Happy Holidays! xx
Entering the Frozen Moment
Between the World and Me
With Halloween around the corner there are all sorts of costumes leering in the forefront. In thinking of Halloween, Ta-Nehisi Coates came to mind rather quickly due to his Black Panther and Captain America series authorship for Marvel comics, published in this decade. It’s rather intriguing that Mr. Coates, who is well known for his vocalization of the black experience in America under the tutelage of white supremacy, is giving voice to Captain America. I’m a fan of Marvel characters on the screen but have not found interest in going through the actual comic books, endless in number. I’m present to the looooooong history of a white superhero narrative in the imaginations of American children due to what was literally being imposed in media, while aspects of being othered threaded the mutant packed imagination of Stan Lee (RIP), connecting individuals in non traditional ways. It looks as though things are diversifying…… but are they really?! Valkyrie may be the LGBT premiere for Marvel, you can now buy Barbie in a wheelchair, and there’s an increase in “non normative identities” in media whatever that means. I’m not convinced that things are enhancing for the marginalized in ways that truly equate to equity. Look at me being all skeptical… Ta-Nehisi’s demeanor rubbed off on me!
I climbed my way into Between the World And Me, an intimate letter from father to [teenage] son published for others to peer into. Initially I found Ta-Nehisi to be very cynical. And angry. The text was emotionally laden with rage and had notable historical references to critical race theory. He knows what he’s talking about as a journalist, researcher and writer; the 3 don’t always necessarily interact at once, so it was pleasing to flow through the pages being engaged both mentally and emotionally. I found his craftsmanship and vulnerability encouraging. I kept reading. He spoke of being an atheist and I was present to fine tuning how my eyes were making meaning of his metaphors and stance towards an iconoclast position. It became easier to understand him symbolically pertaining to his message once I considered the intersections of his various identities. Religion and spirituality, or lack of, gets left out of the conversation too often pertaining to the lens in which a person views the world and the shaping of the psyche. I will perhaps get further into my views on religion and spirituality in another text.
I did not necessarily relate to Ta-Nehisi’s various anecdotes but I was present to aspects of dissociating while reading, in particular during his references to the violence and terror impinged upon the black body and his direct interrogation of what being “white” is in America. It was deep and real in a way that at times literally required me to dissociate in order to not be in an overwhelming state of rage with no release. The continuous onslaught of violence against the black body is real. He spoke of it, named it and interrogated what “black'“ is in America all at once. There was an emphasis on the police. I’d like to add, I have 2-3 friends who are police officers. In this moment I’m associating to non-black individuals who say “but I have 2-3 black friends” lol as if that grants a person a pass pertaining to what they are about to say or just finished saying. I shall continue….. I am in no way anti-cop but I must say, I don’t necessarily feel safer when they are around. I’m a self identified black queer woman, with lengthy locs dangling from my head and alpha/omega energy seeping through my pores. Things have a beginning….in 2003, a week before going away to college, my brother and I stepped out of our front door and found ourselves immediately in front of a young white police officer with his gun pointed at us. The officer, in his own state of shock and incompetence pulled the trigger, which made a swift click sound, as we stood in place with our hands up in mutually shared terror. After screaming at us not to move and to get on the floor, gun still pointed, his partner screamed over to him. His radio was buzzing from his hip. I stared at him, frozen at the realization that he had just attempted to shoot one of us, I was not getting on the floor. If he had been successful my dead body would have been on the floor. I stared. The officer turned to meet his partner, and then strolled 2 houses down. Wrong place at the wrong time! My brother and I drove in silence the hour and a half ride to our grandmothers house. I found solace in sublimation. A year later my brother texted me while watching Crash, told me to go see it because it reminded him of what he termed “my death”. I understand why Ta-Nehisi wrote Between the World and Me and I’m grateful that it’s accessible to the masses.
I have had this reoccurring experience when I truly enjoy pieces of literature & written articles, then meet the writer in person that the hype is short lived lol. I prefer the fantasy over the human condition self imposed on the meet and greet. Yet, when I meet the person then read their work, what a different experience! There’s room for more nuance, tenderness and subjectivity….. perhaps because of the human condition that I just mentioned. Bare with my contradiction. I have heard Mr. Coates speak and don’t think I’ll do that again, it was however convincing enough for me to purchase Between the World and Me. I will continue reading his work, perhaps he will be my intro to the world of comic books. My mind skates to Erykah Badu’s words of wisdom to all: “now keep in mind that I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit”. I keep that in mind when I go to readings, meet and greet’s and talks by authors nowadays. They’re people with real people problems and real people feelings. The appreciation of the work is hopefully expressed here.
I leave off with 2 paintings by the forever talented Nina Chanel Abney, expressive of the literature discussed here:
Anna Karenina
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”
Sound, tempo and movement encompassed my thoughts after reading this timeless piece of literature, specifically Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, second movement. I could embed a different video of Allegretto without the dramatic visuals led by Nicholas Cage but the book is dramatic so it aligns lol albeit in a different manner. I find classical music best enjoyed with my eyes closed… try it for the 9 minutes if you have the time, and then replay it with the visuals.
I dare to ask, “who or what was Tolstoy’s muse when creating this masterpiece?!” Bravo!
Dreams from My Father
I stare out at the rows of never ending buildings and homes from my living room window, taking in Brooklyn. Scents of patchouli and cedarwood faintly twirl under my nostrils as I allow in a moment of reverie from my recliner.
I’m brought back to being in a moderately filled nightclub with my father, our cousin and his wife in Haiti’s capitol. Kompa music is buzzing from every direction and I’m in a state of awe. Women are twirling on the dancefloor, the bar is congested with men waving Haitian gourde and someone is wearing too much cologne; I turn and stare at my cousin, he stares back and smiles. The four of us sit at a small table adjacent to the DJ as my dad waves over to the bartender and signals a man towards us. We delight in each others company sipping on water and Barbancourt as my gaze centers on a couple moving immaculately in unison with the percussion. My dad displays a sly grin on his face then playfully asks me to dance with his hand out. “Ok old man you better keep up, I’ve got kitty heels on tonight”. Our laughter echoes over the music as our hands merge in a procession towards the middle of the dance floor. Now I’ve danced with my father plenty of times but this was the last time and the brain has a tremendous way of remembering first and lasts’ with monumental emotions encompassed within absolute surety of how things unfolded. My phone rings and I’m brought back into the reality of the moment in my recliner.
To consider that exact memory at another time in another place while in another mood would produce a different outcome perhaps. Will the suffocating scent from my cousin’s cologne be as present? Will I recall the pride felt when the owner came over to shake my dad’s hand, with cold bottles of water for the table? Did I really have on kitty heels that night or am I mixing it up with the time we danced at my college teammates wedding in Florida? The multiplicity of a story, the narrative a person speaks and believes while simultaneously feeling various emotions leads me to contemplate my version of truth. “I need to finish reading this Obama book already” I stammer while sitting up to answer my ringing phone.
A week later that’s exactly what I did, finished Dreams from My Father via audiobook because I was tickled at the idea of the 44th President of the United States reading to me. I enjoyed him reading to me and I enjoyed listening to his story told with such mature emotional intelligence; that’s the defining aspect of the book for me, the former Commander-in-Chief’s superb emotional intelligence. I wish I could say more but it would be disingenuous.
Published in 1995 before any campaigning towards a presidency was spoken into existence, there’s an aspect of candor that I imagine would be absent had he known he’d one day be the leader of the U S of A. That’s Shari in 1995’s opinion. During my two year residency in England, I doubt I will ever forget this, I was exposed to a theory that all US Presidents with the exception of Martin Van Buren are related to John, King of England aka King John Platagenet, which gives me a “red or blue pill” Matrix style option while reading Mr. Obama’s memoir present day. Did he write this knowing that he would in fact become President one day? I appreciate that I was visually able to racially identify with a President during my existence. It’s only in the past 10 years that I can say the same about a world leader as it pertains to sexual orientation (s/o to Serbia). How progressive of a world are we living in?
The impact on my psyche, self esteem and aspects of how I connect to resilience are all literally “uplifted” because Mr. Barack Obama ran for presidency and won twice without getting assassinated or impeached while in office. And for that to be shortly followed by the Queen of England’s grandson, Prince Harry, marrying a black woman and producing a black son (I’m going with the 1 drop rule here). This aspect of “color” being on display in the royal family and through their descendants claiming their birthright (insert Obama’s presidency here if I leaned into the aforementioned theory) leaves me in wonderment about politics and tradition in the world. I digress out of recognition that I may sound like a conspiracy theorist or a kook. All this to very directly state, Dreams from My Father was a solid read. I’m a fan of our former President. The audacity for Barack to run for President shall make waves for centuries to come. The systems strategically put into place to disenfranchise and dis-empower individuals, groups and communities based on race is slowly but surely crumbling. Up until 1967 (Loving vs. Virginia) it was not legal in all 52 states for a person of color to marry a white individual, and this year marks 400 years since the first black slave stepped foot on this soil that all of us in America call home. It truly is shocking how slowly we are progressing as a society concerning our tolerance of otherness and the ways in which that otherness is then reflected institutionally in the systems that govern what we learn, how we teach, what we listen to, how our news is angled, etc etc etc.
Headed out now to see if Michelle Obama will read her memoir to me :-) Two thumbs up to our former President. I’ll continue to have his works of literature on my bookshelf.
SACRED VIBES COOKBOOK
The variety of literature that has my actual bookshelf overflowing with information would not be properly represented if I did not highlight the variation found among the different texts. Human behavior and anthropological topics fill up the majority of my shelves concerning content, yet the worn out pages that I interact with most frequently are worn out for a reason; I continue to go back to them time and time again….. those are my gems, cookbooks!
I don’t fancy myself a chef or baker, but I do not hesitate to highlight my ability to create. Read a recipe, interact with the ingredients, be intentional about the task at hand and voila! With the vast amount of cooking shows, cooking competitions, restaurants, food delivery services, food critics, food food food food food it just makes sense that I would have some form of interaction with what I put into my body and the bodies of those I care about. Whether from a perspective of health, vitality, taste, or pleasure food is an easy entry point towards connecting with people. If I do not make my food then I am relying on another person to make my food or I am not eating. That persons energy is going into the food, which is then going into my body. I am from a generation that has access and privilege to order in, microwave, eat out and not necessarily have to put thought into food per say. As I grow and age I am working towards creating from memory and practice, being creative in my form of presentation with plating and discovering all that there is to discover about my palate. And in comes Sacred Vibes Cookbook…….. coordinated in its entirety by my former teacher, Karen Rose, and encompassed by recipes from fellow apprentices.
In full transparency, I have two recipes published in the SV Cookbook. All credit to my parents. I come from a family of great cooks and bakers so being able to make something “taste good” has never garnered admiration in my tribe. Of 9 grandchildren all 9 can cook out of necessity with 7 being able to recreate dishes spanning back to our grandparents. Presentation of that which tastes “good” and the ability to incorporate herbs from our mother country may welcome a comment of praise from the group, but that’s about it. In addition, recipes are held onto so dearly in my culture that sharing with another can be taken as a betrayal. Karen’s ability to make space for women of color to tell their stories and essentially their truth in her consciously welcoming space allows for the universality of that which is private to be released. In a very real sense, her apothecary is inviting & lined on 3 walls with dry herbs that have their roots in indigenous medicinal traditions that surpass the transatlantic slave trade. Her work of making accessible that which has been forgotten by children of the diaspora is commemorable even if you don’t believe in herbal medicine. Good luck on getting into her apprenticeship program if you can’t connect to the spiritual aspects of yourself.
From beginning to end I’ve enjoyed the Sacred Vibes Cookbook. Knowing the stories behind the recipes and the women telling the stories adds an emotional element of joy, pride and transcendent content. It pulls to mind the Combahee River Collective and ways in which women of color have joined together to create beauty, truth and inspiration for future generations. Shout out to the city’s 1st lady Chirlane McCray, an original member of Combahee River Collective back in the 70’s, who went on to publish “I am a Lesbian” in Essence magazine back when being in the LGBTQ community was even more burdensome than it is today concerning safety, rights & [lack of] privilege. Before I diverge further from the cookbook, I share that part of herstory to highlight Karen Rose’s intent to allow for the collective creation of a cookbook infused with not only herbs in every single recipe but also people whom she respects, and wanted to collaborate with. Where are those spaces and places where your sex, gender identity, sexual orientation and race as it exists on a socially constructed spectrum can be celebrated in all of its full glory? I have found that to be present in Karen’s apothecary, Sacred Vibes.
In the Sacred Vibes Cookbook you’ll find desserts, main courses, syrups, concoctions and stories woven into why each recipe exists. I’d recommend for the intermediate/advanced level cook who has access to purchasing numerous ingredients AND has a kitchen equipped with adequate cooking tools. Bravo to you Karen for continuing to create opportunities for women of color to create together in queer friendly spaces.
Below I share a photo from the “Annual Indigenous Day” bake off between my mother and I in which she absolutely annihilates me every year. One of the recipes from the Cookbook is on that table!
Hunger
Wow. Wowowowowowkwkwkwkwksjdjxbxbdbxbxbdbxbxbdbxbxbxbxbdvxhxndbbcjnsbfbfjkdbfnxjdbdzksnbxjsndnbcnddjndnfbfjchjstryuuotipqryhnjkahfiyhohgafhjkhk
That is a sliver of what my brain did while reading this phenomenal memoir. Hunger. Used mostly as a verb throughout the text, with a morsel amount of usage as a noun. The table is set. Shall we?
I am shell-shocked at how delightful reading this was. I experienced the work as comical, sassy, intriguing and intensely traumatizing. How is it that Roxane’s life story, written with such depth & intensity left me grasping for respite?! And as the last page turned I yearned for more. I was literally hungry to read more about Roxane’s life. She’s like my dad’s Pen Patat. She’s like black cod with miso from Nobu. Like Nonna D’s oatmeal lace ice cream. Like a chopped cheese from the bodega on 130th & Lenox. Like watching my guests eat my take on my mom’s homemade mashed potatoes with root vegetables & salmon. SAT-IS-FYING! I’m close to speechless at the ferocity in which she allows the reader to know her at the most unsatisfying junctures in her journey called life. Bingeing, purging, swallowing her trauma. Lonely, isolated, concealed with zeal. The bravery is astounding on the grand stage, page after page. The extent of self loathing that pounced itself around chapter here, paragraph there. At one point four chapters straight she pounded away at each pound of weight; accumulated tactfully day, month, year in & out. There’s no doubt that the torment & suffering was pronounced.
Ms. Gay.... a fellow 1st generation Haitian-American; though our sexual proclivities are not entirely the same her identification as a queer woman sealed the deal in purchasing her memoir opposed to testing it out from my local library or borrowing from a friend. I am going to continue to invest in her. I will continue to recommend her work as a fellow Bad Feminist. Via youtube videos of various talks she has engaged in, I have learned that she has quite a unique online presence via twitter. Yet & still no social media for me but I must admit I’ve looked her up a few times via my little sister’s handles lol. She’s corky with a dash of sarcasm that borders self deprecating in a relatable way, while still leaving a lot to be imagined & experienced. Hunger matched her personality and not all memoirs are true in that form.
What a spectrum of intensity. Chapter 72 was remarkable. Read the book if you haven’t already, there may be another chapter that captures your attention. The critical other, be it inside or out, within or without - allures my curiosity.
Yuen-Sing thank you for sharing this goodness with me!
Skah Shah (a well known Haitian band) stayed on rotation during house parties hosted by my parents during my childhood & was heavily played in our home during my adolescent years. Their music resonates now as I stew in Roxane’s vulnerable creation, Hunger. My identification with her Haitian roots brings up so many raw reverberating feelings and so I choose to share nostalgic music that is both beautiful, depressing & expansive in all of its glory!
Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination
It requires a poem to capture the emotional vicissitude that Toni Morrison’s nonfiction literary work evokes in my right hemisphere. Audre Lorde’s poem helped me sing praise to the great trendsetter of artistic conceptualization of race in America; superb! Might I add, it is her fictional writing that usually entrances the masses. To adore the creative expression of truth surpasses intellect & beauty, I applaud her during my mother’s (and Ms. Morrison’s) birth month as one of our favorite writers:
INHERITENCE-HIS
I.
My face resembles your face
less and less each day. When I was young
no one mistook whose child I was.
Features build coloring
alone among my creamy fine-boned sisters
marked me Byron's daughter.
No sun set when you died, but a door
opened onto my mother. After you left
she grieved her crumpled world aloft
an iron fist sweated with business symbols
a printed blotter dwell in the house of Lord's
your hollow voice changing down a hospital corridor
yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil.
II.
I rummage through the deaths you lived
swaying on a bridge of question.
At seven in Barbados
dropped into your unknown father's life
your courage vault from his tailor's table
back to the sea.
Did the Grenada treeferns sing
your 15th summer as you jumped ship
to seek your mother
finding her too late
surrounded with new sons?
Who did you bury to become the enforcer of the law
the handsome legend
before whose raised arm even trees wept
a man of deep and wordless passion
who wanted sons and got five girls?
You left the first two scratching in a treefern's shade
the youngest is a renegade poet
searching for your answer in my blood.
My mother's Grenville tales
spin through early summer evenings.
But you refused to speak of home
of stepping proud Black and penniless
into this land where only white men
ruled by money. How you labored
in the docks of the Hotel Astor
your bright wife a chambermaid upstairs
welded love and survival to ambition
as the land of promise withered
crashed the hotel closed
and you peddle dawn-bought apples
from a push-cart on Broadway.
Does an image of return
wealthy and triumphant
warm your chilblained fingers
as you count coins in the Manhattan snow
or is it only Linda
who dreams of home?
When my mother's first-born cries for milk
in the brutal city winter
do the faces of your other daughters dim
like the image of the treeferned yard
where a dark girl first cooked for you
and her ash heap still smells of curry?
III.
Did the secret of my sisters steal your tongue
like I stole money from your midnight pockets
stubborn and quaking
as you threaten to shoot me if I am the one?
The naked lightbulbs in our kitchen ceiling
glint off your service revolver
as you load whispering.
Did two little dark girls in Grenada
dart like flying fish
between your averted eyes
and my pajamaless body
our last adolescent summer?
Eavesdropped orations
to your shaving mirror
our most intense conversations
were you practicing how to tell me
of my twin sisters abandoned
as you had been abandoned
by another Black woman seeking
her fortune Grenada Barbados
Panama Grenada.
New York City.
IV.
You bought old books at auctions
for my unlanguaged world
gave me your idols Marcus Garvey Citizen Kane
and morsels from your dinner plate
when I was seven.
I owe you my Dahomeyan jaw
the free high school for gifted girls
no one else thought I should attend
and the darkness that we share.
Our deepest bonds remain
the mirror and the gun.
V.
An elderly Black judge
known for his way with women
visits this island where I live
shakes my hand, smiling.
'I knew your father,' he says
'quite a man!' Smiles again.
I flinch at his raised eyebrow.
A long-gone woman's voice
lashes out at me in parting
'You will never be satisfied
until you have the whole world
in your bed!'
Now I am older than you were when you died
overwork and silence exploding your brain.
You are gradually receding from my face.
Who were you outside the 23rd Psalm?
Knowing so little
how did I become so much
like you?
Your hunger for rectitude
blossoms into rage
the hot tears of mourning
never shed for you before
your twisted measurements
the agony of denial
the power of unshared secrets.
-Audre Lorde
ATTACHED.
I would imagine in years to come that this will be one of those books that are seen in the offices of various clinicians, catching dust on the shelf - waiting to be opened by someone. I’m realizing I don’t keep books in my office because people are the only thing I’m reading when I’m in there, original usage of the word read not the Urban Dictionary definition lol. The title of the book captures everything you need to know about its content, “Attached……The New Science of Adult Attachment”. Let’s take a swim through the pages.
Of all the books that I talk to my clients about, this one is top shelf. The authors put what can be confusing psychobabble into laymen terms and gift wrap what for some is a semester learned of attachment theory into less than 500 pages. Impressive considering the scientific accuracy, connection to the current times, and ease towards reading. In fact this happens to be one of the books I encourage my clients in relationships to read WITH their partner/s. It’s insightful, straight to the point and again I highlight that it is relevant to the times we live in. I have found that the textbooks, journal articles and research studies that primed me for my profession carry an archaic vibration that I find easy (thank goodness) to translate, but only from my own decoding capabilities. “Attached” makes attachment theory easy for those who are not engrossed in professions or studies of human behavior, and has tangible applications for the reader based on the books structure.
What happens when you get activated? Why do you physically avoid your crush when you actually desire them? Shall you text back immediately or will it make you appear needy? Do you mind appearing needy? Etc Etc Etc In this day and age when ghosting is prevalent, monogamous relationships are no longer sine qua non & social media’s influence on Generation X (and generations to follow) has increased the expectations of instant gratification, how do some of the early theorists stay alive and prevalent while the times are changing? Shall they turn into ghosts or remain ancestors to theories that have laid the foundation of how we view and study human behavior? I must say, I am a big fan of attachment theory. The work of Mary Ainsworth vis-à-vis John Bowlby (Tavistock Clinic alums seem to be everywhere!) goes back to Africa, Uganda specifically. Ainsworth studied the child rearing practices and all that comes with mothering in the first 2 years of a childs life entirely informed by observation and limited linguistic connection to the people she interacted with. When her findings were released she was not met with enthusiasm and a concentration and criticism towards how to conceptualize “attachment” clouded her innovative work and findings essentially by a room filled with men (cough cough patriarchy is that you hiding over there?) Yet she was able, with the support of John Bowlby, to expand on his work into what is today’s generally accepted model of maternal-infant attachment and it’s long lasting, sometimes irritating if you’re not securely attached, prevalence on adult behaviors. I loop back around to the book at hand, “Attached” and the knowing that is felt, thought and carried out when a person is attached to another.
I am hopeful that there will be an expansion of experiments observing and documenting early maternal-infant dynamics to include non-traditional aspects of “mothering”, that will integrate into the cemented foundation of attachment theory. We are living in a world filled with nannies, grandmothers as primary caretakers, older siblings as caretakers, children birthing children and various shadow parenting practices. “Attached” was a good read, I reference it often and I’d highly recommend it to anyone wanting to know a bit more about themselves.