”  This is followed by a halfhearted and habituated explanation such as “this is Jah’kaya’s father/mother”.

 

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After enduring yet another of these curious encounters, I began to wonder to myself why I had allowed my relationship with Auset to be truncated inside of a term which implied the only connection we held was filtered through the affairs of our child.  I have envisioned my life as filled with lessons worthy to be understood not only by myself, but made available for the growth of others.  I began to ponder how I could redirect the language towards a more fitting understanding of how she and I are presently positioned in each other’s life when I began considering the term “co-parent”.

I am sure that I overheard the term in some previous discussion, but I don’t think I had come to grasp the full comprehension of it until just that moment.  We do not operate mutually exclusive drop off centers.  We interact with each other and plan together.  We talk to one another and discuss new prospects happening in each of our lives.  The degree to which we have been able to initiate an open discourse in our parental relationship has abridged the amount each parent must labor to be aware of what is going on in the life of our child.  As her needs change, we are able find ways in which each parent may adapt for the lack of availability of the other.

 

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No one should be struck with the romantic notion that this level of engagement came easily for either one of us.  We parted households soon after Jah’kaya was born.  I was certain I had failed and withdrew from our circle of mutual friends out of fear that I might be called to account for that failure.  I had been fired from a position at American Pharmaceutical Partners on December 31, 2001 which saw me take a 7 month free fall during which we lost our apartment in Woodlawn and found our relationship rapidly fracturing by the time we moved to a new location in Hyde Park.  We lingered on as most separated couples do seeking to ascertain if there was still the potential for making it work.  I recall telling my mother even a year after Jah’kaya’s birth I was certain that Auset and I would be together.  This would not come to pass.

We each navigated our way though those 5 stages of grief.  Denial.  “This is just a growth phase that we must to go through.  All will return to normal soon.”  Anger.  “If you would simply stop blaming me for (x), then you could see what you are missing.”  Bargaining.  “How can I change (y) so that we can make it whole again?”  Depression.  “I never want to think about love anymore.”  Acceptance.  “I’m sorry.  I understand.  How do we move forward?”

In my journey to stop blame shifting, I had to find the flaws in my own character which contributed to weakening the relationship including an unrealistic portrait of manhood bordering upon dictatorial patriarchy, a lack of communication about our shared problems and a desire to be independent of any need inside of the relationship.  We share mutual blame for its failure.  In working to repair the fractures of the past, I have continually reshaped my ideal of the person I bring into future relationships even once finding myself a dogmatic proponent institutional marriage as I again grappled with internalized patriarchy.

 

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Here I stand now nearly 10 years grown from that point on July 15, 2002 at 9:59 pm when Jah’kaya Sirius Tekhen entered this life and discovered me hastily attempting to retool myself into the sort of father required of such a dynamic human being.  Auset and I have managed to trade off through most of those years.  She facilitated birth and primary years through age 3.  I was able to preside over her enrollment at New Concept Development Center and later guided many of her activities between Kindergarten and 4th grade.  During my most recent career and contract transition, Auset has returned to directing Jah’kaya’s schedule again.

Through all of these iterations and changes in our individual adult lives, we communicate with one another.  I seek to help her not simply with the affairs of the child, but whatever process she might be engaging.  I recognize that to the extent I can make life easier for her, I make life more stable for our child and the familial community we have created around that child.

I am fortunate to have come from a pair of remarkable role models for a non-traditional, non-nuclear family unit.  My mother and father divorced when I was a mere 5 years of age.  I moved south with my mother soon thereafter where she was remarried to my stepfather, James.  He came with a daughter and son, Washay and Jayvonnie who remained in Chicago, but came to visit us on occasion in Louisiana.  My older brother, Rahsaan, and I would return to Chicago each summer where we were welcomed into the arms of a larger family as my father had remarried my stepmother, Geneva.  She brought with her 2 sons, Willie and Denardo as well as 2 daughters, Shayla and Shenitha.

 

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My mother and father throughout their own transition have remained steadfast friends.  I always knew my father and both respected and feared his authority.  I felt his love not only for me, but for my mother.  His proximity as a continuing co-parent was even known to make some of my mother’s future companions jealous.  As I have grown in life, my mother was also in the habit of adopting many other individuals into the fold of our growing family.  I have cousins as close as my own siblings and godsisters whom my mother treats the same as her own daughters.  Did I neglect to mention my oldest brother, Antoine, and oldest sister, Danielle?

All of these growth experiences together and those which I continue to encounter have shown me that only part of family consist of the ties we share by blood and birth.  Much of what holds us taut to each other is the substance of what we endure that draws us nearer together as a family unit.  I believe in co-parenting.  Both the word itself and the substance behind that word.  Time has certainly changed how families are formed.  While we have seen some detrimental effects of these changes where children are caught in the middle, co-parenting offers us the opportunity to change the paradigm and create a space where children are richly nurtured and allowed to prosper.  I made more than one choice when my relationship ended.  There was the decision that although Auset and I might not be right for each other, we could still be completely right together.  There are no more awkward meetings.  This is Auset and she is my co-parent.

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Johnathan ~ Jah’kaya ~ Auset

If you have found yourself on a co-parenting journey of your own, I highly recommend viewing the resources available at Co-Parenting 101.  While I have only discovered them within the past week of researching this article, I have found them to be an incredibly valuable resource for discovering new ways to make the act of parenting together a more richly rewarding experience for all members of the family.


On The Day Of My Death To No One In Particular

by The AOMuse

 

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I am no more worthy to be mourned than I was worthy to be born.  Had the proportional proximity of my mother’s abortion cut any closer, you might consider me a mystery.  No headstone should you wish to visit me.  Our relational symmetry won’t be held sacred.  I have cultivated a habit of appearing at the funeral rites of others  only to culminate irony when I miss my own.  When you pull my rigid corpse beyond the threshold of my home, take it directly to be consumed in some liquefied tomb, make me bone ash powder at the base of a new tree or entomb me in stone and cast me out to sea.

Now  continue operating in the world as if I still exist.  There is neither a single dance, open mic nor Market Day which for my absence should be missed.  Celebrate me with movement being consumed in the work of building community.  Become an instrument in the band playing an infinite orchestration of action oriented unity like you and me were one entity and you wanted to make sure I didn’t forget.

What Would Tekhen Do (WWTD)?

never be afraid to scratch / white out / or edit your life / scrap the poem / or rip the page / stop reciting and leave the stage

read every day / write every day / the mantra

advocate involvement / where others watch from the sidelines / position them to play a role in the picture

build something to last

……..life continues still.


Noose On My Finger by Tichaona Chinyelu

by The AOMuse

Marriage has been a subject of contemplation in my mind for a period of just over one month.  It was initiated by a brief Twitter discussion with Nichole Black regarding the necessity for reform in the institution and the desire for a society that would not view with such disdain any woman who was comfortable in her singlehood.

Soon thereafter, Nichole penned an article entitled “Thou Shall Not Submit: Christianity, Marriage And Dissent” which I invested myself in reading later becoming distracted by some scriptural commentary included in the article.  Also during this period, I decided that I should pick up a text which I had been planning to read entitled “Contraband Marriage” by a writing colleague named Tichaona Chinyelu.  The convergence of these two texts in my mind during this period brought me to reconsider where I stood on the issue of marriage as I have traveled the spectrum in the course of the past ten years as noted in my final review of “Contraband Marriage”.

I stand at a shifting point somewhere between a communal commitment between two people and an anarchic rejection of the principles that currently inhabit the marital institution in most people’s mind.  I don’t imagine these thoughts will settle upon any one position soon, but when I completed my reading of “Contraband Marriage”, this piece spoke of what I perceived as the greatest threat to the marital institution.  When it serves to make both parties of the commitment less free to express their whole selves, it becomes a threat to creativity, innovation and the evolution of the family unit that serves as the foundation of a community.

Noose On My Finger by Tichaona Chinyelu

It’s a thin circle of precious metal
that was stolen from the earth
and brought to a store far from its source
where it was bought by a brother
doing another brother a favor.
Then it was blessed by a chaplain
I have neither love nor respect for
and put on my finger.

It is not good
but I struggle to see it as good.
I have our names etched on the underside
the side that touches my flesh.
I wear it for almost three years
until you tighten it like it’s a noose
until it starts to strangle my flesh
until I realize that if I keep it on
I’ll die.

And I wasn’t born to die.
My mother’s hips didn’t crush me
when I was in the womb.
My father’s defection didn’t stop me
from sliding down the canal.
I wasn’t born to die.

We play tug of war with it.
I take it off.
You put it back on.
We go back and forth
until my finger is bruised and battered.
I tell you
with my hand in this condition
I can’t write.

You smile.

I look at the smile.
I listen to what it says.

It is not good.
It is not good for me.

I play tug of war with myself.
And I win.

I remove the noose from around my finger.


Reflections on the Southside Green Economy Tour

by The AOMuse

On a comfortable sunny Saturday of September 17, I had the opportunity to engage in an event organized by my dear sister Mecca Brooks and Bernard Lloyd dubbed the Southside Green Economy Tour.

The tour was sponsored by the Bronzeville Community Garden in partnership with the Bronzeville Alliance Green Team and the Field Museum through funding from the Chicago Climate Action Plan.  The event was designed to give its participants an overview of the activities taking place on the southside of Chicago towards the goal of building sustainable infrastructure and capacity, improving conservation and cultivating the use of alternative energy sources.

The tour began at the Bronzeville Community Garden where a domino game was underway on one of the local stump tables amongst a group of neighborhood residents.  Jah’kaya and I greeted a few folks there and began roaming through the remaining rows of the garden examining tomatoes, peppers and other planted items flourishing in the space.  While exploring further, I spotted a group of children from the apartment building next door preparing to fling tomatoes at one another.  I made an agreement that if they would conduct garden cleanup for the day they could take a few appropriately ripe pieces home with them.  I am not one to laud my skills at wrangling the youth though I have had some success.  On this particular day, they vacated the grounds in disinterest ensuring the survival of the small green fruit for a future harvest.

Organizers and participants on the tour began to arrive soon thereafter.  The oversized chess pieces were unlocked by a community resident whom holds a key for garden supply management and event pre-staging.  One of the first participants I met while waiting for the tour to begin was Eboni Senai whom I later learned was initiating a program in Chicago called Red Bike & Green which I hope to write upon in a future blog entry.  They had their first Chicago chapter ride out on October 15th.  The story I gathered from the pictures was that there was tremendous representation from members of the Chicago artist and activist community.

The organizers circled up all whom were present and began to lay out the case for holding the tour.  All members of the circle went around and introduced themselves while offering their own reasons for taking part in the tour that day.  We then discussed the agenda and noted that some portions of tour might be either cut short or redacted entirely as our commitment was to arrive at Plant Chicago by 2 o’clock since we would be joining the general tour which was departing through the facility at that time.

Before I move further through the tour agenda and my reflection, allow me to offer a few definitions and numbers as taken from the literature issued on the day of the tour.  Climate change refers to changing patterns of temperature, precipitation, humidity, wind, ocean circulation and other variables over long periods of time.  It is today caused by human activity such as the burning of fossil fuels including coal, petroleum and natural gas thus causing an imbalance in the carbon cycle.

Chicago’s average temperature is increasing and has risen 2.6º F since 1980.  The city is experiencing more extreme weather events including heat waves, flooding and summer days where the temperature goes above 100º.  For each of the reasons outlined above, it is imperative that we learn and employ the strategies of adaptability to a changing environment which appears at this advanced stage to be beyond abatement.  As we adapt and use the planet’s resources in a more sustainable manner, we can create the conditions that will allow the Earth to begin this process of self repair which will restore ecological equilibrium.

In addition to being the rendezvous point for the tour, the Bronzeville Community Garden was also our first stop.  The Garden was formally established on August 19, 2010 when the community celebrated its grand opening.  The three primary contributions noted of the Garden in our tour literature included: local food production, climate neutrality, and attractiveness to butterflies.  As the garden focuses on edible growth, it strengthens the resilience of the community and reduces its carbon footprint.  On the issue of climate and ecology, the native plants require neither extensive watering nor fertilization.  Butterflies might seem an odd contribution at first, but only until one considers their critical role in the process of pollination.  Therefore a network of established native gardens will open migratory corridors through urban communities for these creatures to feed upon and thereby assist us with our cultivation.

Amongst the attributes I counted as most beneficial to the Garden were its borderless presence and community investment.  Although there is always the prospect of harvest loss in an unfenced garden, one can clearly see the protection that lies between those whom come to the garden’s edge to play dominoes in marathon matches and the members of the Cain’s Barber College who come out initially for a smoke and find themselves seated for a moment in the quietude of the space.  The truth is that black people love beautiful vistas as much as any other people and when we build such things amongst ourselves and call the community to take part in the process, they  show themselves ready to secure it from disruption.

The second stretch of our journey found us exploring the urban oasis that is the Eden Place Nature Center.  The nature preserve was begun in an effort to offer children in this southside Chicago neighborhood an opportunity to engage with ecology and biodiversity without traveling miles outside of their own community.  Eden Place exhibited among its attributes a monarch butterfly habitat, a wide array of native plants and educational workshops available to the community at large.  During September when the monarch butterfly population sojourns south for Mexico in order to repopulate and winter over, they can stop and rest in an array of wildflowers growing within the boundaries of the preserve.  Children also have access to a small farm with chickens and ducks where they can examine the animals growth and produce farm fresh eggs for sell to residents and visitors.  They can explore an indigenous American settlement where they learn about the construction of the wigwam and the earliest settlements in Illinois.

This was perhaps my favorite part of the tour if only for the diversity of experiences that were available on this relatively small parcel of land.  Eden Place is an example of true land reclamation and repurposing at work within the urban landscape.  When Michael Howard initially acquired the deed for the land, it was an illegal urban industrial landfill with two hundred tons of waste which took them three years to clean up.  In addition to having created a green space for the children to explore nature, they are assisting in the repair of Earth mentioned earlier in this article.  It is possible for us to repair the damage that we have done to this Earth, but first we have to bring ourselves a hard stop on increased industrialization and resource consumption then we must begin to put something back into the Earth by way of seeds and sustainable cultivation.  Eden Place is doing that very necessary work and we should all heed their example.

As time was running short before we were due to arrive at the Plant, our tour guides decided that to bypass the Iron Street Farm.  We were advised that since we had its address on the literature, it would be beneficial for us to visit the location at a later time so that we might make ourselves aware of the full range of their offerings.  Cited in our tour notes as areas of interest included their efforts at composting and food policy initiatives.  According to the website for Iron Street, they have implemented a living compost system consisting of carbon residue, microorganisms, minerals and red wriggler worms.  This composting process integrates into their closed loop ecological approach in order to clean up soil contaminants, digest and transform food waste and produce a highly effective, rich and organic fertilizer.  As each of our individual organizations operates in a variety of legislative and civic environments, the food policy initiatives prove themselves important in order to ensure that state and local governments are implementing environmentally sustainable, nutritionally sound, and socially responsible policies according to the best practices we have discovered through our efforts on the ground.

Upon our arrival at Plant Chicago, we discovered that the tour was already underway and decided we should latch on to the passing group while catching up on any material that we may have missed during our debriefing at the close of the tour.  Due to the complexity of the operation at the Plant, I thought it would be helpful to include a process diagram from their website below.  The organization is poised to become Chicago’s first off grid vertical farming and artisanal food business incubator for the promotion of sustainable food production, entrepreneurship and building reuse through education, research and development.  The Plant uses the the closed loop ecological approach mentioned of Iron Street Farm earlier and scales it up to a size appropriate for our industrial technological age.  Not only will it reuse all of the organic waste material produced in its own facilities, but it will intake previously wasted animal fat from nearby food manufacturing facilities in order to power the anaerobic digester for its net-zero energy system.

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Focal points issued in the notes from our Southside Green Economy tour guides included repurposing and net-zero energy production.  Chicago sends 3.4 milling tons or 62% of its total waste to the landfill every year.  Illinois houses 21 coal plants of which two are in Chicago which are in need of being either upgraded or repowered.  This process could result in significant reductions in the overall CO² (carbon dioxide) emissions from the state.  In order for the Plant to facilitate the centralization that they will require in the repurposing of waste matter, they plan to house a number of local enterprises directly on site including a craft beer and kombucha brewery, commercial kitchen space for rent and an aquaponics operation which will cycle water between their tilapia tanks and hydroponic plant beds.

This was my first visit to the Plant and I was astonished at the magnitude of the operation and the wealth of ideas now flowing into its exploration of green industry.  The entire process both fascinating and frightening for me.  I consider myself both a scientist and enthusiast of all manner of experimentation that occurs in a way designed to be both sustainable and respectful of the delicate ecological balance we face on this planet.  As I told my fellow tour members on this day, I don’t want any of my criticisms to be taken as a detraction of the excellent work being done at the Plant.  My deeper examination of the matter tells me that we should proceed with caution in how we see this very industrial solution to changing our orientation from a carbon based approach to a carbonless approach.  Oftentimes when we find a new method of working, we stop exploring all available methods for solving our problems.

Oil was the cheap, easy and brilliant discovery of the Industrial Revolution and our focus on it killed the earliest electrical cars.  We thought we had found an endless supply of prosperity and the answer to our problems and therefore stopped examining the problem altogether.  I think that the Plant offers us an excellent experimental approach to learning what works in vertical growing and larger scaled closed loop systems.  We should learn all that we can from it, but we should not attempt to replicate exactly the same model elsewhere.  It is still rooted in a system of high energy consumption and resource overconsumption.  Consumption needs to drop.  That is not something that we can not regulate or change through external factors alone, but we need to promote the message that you will need to drive less, eat less and spend less in order to make a real impact on the future health of this planet.

Another destination that was left off of the tour due to time constraints was Blackstone Bicycle Works.  The primary highlight that our tour guides wanted us to note about Blackstone was that bikes have 0 carbon emissions which makes their shop an entirely green enterprise, but their most impressive attribute extends much deeper.  Blackstone was founded in 1994 as a project of the Resource Center which is Chicago’s oldest and longest running non-profit recycler.  In 2001, a fire forced the store to relocate from its 61st and Blackstone location into a trailer coordinated between the Resource Center and the University of Chicago.  When the building at 61st and Blackstone was restored and reconstituted as the Experimental Station, Blackstone returned to the facility and began the process again of growing its youth programming.

This last point is where I think lies the most important attribute and lesson available within Blackstone Bicycle Works.  Since their founding through to the present, they have sought to engage local youth in learning the values of entrepreneurship by employing them in the full scope of bike shop operations.  They operate both an introductory Earn A Bike program where youth can earn a bicycle, lock and helmet for 25 hours of service in the shop while learning the mechanics of bicycle repair as well a more advanced Youth Apprenticeship program where they might be responsible for higher level shop operations, mentoring newer participants and improving the customer experience.  Blackstone is not only repurposing bikes, but expanding opportunity to the youth of the neighborhood to grow and engage in a local enterprise which provides a necessary and affordable service to the community.

Our final stop on the tour was the 65th and Woodlawn Community Garden whose  highlights included local food production and stewardship.  Non-local food production expends a large amount of energy and is one of the greatest contributors to greenhouse gas emissions and by extension climate change.  Through the practice of sustainable and appropriate environmental stewardship, we have the capacity to increase the quantity and quality of edible green space available in our community.  The US has some 21 million acres of land devoted to the growth and tending of home lawns.  If we were to move towards the practice of building edible landscapes throughout our community, how much would that improve both the health outcomes and visual outlook of those communities?  What would be the impact on the crisis of the food desert/food swamp phenomenon?

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Plot Plans during the 2010 expansion

The 65th and Woodlawn Community Garden was originally established in 2006 on a plot of land made available to a community resident by the First Presbyterian Church.  Initially it was just a single family tilling, planting and developing the land, but they have now expanded to over 100 plots each tended by a family given wide license to grow as they please.  In one of the most interesting plots spotted that day, we saw an intricately arranged trellis with an assortment of unusual flowers, vegetables and fruit.  We were later told that this plot was tended by a botanist.

Beyond the two highlights mentioned above, the greatest attribute available to the Garden is its people.  In every instance in which I have visited this location, there is usually a small community of gardeners lounging in some sunny area holding conversation.  Gardeners come in after work to put their hands in the dark earth casting off the stress of the day.  When there is production overflow, the garden has a flag program that allows each owner to designate that some of their plot can be harvested for donation to a food pantry.  While this garden does have a fence surrounding its plots, they have taken unique step of cultivating some items directtly along the exterior of the fence which are available for general community harvesting.  In this way, the fence becomes less of a tool to divide people from one another, but a real point of engagement for community members to expose themselves further to the work of the garden and perhaps obtain plots of their own in the future.

The tour concluded with a dinner provided by Bro. Tsadakeeyah and some rousing discussion on each of our views about the locations we explored that day as we sat around a large handmade serving table at the Bronzeville Community Garden.  If you did not have an opportunity to take part in this year’s tour, I am certain that they will revisit the journey again when warmer weather returns next year.  It is necessary that we should know where these locations are and be aware of their activities so that as they expand and develop the resources around us, we can hold them accountable as a community.  We must also be accountable to them by providing our time, resources, connections and energy in order to sustain their efforts.  Our unresponsive city government provides a well founded example of what happens when we outsource the process of change to a bureaucracy.  Eventually the bureaucracy decides that it can move more expediently without our input and goes through every effort to circumvent our voice.  If we remain vigilant, forward thinking and aware, our fate cannot be dictated by any force outside of our community who may not have the best interest of that community in mind.


33 Things I Keep When Giving Myself Away Within The World

by The AOMuse

Meet Bassey Ikpi.  Perhaps you know her already.  I am on the late train for I was never really a faithful viewer of Def Poetry Jam.  Over the past year of a greatly expanded exploration of authorship, I have found myself discovering an increasing number of intriguing spaces in the social network.  I cannot recall where I initially spied the first bread crumb which caused me to subscribe to her Twitter feed, but the first piece of her writing which I ever read was here.

There is a hard habit I have of finding writers I adore in every spare corner of the universe and fawning over each living inclination of their pen.  I ain’t saying that this is true in this particular instance, but it is always possible.  Therefore I keep myself guarded against it.  I was so very inspired by Bassey’s magnanimous birthday entry subtitled “35 Things I need to Know and Remember”.  I knew I must eventually codify a set of my own.

I believe that I was in a conversation with a friend and while making mention of Bassey’s post, I started to rattle off the first 5 in number.  The other 26 came later on the bus ride home.  I could not figure how many I should do 31 or 32 since most of you know that I have chosen to age backwards, but I have settled on the happy medium of 33 for the sake of posterity.  I’m sure Jah’kaya won’t be wanting a 24 year old father when she turns 15.  You can laugh at me on that note.  Believe me.  I’m cracking up inside.  33 puts me two years ahead of my last birthday.  I’ll revisit you all again here at 34.  Maybe.  If the mood strikes me.

  1. Build a full life.
  2. Enjoy it.
  3. Remind yourself to revisit thing 2 often.
  4. Inform someone else how you accomplished thing 1.
  5. All other things are optional
  6. Make magic from the periphery.  Never claim credit.  If they query you about your gift, remember the credo: “a magician always reveals his/her secrets”.
  7. Play each instrument intuitively.  If someone corrects you, tell them you are both right.
  8. Always take the last dance.  At just the precise moment, give it freely to someone who is not dancing.
  9. Sarcasm is necessary when profanity would find itself intellectually less acute and impactful.  Keep at least three witty retorts in a shirt or pants pocket in case of emergency.
  10. Laughter is a panacea.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha your way to a healing.
  11. Use these first 10 steps to expand the space between you and your child for a fragment of time.  You will inevitably have a lecture for them when you return.
  12. Dance to the music.
  13. Make music to which others can dance.
  14. Muscle memory is your friend.
  15. Tiger Balm for easier mornings.
  16. Practice perfect.  Someday you won’t even be close.
  17. Make an excuse to write.  Accuse your distractions openly of conspiring against you.
  18. Make fun of yourself for talking to inanimate objects.
  19. In life, utility is a higher place than longevity.
  20. Nothing wasted, nothing wanted.
  21. Take a big risk, fall on your face, then take a big risk again.  You already know how the ground feels.
  22. Freestyle awkwardly.
  23. Burn that sh*t down and start over.
  24. F’ these rules maann!
  25. We need more cowbell.
  26. Silliness trumps seriousness.
  27. Remember to write it down.  If you forget to write it down and later forget what you have forgotten, forget about your forgetfulness for you will have another brilliant idea tomorrow.
  28. Children are founts of endlessly flowing youth.  Barter a few more cupfuls of life from them by offering forth your carefree moments of child’s play.
  29. Call your mother.
  30. Now is as good a time as any to be the rockstar you wanted to be in high school.
  31. Sleep needs you.  You wouldn’t want it to get lonely because you weren’t there.
  32. Put everything you are into everything you do.  Leave blood, soul and bone fragment upon the dance floor.
  33. Business never personal is a misnomer.  If you could leave your person behind, you wouldn’t have much business to conduct.  Accept the gifts you bring with you and recognize that others should compensate you well for them.  Compensation is not simply monetary.  Make it your business to honor your personal every time.


Reflections on the Aya Leadership Development Overnight Camp

by The AOMuse

I’m just going back here to get some Golden-nod and that’s it. ~ Jah’kaya Sirius Tekhen as she wondered along the backyard fence while I was gardening

In my previous entry This I Believe: Community & Relationships, I introduced you to an organization called the Aya Leadership Development Institute.  At the time, we were conducting Thursday camping classes with the children which included lessons on establishing a campsite and firemaking, water procurement and treatment, first aid, compass and map reading, and self defense.  As a reward to both the children and ourselves, we managed to squeeze in a trip to the Chicago Children’s Museum on one of their Target Thursdays bypassing an additional class before our overnight camp.  The children had a wonderful time creating pottery, climbing through the multilevel exploratory maze, building small frame houses and engaging in every tactile exhibit the location had to offer until the shout of closing hour shuffled us all from the museum.

On the weekend of September 10th, we took the children out to the Black Oaks Center Eco-Campus for their overnight camping excursion.  As I now stand on the other side of that trip, I sat down to assemble some thoughts about the trip which would convey the invigorating communal feeling it inspired within me.  I am certain that I wasn’t alone in this regard as the conversations occurring not only between we adults, but also the children were potent.  I made a remark at one point to my fellow parents around the morning fire that after the children had spent 4 hours cooking breakfast, sharing their visions on sustainability and visiting each other’s tent, not a single child had made complaint of their boredom.  While I cheated and spent some time in my iPod listening to a few podcasts, no child was lost to an electronic device.  Everyone was included and engaged in the doings of their youthful collective.

Our journey started with the drive to the campsite.  I rented a car which would serve as transport for myself, Jah’kaya, Mama Mecca and her son Masani.  The trip to Pembroke Township is a short stretch of about 2 hours from Chicago.  Masani and Jah’kaya used part of that time to chat each other up, but it wasn’t long before they were both lost to slumber.  Mecca and I were engrossed in one of our ongoing dialogues on community, love, the village or some other concept that looms too large to be covered in a single conversation.

We arrived later than anticipated at the site and met up with the Rashids: Baba Kamau, Mama Safia, Dumasani, Afua and Candace.  As the sun was making a slow sojourn through the western sky preparing for the onset of nightfall, we scrambled to set about raising the tents before the light completely escaped us.  I positioned the car facing the grounds and turned on the headlights so that we would not be forced to grope about in total darkness and began to unload resources from the trunk.  All hands were on deck.  Children assisted adults and adults assisted each other trading tent stakes, sleeping bags and by the final hour even children.

After the tents were set and I ensured no further assistance was needed of me, I mentioned to Jah’kaya that my head was aching and I was going to lie down.  The others lit a fire and gathered the children around for a small discussion while I lay in my tent attempting to repair from the Food Hub fatigue of the day.  Jah’kaya informed me that she would be spending the night with Mecca and Masani to which I offered no dispute.

I arose sometime around 2 or 3 am having slept off my malady and decided to make an attempt at reading.  Dawn was creeping over us leisurely, but there was still not illumination sufficient outside to accomplish this task and holding a flashlight was neither comfortable nor desirable.  I wished silently that I had acted on the foresight to purchase the hanging tent lantern briefly glanced at Target.  I moved instead to the car to add a few bars of charge to the iPod while attempting further to catch up on the news of the day before sliding back into a pre-dawn catnap.

My fellow campers roused from their dormancy about two hours later and began preparing the grounds for breakfast.  The fire from the previous evening was rekindled, mess holes were dug and designated for male and female, an area for trash and organic matter was set aside and cooking utensils prepared.  The children yawned, stretched, chatted and wiped the sleep from their eyes.  The morning air was cool as the sun walked timidly towards us exposing its full glare by noon which would send us shedding the layers we had assumed earlier in the day.

Over the fire, we prepared oatmeal and boiled eggs.  I had an assortment of fresh and dried fruit as well as a hefty bag of cinnamon granola.  One of the local dogs showed up at the campsite and with boyish exuberance, I invited him to run back with me to the Eco-Campus where I could stow him in the pen while we set about completing breakfast.  I knocked on the door to the Carter’s cabin to invite them over for breakfast and the sustainability chat with the children and headed back to the grounds.

We sat the children down and everyone passed around breakfast items as we began our discussion on sustainability.  We presented the children simple questions of their awareness of global warming and ways that humans can adapt to the changing realities on the planet allowing them each to offer answers.  Dumasani clearly reigned as the lead analyst of future technologies for our budding collective.  The others offered fantastic ideas as well on planting crops and trees and learning how to better manage scarce resources.

They wwith Baba Kamau and Mama Safia to conduct wild food foraging while Mecca and I stayed at base camp to clean the breakfast utensils and dish ware.  Perhaps I should be more accurate.  Mama Mecca started the dishes and she retained my services at base camp to lug around a hefty container of well water.  At the Eco-Campus, we bumped into a host of other Pembroke townsfolk including Mama Iya and Baba Ifalowo along with a few friends of theirs whose names fail me at this moment.

Mama Jifunza was prepping for lunch in the outdoor kitchen.  Baba Fred was gathering water jugs for refilling.  Akin was going on a teenage tear about his dogs being put into the pen with others who had mange.  We were all consulting each other about the best activities for the children to engage in later that afternoon finally deciding to give them a tour of the Eco-Campus and explain to them the importance and history of each structure from the main office and the yurt to the newly constructed bi-level community building attached to the indoor kitchen with the wood burning stove.

After socializing for a short while, Mama Mecca and I gathered the water and headed over to the base camp where we found that the foraging team had already returned.  The children made light time moving between the tents and playing cards while the adults cleaned the dishes and put everything away.  Everyone then gathered themselves together and headed over to the outdoor kitchen so that we could begin preparing lunch.

Mama Jifunza was at work on a sauteed root stew with some manner of chili powder to season.  The Rashids had prepped a split pea soup that we made quick work of heating to a comfortable temperature.  The meal was made complete by the arrival of cornbread.  Our entire collective then sat down for a communal meal where we exchanged conversation and enjoyed the company of one another.  The meal was followed by the aforementioned tour of the Eco-Campus facility for the children of both the old and new construction.  They were able to ask questions and learn the role that we desire that they should play in becoming leaders of sustainability within their communities.

Afterwards we gave our farewell to the Carters and the others from Pembroke before heading back to the campsite to break everything down and begin our journey back to the city.  It was a weekend that progressed slowly, but was still much too fast to fully breathe the patient retreat of engaging in a disconnect from the grid.

Recently I have had a number of conversations with associates about the phenomenon of sagging pants and young black men.  In each instance, someone has injected criminalization or monetary restitution into the discussion as a valid means of coercing change in what they classify as detrimental behavior.  I won’t vent my frustration about that sort of intellectual hypocrisy in this present discussion.  I use it only as a means to grasp an understanding of the ways in which Aya is the model of real engagement in changing the behavioral patterns of the youth.

There are perhaps those who would say things such as “Well, your children are different.”  A statement which contains both truth and falsehood.  If our children are markedly different, it is merely a consequence of exposure.  This is a measure of exposure that we have the possibility to offer to all children.  When we as parents place ourselves into the process of molding this clay and show that we are willing to mess our clothes if necessary to enhance the learning experience, the possibilities are limitless what manner of brilliance our children will shine back.

The reward for instilling leadership within children in a small collective is that they branch out and embed these lessons within all of their spaces of play.  My daughter has shown herself eager and willing to tell anyone who will listen, adult or child, about the health benefits of goldenrod.  Does this make my child exceptional?  Yes.  And no.  Whatever rules she has broken on the scale of black pathological statistics, she breaks because she is encouraged not to see these obstacles.  In fact, they aren’t mentioned at all.

This statement of positive intent does not mean that she is sheltered from the brutal reality of the world.  We can raise critical thinkers who can decode racism and sexism when they encounter such things, but we must also be attentive to help them choose social circles which will be grounded in the forms of play that build upon healthy ideals of community, social justice and responsible activity.  Children carry these lessons with them into the world and the more they are able to practice them, the better they will implement them as leaders in spaces where they make new friends and create new circles.

We want our children to become influencers instead of being so subject to the influence of others.  This is Aya (Resourcefulness) Leadership Development.

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The Aya sisters sparking a fire.


This I Believe: Communication & Dance

by The AOMuse

Scene: 79th Street Bus.  A young man sits with book in hand contemplative in his quietude.  The title on the cover reads “The Negritude Poets”.  Earbud deposited firm in the crevice of his listening canal crafting an impervious wall of sound.  He is focused and moving dispassionately towards his destination.

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Scene: Sam Ash Music.  The checkout counter is never the place to begin considering price.  The young man stands before a stringy hair and bearded cashier with items in hand; a wooden block, cowbell, striker, cabasa, claves, and his prize find, a $16 agogo bell.  He calculates his purchase while considering concurrently how he will work the strengths of each instrument into future improvisation.  The clerk asks “So are you primarily a percussionist?”  He pauses for a moment mulling over the question before responding “No.  I’m a dancer.  These are part of my repertoire.”

If I am recollecting my childhood correctly, the obsession began with Morris Day’s “Color of Success”.  The intro to the song leads in with a winding music box before the drum and electric keyboard burst through with that particular brand of mid 80′s orchestral carelessness.  I remember a fragment of a moment in which I am holding a blanket over the whole of my body as I lay fetal upon the living room floor.  When the instrumental break arrived, so did I, exploding up from carpet turned stage moving in frantic abandon to the synthesized soundscape while my mother, siblings and whomever else was in the room experienced deep, joyful, belly bottom laughter.

This moment was closer to age 10 and a performance reserved solely for family.  It would be another 5 years before the act became safe for public consumption.  In the meanwhile, I busied myself with the accidental discovery of what I considered a talent for writing poetry. It became another art carried on in the private space of my thinking quarters exposed only to the blinding daylight when mother would come a calling and wonder at what I had been working so placidly.

Communication.  I was then and remain in many ways now a very shy young man perpetually caught inside of this odd paradox where poetry and movement come easier than mere conversation or the pure, unfettered expression of one’s feelings.  I can discuss game theory, the politics of Negritude, social justice activism or co-parenting with greater latitude than I can contextualize the love for my child, mother or significant other.  Writing and dancing at once become the singular stream of communication flowing outward from me when words find me otherwise silent and unable to communicate.

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The year was 1995 and I was 15 years of age.  The homecoming dance was in full swing when we arrived.  I was accompanied by my date, Theresa, and my cousins Kathy and Pharies.  For the event that evening, I had hijacked my stepfather James’ red and black collared shirt which had a black mesh on the left side that upon close inspection displayed the faint outline of my chest.  Yes.  I thought I was that tough.  Pharies had borrowed my grey suit with the speckled white tie.  This, my first high school dance,  was the grandiose coming out event of my youth as the DJ cascaded down slow dance, line dance, and bounce music while I played the star of a one man show.  Incidentally, a cop car busted the two of us later that night for running a stop sign as we made our way home following an illicit visit to the domicile of two young ladies we had picked up after the dance.

DC in 1998 was a time of reinvention.  I no longer wanted to be Michael.  I came there with the plan to become someone else entirely.  On the first day of AmeriCorps NCCC orientation, when asked my name, I announced “Michael, but folks back home call me Mackadolcheous.”  This would be the first of many a future experiment in personal identity transformation.  The most liberating aspect of this practice was that I was no longer shackled with the burden of casting off any of the baggage from my previous persona.  It was like a clean credit record after 30 and I took liberties to exploit every opportunity available to me.

Dance moved from the simple vanity play of a lonely and confused high school teenager into the thread weaving between multiple identities tying together the shards of my disassembled sanity.  It was no longer sufficient to move only on the occasion when others were also moving.  I needed to dance when I was lonely, angry, happy, hopeless, searching or somber.  My arsenal was a small white battery operated stereo gifted to me by my mother before departing for DC and a backpack filled with compact discs.  I had attached the stereo to a chain which could be slung over my shoulder and chest .  I used this contraption to launch an exploratory mission around the DC Village Campus which sat fixed between Bolling Air Force Base and the Job Corps facility all of which was a short walk uphill to Anacostia.  I would dance in the woods behind the Village or on the building’s rooftop.  I used the brick edge around the pond to test my balance during movement.  While on a short trip from DC to Philadelphia, I danced nearly everyday on the stage outside of the Ile Ife within the Village of Arts and Humanities to the delight of a few neighborhood children.

Chicago saw me chase away the persona known as Mackadolcheous.  With his departure was suppressed my desire to dance for I was again searching now filled with an immense discomfort about how much I had transformed during my time in DC.  Alcohol was a factor.  On one night in particular, I indulged myself into a toxic coma.  I was carried by friends from room to room to prevent discovery of my condition by the Resident Advisors which would mean suspension from the program.  I managed to confuse my destructive behavior and dance as being a twin malfeasance.  Through church, mosque and temple, I ran.  On a single loose night while I was chasing away from the problems in my then relationship, I found myself in the House of Jah Rastafari with a melodious reggae tune on blast as I impressed some young woman with my best moves which even I hadn’t seen in 2 years.

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Fast forward then to when I stopped searching.  The Funky Buddha caught sight of my hips a few times before I moved away from them for greener and cheaper pastures.  The Wild Hare had known my steps halfheartedly.  But it was not until the Debauchery Ball at the Pleasure Dome in 2009 that I would discover how far my body was willing to go if I stopped trying to hinder it behind this facade of self consciousness.  It wanted to move.  It had been craving real movement since the wild days in DC and has not missed a Debauchery Ball since that hour of first dawning light.  Soul Poetry Cafe found itself another milestone for it was there that I met Tracey, the first real dance partner that I ever knew.  I thought I would ever be alone in my desire to get down with such exacting intensity, but between our moves at the Cafe and the Soul in the Hole set later that evening, I knew this was a new world which I had only begun to unearth.

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These days on the floor would lead to my first collective indulgence of House Music.  Yes.  I said first.  I am born in Chicago yet I was raised in the land of New Orleans where brass rules everything around me.  I can’t say that dancing in a Second Line or putting Four on the Floor has the space of much difference between them.  There is still improvisation involved, but the slower natural pattern of jazz allows you stretch out particular movements for longer periods.  Upon my reintroduction to House Music, I became obsessed with not simply the dance, but the language of engagement and interaction that is involved with people in the construct of dancing.  This particular study of people at play lead me to the purchase of the instruments that opened this article and to my theories on communication and dance.
 

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In recent studies, I have been engaging the nuance of words through three works of poetic prose and another text on the history of the English language.  The three poetic works include Nommo: A Literary Legacy of Black Chicago, The Negritude Poets and Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda.  The fourth work of linguistic history is a textual gem entitled Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue by John McWhorter.  Reflecting on the lessons of these works collectively has shown me how nimble and yet inadequate words can be in grappling with the expression of emotions.

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The work of John McWhorter speaks to the fluid and permutable nature of language  as different cultures interact with the language, learn it and leave millions of tiny traces of their dialect scattered about which are then picked up by other speakers of said language hence his description of English as a “bastard tongue”.  I have also come to the notion after reading his text that Negritude and Neruda will ever be slightly beyond my capacity to comprehend to the extent that there is indeed and in fact a thing which is lost in translation.  French and Spanish grammar have a rigorous specificity for conveying meaning which include masculine, feminine and gender neutral word classification as well as copious means for expressing tense that English is ill equipped to know.  Fortunately, it doesn’t matter much because we have already lost meaning when we attempted to encode an emotion into a word when the thing itself defies description.

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Dance is for me a higher and more subtle form of  communication.  In both writing and dancing,  I am searching for a certain minimalism.  I want each of us to reach an understanding in the shortest number of words or steps possible.  We should seek a common ground upon which we stand and when we move together, it is seamless, soundless, timeless and eternal.  Dance is cooperation in these close confines where each of our internal communities may commune together and determine where we fit.  Our steps are measured yet playful.  The eyes are fixed upon your partner for they are comparable to a compass telling you which way they intend to go.  Dance is a language without words.  Dance is raw emotion made manifest.  Community organizing is a dance.  Political activism is a dance.  Parenting is a dance.  Each of these dances has a grammar and a language which must be learned if one is to move successfully.  I believe in dance.  I believe that dance can change the world.

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