Uncle James got his big F-150 pickup truck stuck in a ditch along the side of the old country road. A man from town, Ed, came along on Ol’ Bessie, his mule, surveyed the scene, and told Uncle James he and Ol’ Bessie would pull his truck from the ditch. Uncle James looked at his mud-lodged truck then took a look at Ol’ Bessie and doubted very seriously that she could pull the truck out. Nonetheless, Uncle James hooked the mule’s bridle to the chassis of his truck. After instructing Uncle James to start and steer the truck, Ed began to yell, “Jericho, ha! Beauty, go! Good girl, Bessie, ha!” Within minutes, the truck was pulled from the ditch and an amazed Uncle James unhitched the truck from Ol’ Bessie. Curiosity getting the best of him, Uncle James asked Ed why he’d yelled all the other horses’ names, to which Ed replied, “Oh, Ol’ Bessie’s blind. If she’d thought she was alone, she never would’ve pulled.”
-- Dr. Mark Milliron
You are not alone. You are joined in your efforts by countless others who want better and supported by millions who seek more. You may find yourself out front, ahead of the crowd, and the voice that’s most often heard, but, rest assured, you do not stand alone.
Beside you are warriors and warriorettes who get it. They get that you keep long, late hours, that you’re focused and fierce, and that you can’t stop even if you wanted to. They get it because they can’t stop either. You’ve got advocates behind you, pushing you onward and ahead. They stand behind you trusting your leadership and direction, urging you toward the goal with vigor and momentum. And underneath you are shoulders and backs as gentle as rain, yet as sturdy as steel, holding you up to do the best work you can. None of them would dare leave you alone.
Sure, at times it may seem you’re alone, that you’re doing it all by yourself. Your tasks may feel too hard, too big, or too much to carry, like you may drop the load and your sanity at any moment and there’ll be no one there to catch either, or to even tell you it’s okay and that life goes on. But you persist just because that’s what you do. And because you know you’re not in this fight alone. You listen for the voices and cheers of the ones who know you. You listen for the sweet whisper of Jesus. You place faith in your efforts then pull with all your might to get out and stay out of the holes and on solid, stable, and certain ground.
You aren’t alone. Power, seen and unseen, surrounds and empowers you and it’s fully activated when you pull.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Feb 13, 2008
Feb 7, 2008
Give me a clean heart so I may serve Thee. Lord, fix my heart so that I may be used by Thee. For I’m not worthy of all these blessings. Give me a clean heart, and I’ll follow thee.
-- Margaret J. Douroux
“Lord, what is my place and purpose in your world? How do I make my stand in this selfish place? How do I make them see me? How do I make them hear me? Lord, I know that we all must struggle, but, dear Jesus, how much does my heart have to take?
“A Black woman’s stretch in this world, Jesus, is hard. I’m denied, devalued, belittled... I’m distraught. They say I’m less than a woman, that I’m callous, rough around all my edges and unfeminine. But Lord, you made me, you made me a woman, due all the tenderness of my gender. They say that I’m the cause of the increase in government subsidies because I have too many babies and they want to put some kind of implant in my arm that will stop my God-given birthing process. They say I can’t take care of my female-run household, that my children, my boys, turn out to be criminals and jailbirds, and all my girls are made to do is turn tricks. They say I’m promiscuous and I’m keeping AIDS alive as I die in phenomenal numbers. They call me cantankerous, loud, unruly. They say my life is sub-standard and my education is second, third or no class. They think I’m only capable of being somebody’s nursemaid or answering somebody’s phone. And they always place me at the bottom of the economic rung, giving me the crumbs of America’s spicy apple pie.
“Lord, brothers say I’m a gold-digger because I sometimes seek the finer things on their account. Or, either I’m too big or sedity because I set goals and accomplished them. They call me out of my name – “bitch” this and “ho” that; they pass my lovin’ over for other women. Brothers beat me, rape me, then leave me and my children to stomach this cruel world alone.
“My sisters who ride in the same boat with me, Lord? They eye me up and down, they talk behind my back -- they say the stuff to my face! They don’t trust me; they compete with me; they think they’re better than me. Sisters knock me down when I’m climbing the ladder and laugh at me when I’ve reached the ceiling. They vie for my man, dragging me through mud and agony to get him.
“Lord, my own people, these brothers and sisters, say I’m ugly, that I ain’t nothing. And if I’m a dark-complexioned sister, I gotta stay back because light is right; my God-given color separates me within my own race.
“Jesus, my heart is heavy. I come to you because I don’t know what to do. I’m battered by society and my own people disrespect me. I need strength. I need your strength, Lord. Fill me up with your compassion and forgiveness so that I can forgive all those who hurt me. Fill me with confidence so that I don’t defeat myself. Lord, I need you to see for me because I can’t see past my pain. Jesus, be my shield, cover me, to protect me from the blows to my psyche and physical self. Then fix me so I can touch somebody else and help them weather the storm. Work in me Lord. Breathe on me. Clean my heart. Amen.”
Sadiqqa © 1997
-- Margaret J. Douroux
“Lord, what is my place and purpose in your world? How do I make my stand in this selfish place? How do I make them see me? How do I make them hear me? Lord, I know that we all must struggle, but, dear Jesus, how much does my heart have to take?
“A Black woman’s stretch in this world, Jesus, is hard. I’m denied, devalued, belittled... I’m distraught. They say I’m less than a woman, that I’m callous, rough around all my edges and unfeminine. But Lord, you made me, you made me a woman, due all the tenderness of my gender. They say that I’m the cause of the increase in government subsidies because I have too many babies and they want to put some kind of implant in my arm that will stop my God-given birthing process. They say I can’t take care of my female-run household, that my children, my boys, turn out to be criminals and jailbirds, and all my girls are made to do is turn tricks. They say I’m promiscuous and I’m keeping AIDS alive as I die in phenomenal numbers. They call me cantankerous, loud, unruly. They say my life is sub-standard and my education is second, third or no class. They think I’m only capable of being somebody’s nursemaid or answering somebody’s phone. And they always place me at the bottom of the economic rung, giving me the crumbs of America’s spicy apple pie.
“Lord, brothers say I’m a gold-digger because I sometimes seek the finer things on their account. Or, either I’m too big or sedity because I set goals and accomplished them. They call me out of my name – “bitch” this and “ho” that; they pass my lovin’ over for other women. Brothers beat me, rape me, then leave me and my children to stomach this cruel world alone.
“My sisters who ride in the same boat with me, Lord? They eye me up and down, they talk behind my back -- they say the stuff to my face! They don’t trust me; they compete with me; they think they’re better than me. Sisters knock me down when I’m climbing the ladder and laugh at me when I’ve reached the ceiling. They vie for my man, dragging me through mud and agony to get him.
“Lord, my own people, these brothers and sisters, say I’m ugly, that I ain’t nothing. And if I’m a dark-complexioned sister, I gotta stay back because light is right; my God-given color separates me within my own race.
“Jesus, my heart is heavy. I come to you because I don’t know what to do. I’m battered by society and my own people disrespect me. I need strength. I need your strength, Lord. Fill me up with your compassion and forgiveness so that I can forgive all those who hurt me. Fill me with confidence so that I don’t defeat myself. Lord, I need you to see for me because I can’t see past my pain. Jesus, be my shield, cover me, to protect me from the blows to my psyche and physical self. Then fix me so I can touch somebody else and help them weather the storm. Work in me Lord. Breathe on me. Clean my heart. Amen.”
Sadiqqa © 1997
Feb 5, 2008
The genius of our foremothers and forefathers was ... to equip black folk with cultural armor to beat back the demons of hopelessness, meaninglessness, and lovelessness.
-- Cornel West
It was the sincerest prayer of your great, great grandmother that you would never have to see the days that she did and you’d be free of the suffering she endured. She prayed that you would never be stripped of your identity or dignity. She called on God that you’d never be ripped from your home and family, and that your children would remain by your side giving you the privilege of knowing and loving on your grandchildren and their children. Your greatest grandmothers stood all the pain, insult, rape, violence, exploitation, disrespect, and disregard they could so that you would have and know better.
The appeals of your great, great grandfather were very similar and he also implored God to help you learn a trade, own a piece of land, and be able to take whatever was thrown at you, be that chains and whips, Black codes, burning crosses, ropes strung across large Southern Magnolia trees, Jim Crow laws, water hoses and German Shepherds, Bull Conners, public housing, Ronald Reagans, racial profiling, and the national and international media. Your greatest granddads held their breath, held their fire, and held tightly to hope so that you would have a chance to live your best life.
Your task – your only job – is to wear the armor they painstakingly made for you, made to protect you from the way things may have changed but the way things are still the same. The armor is made for defending yourself against the way the world tries to define you and place you in its restrictive box. You must wear the specially-made protective covering that keeps you safe from physical, mental, and sexual abuse, the armor of information and transparency that shields your children from the same violence and its pain and confusion.
You must put on the steelplate that helps to combat complacency, apathy, and mediocrity – none of which mean us any good. Use your armor to guard against working any old job just to make ends meet; Great, Great Mama and Great, Great Daddy worked hard so that we would have and could exercise viable choices. There’s no need to work on somebody else’s land. You’re covered and protected to work your own. And though there’s a housing crisis in America made just for us, get you some land and a house. You’re suited up to keep them!
Big Mama and Big Daddy didn’t make no chumps in cheap clothing!
Your tailor-made armor was made of love and hope. It was made pliable so you’d have growing room, discriminatingly porous so the good stuff could penetrate the steel, and the pattern is simple enough so you can duplicate it for your children. Though the armor may have remnants of hopelessness unconsciously soldered into its steel and that despair somehow, on any given day, seeps into your blood, know your foreparents did the best they could. Pray it off, get some therapy, and move on. To do less is to give in and assert weakness, and that’s not who we are!
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Cornel West
It was the sincerest prayer of your great, great grandmother that you would never have to see the days that she did and you’d be free of the suffering she endured. She prayed that you would never be stripped of your identity or dignity. She called on God that you’d never be ripped from your home and family, and that your children would remain by your side giving you the privilege of knowing and loving on your grandchildren and their children. Your greatest grandmothers stood all the pain, insult, rape, violence, exploitation, disrespect, and disregard they could so that you would have and know better.
The appeals of your great, great grandfather were very similar and he also implored God to help you learn a trade, own a piece of land, and be able to take whatever was thrown at you, be that chains and whips, Black codes, burning crosses, ropes strung across large Southern Magnolia trees, Jim Crow laws, water hoses and German Shepherds, Bull Conners, public housing, Ronald Reagans, racial profiling, and the national and international media. Your greatest granddads held their breath, held their fire, and held tightly to hope so that you would have a chance to live your best life.
Your task – your only job – is to wear the armor they painstakingly made for you, made to protect you from the way things may have changed but the way things are still the same. The armor is made for defending yourself against the way the world tries to define you and place you in its restrictive box. You must wear the specially-made protective covering that keeps you safe from physical, mental, and sexual abuse, the armor of information and transparency that shields your children from the same violence and its pain and confusion.
You must put on the steelplate that helps to combat complacency, apathy, and mediocrity – none of which mean us any good. Use your armor to guard against working any old job just to make ends meet; Great, Great Mama and Great, Great Daddy worked hard so that we would have and could exercise viable choices. There’s no need to work on somebody else’s land. You’re covered and protected to work your own. And though there’s a housing crisis in America made just for us, get you some land and a house. You’re suited up to keep them!
Big Mama and Big Daddy didn’t make no chumps in cheap clothing!
Your tailor-made armor was made of love and hope. It was made pliable so you’d have growing room, discriminatingly porous so the good stuff could penetrate the steel, and the pattern is simple enough so you can duplicate it for your children. Though the armor may have remnants of hopelessness unconsciously soldered into its steel and that despair somehow, on any given day, seeps into your blood, know your foreparents did the best they could. Pray it off, get some therapy, and move on. To do less is to give in and assert weakness, and that’s not who we are!
Sadiqqa © 2008
Feb 4, 2008
Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead.
-- Joss Whedon
Passion. Intimate, tender and soft passion. Sensual passion that causes you to look at yourself and your life differently than you did the moment before so that you decipher what life really means and put every moment into permanent perspective.
Perfect passion that causes you to lose your composure and reveal your deepest secret, the one you’ve hidden from day and only discharged at night, while the sheets covered you and no one could hear, unleashing desires held hostage, that makes you free to express yourself in ways that only your Soul can openly and willingly pronounce, barring no holds just to keep your Soul full and free.
Passion that feels so sentimental that as you reach your peak, you experience an intensity so incredible that it can only be expressed by crying – crying that releases emotions kept even from your Self, as something inside your Soul won’t let you hold back your cry for if you do, you may die, but knowing if you cry, you can hold on tighter, ball your fists, tighten your body and let go of this fire demanding release, shuddering and frowning as it flows from the top of your lock to the corner of your toe, causing you to implode and transform...
Passion that takes you by such surprise that you can’t speak, can barely hear but what you do hear is your Soul beckoning your response, and you hear your honey even though he didn’t speak but you are so intertwined that you can hear his answers to your passion, and you realize how hungry you’ve been and now that you’ve been fed, no other taste will do. And you want nothing more than this, not even air or water because you know you are now the woman God wants you to be, the lover you’ve longed to show, and this is the man you want forever ‘cause the mesh you and he are creating is so complete and perfect that you’re actually making love to your Self...
Passion that takes your emotional virginity, that traps you and makes you comprehend the song the robin sings and makes the sounds around you feel like they were created to accentuate your pleasure. Sounds that usually annoy but right now inform you of how everything in this universe was created to complement your passion, even that cricket creaking for his mate so that he too can liberate his passion... passion that makes you realize “I love you” is not exclusive or thorough enough, and certainly you and honey can create a phrase that better encompasses what is go’n on right here...
Passion that offers no explanation for its existence, that only requires you to breathe it and be it, that sounds like your name to the 500th power, that is the silence in a crowded world where no one can hear you but the one who has met your passion and feeds it...
Passion that keeps the hurt away, that rocks you like a baby, that sings you to sleep, that holds your hand as you cross the water, that goes to the valley with you, that clears your vision so you can see, that keeps the cobwebs out of your heart, that spells you words, finishes your sentences and gives meaning to your personal essay. Passion that requires you to put your feet forward and walk, that won’t let you give less than your best and if you did passion couldn’t sign its name to it and you’d be without which is like dying before you reach your promise. Passion that smiles at you because you know you’re right and good and have so much more to show in the name of passion... Passion, to be treated well for passion is like a well that was created by a boundless, infinite God whose passion is indefinable and dealt to you so that you can get the real feel of what God is all about... intimate, tender, soft, sensual... passion...
Sadiqqa © 1998
-- Joss Whedon
Passion. Intimate, tender and soft passion. Sensual passion that causes you to look at yourself and your life differently than you did the moment before so that you decipher what life really means and put every moment into permanent perspective.
Perfect passion that causes you to lose your composure and reveal your deepest secret, the one you’ve hidden from day and only discharged at night, while the sheets covered you and no one could hear, unleashing desires held hostage, that makes you free to express yourself in ways that only your Soul can openly and willingly pronounce, barring no holds just to keep your Soul full and free.
Passion that feels so sentimental that as you reach your peak, you experience an intensity so incredible that it can only be expressed by crying – crying that releases emotions kept even from your Self, as something inside your Soul won’t let you hold back your cry for if you do, you may die, but knowing if you cry, you can hold on tighter, ball your fists, tighten your body and let go of this fire demanding release, shuddering and frowning as it flows from the top of your lock to the corner of your toe, causing you to implode and transform...
Passion that takes you by such surprise that you can’t speak, can barely hear but what you do hear is your Soul beckoning your response, and you hear your honey even though he didn’t speak but you are so intertwined that you can hear his answers to your passion, and you realize how hungry you’ve been and now that you’ve been fed, no other taste will do. And you want nothing more than this, not even air or water because you know you are now the woman God wants you to be, the lover you’ve longed to show, and this is the man you want forever ‘cause the mesh you and he are creating is so complete and perfect that you’re actually making love to your Self...
Passion that takes your emotional virginity, that traps you and makes you comprehend the song the robin sings and makes the sounds around you feel like they were created to accentuate your pleasure. Sounds that usually annoy but right now inform you of how everything in this universe was created to complement your passion, even that cricket creaking for his mate so that he too can liberate his passion... passion that makes you realize “I love you” is not exclusive or thorough enough, and certainly you and honey can create a phrase that better encompasses what is go’n on right here...
Passion that offers no explanation for its existence, that only requires you to breathe it and be it, that sounds like your name to the 500th power, that is the silence in a crowded world where no one can hear you but the one who has met your passion and feeds it...
Passion that keeps the hurt away, that rocks you like a baby, that sings you to sleep, that holds your hand as you cross the water, that goes to the valley with you, that clears your vision so you can see, that keeps the cobwebs out of your heart, that spells you words, finishes your sentences and gives meaning to your personal essay. Passion that requires you to put your feet forward and walk, that won’t let you give less than your best and if you did passion couldn’t sign its name to it and you’d be without which is like dying before you reach your promise. Passion that smiles at you because you know you’re right and good and have so much more to show in the name of passion... Passion, to be treated well for passion is like a well that was created by a boundless, infinite God whose passion is indefinable and dealt to you so that you can get the real feel of what God is all about... intimate, tender, soft, sensual... passion...
Sadiqqa © 1998
Feb 1, 2008
We should emphasize not Negro History, but the Negro in history. What we need is not a history of selected races or nations, but the history of the world void of national bias, race hate, and religious prejudice.
-- Carter Woodson
In The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B Dubois asked, “Would America have been America without the Negro people?” Would America be privy to and enlightened by Black culture – music, art, literature, religion, food, etc. – without Africans in America? Would America be even more narrow-minded and stifled if Black people did not present at the national table; challenge deceitful, discriminatory, and inequitable values and behaviors that hurt the least of us; and hold accountable those entrusted to act on the nation’s behalf? Would America be the “superpower” she is without African Americans on her soil, having dug in, up, and through her soil?
As we begin this year’s celebration of Black history, keep at the front of your mind that Black people were and are at the heart of – if not the heart of – making America what it was and is. We keep this country on its toes. We keep it functioning at full speed. We keep it poised to make proper and righteous decisions for its people and peoples around the world. Because of the history upon which we stand – the history that gave us all civil rights, because of the spirit with which we continue to carry the flame – the fire for which each human being will have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, because this is our country and “’I, too, sing America,’” we confidently wave the flag, sing the national anthem, vote from our consciousness, walk a path of freedom, and vigorously challenge inequity, bigotry and any other -try that stands in the way of progress for us and the country we painstakingly built. For the next 29 days rest of your life, keep at the front of your mind that Black history is American history.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Carter Woodson
In The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B Dubois asked, “Would America have been America without the Negro people?” Would America be privy to and enlightened by Black culture – music, art, literature, religion, food, etc. – without Africans in America? Would America be even more narrow-minded and stifled if Black people did not present at the national table; challenge deceitful, discriminatory, and inequitable values and behaviors that hurt the least of us; and hold accountable those entrusted to act on the nation’s behalf? Would America be the “superpower” she is without African Americans on her soil, having dug in, up, and through her soil?
As we begin this year’s celebration of Black history, keep at the front of your mind that Black people were and are at the heart of – if not the heart of – making America what it was and is. We keep this country on its toes. We keep it functioning at full speed. We keep it poised to make proper and righteous decisions for its people and peoples around the world. Because of the history upon which we stand – the history that gave us all civil rights, because of the spirit with which we continue to carry the flame – the fire for which each human being will have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, because this is our country and “’I, too, sing America,’” we confidently wave the flag, sing the national anthem, vote from our consciousness, walk a path of freedom, and vigorously challenge inequity, bigotry and any other -try that stands in the way of progress for us and the country we painstakingly built. For the next 29 days rest of your life, keep at the front of your mind that Black history is American history.
Sadiqqa © 2008
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