The moon could not go on shining if it paid attention to all the little dogs that barked at it.
--- Celinda Bowlds
Them people – yes, them people – at your job are giving you holy crap. No wait, there ain’t nothin’ at all holy about what they’re doing; them people givin’ you hell! They pile on more work, discount your efforts, and have never once stopped to see that it’s you who make the wheels of the organization turn. You find yourself taking work home; working extra hard on the weekends to stay ahead of the game; and feel so much pressure, you think before long, you’re going to blow – and that will not be pretty for anybody! On top of all that, you get an itty bitty check at the end of the month!
The flip side is – no matter how much it all sucks – you are THE bomb at what you do! You love what you do so much that you do it with excellence. Your work is quality; your work habits are enviable and should be emulated. The precision with which you do your job is stellar and no one even comes close to making it happen in the way you do.
And that’s the problem. The way in which you do your work scares the hell out of the people around you who can see that you do better work than them. They don’t want to be outdone because it means you may rise to higher ranks. They will do, say, and play any stupid and hackneyed game possible to see to it that doesn’t happen. And we know good and well why they don’t they want you to rise. Yep, it’s the same old tired song we’ve endured since who knows when; you’re parents and their parents went through it, too. That same old dirge – their inherent, inherited beliefs about who you are, some ol’ itshay planted in ‘em that said you were never supposed to rise higher or have more than them. So, in this day and age they pull that old subtle game of laying more on you and, thinking they way they do about you, they think you’ll buckle.
You ain’t never buckled before have you? You made it this far by being unconquerable, unwavering, and formidable. Why on earth are they able to push you now? Hell, push ‘em back!
The trick is not to let them bark louder than your work. Ever. Anywhere. Whether you decide to stay where you are or leave for a newer place, never let ‘em take your shine ‘cause you are supreme at what you do. There’ll be dogs everywhere, even if you do what you do entrepreneurially. Some of the bitc- oops, dogs may do more than howl, some may bite and be rabid and cause you to have to cuss they assets out or sue them for all they got. Get you a good lawyer.
You are a champion at what you do. Never forget that and keep on getting better. Eventually the dogs will get tired of all that damn noise, or at least accustomed to the fact that the orange moon shines. Maybe they’ll sit their assets down and move on to something they can do something about. Until them – and hopefully we won’t have to wait for the next lifetime – make it do what it do, baby.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 20, 2008
Mar 19, 2008
No, Patrick, you’re not unattractive. Your breath just stinks.
‑‑ Spongebob Squarepants
Everywhere you look, people around you are paired up and partnered off. They’re married, dating, or otherwise casually acquainting themselves with one another. You, on the other hand, are single with no prospects, and, dare it be said, lonely for acceptable, intelligent conversation and companionship. You’ve taken a long look at yourself and measured your surroundings. You’ve found everything in good, no, fine order, but you cannot for the life of you figure out why on earth you aren’t married, dating, or otherwise casually acquainted.
Maybe your breath stinks.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe your expectations are too high. Perhaps you desire someone who is as fine as Morris Chestnutt or Angela Bassett; who’s got the riches and financial savvy of Oprah Winfrey or Ted Turner; and who is as svelte as Terrell Owens or Serena Williams. Maybe your aim isn’t as high as that but you do require a good-looking, independent, and healthy suitor. Perhaps you’d like for that person to make you laugh; help you feel at ease; support your dreams and ambitions; love Jesus, your family, and your dog; have a sexual appetite and sensualness that matches yours; and can cook and clean up after him or herself without having to be reminded to do so. Certainly that’s not too much to want. Is it?
Maybe you’re not looking in the right places. Sister, maybe church is not the place. It’s too full of women – that is, if you’re seeking a man. Brother, maybe there’re too many women at church for you to choose from; it seems all of them are hungry. Uh, that is, if you’re looking for a woman. Maybe looking back into your repertoire of past mates seemed like a good idea at one time, but when you did, you remembered why you left them in the past. The club? Who can talk and get to know someone over the latest Young Jeezy, Soulja Boy, or T-Pain cut? The gym? Maybe. You’ll at least be more fit. The coffee shop? Perhaps, just don’t overdose on caffeine. The car wash? You may meet the likes of Franklyn Ajaye or Marlene the Hooker – the chick you thought was Rose Royce.
Maybe you’re too perfect – or at least you give off the appearance of perfection. For the most part, you’ve got it together. You may have a few loose screws, but at least you know they’re loose AND you have the tools to tighten them if you really wanted to. You don’t necessarily require perfection in your mate, only that he or she bring to the table the same thing you do. Among other things, you’re fully capable of caring for yourself – your person, your family, and your home; making your own ends meet; achieving great satisfaction with your career; and finding peace in the most contrary of places. If that makes perfection, so be it. And if being damn near perfect is the problem, damn the problem. You can’t be any less than your best.
Maybe there is no answer. It just is what it is. And certainly that’s unsettling. But you can rest assured that perhaps it’s not you. Jesus just has a bigger plan for you. So, in the meantime, enjoy your Self, enjoy life, stock up on some breath mints, and never give up on what you’re looking for.
Sadiqqa © 2008
‑‑ Spongebob Squarepants
Everywhere you look, people around you are paired up and partnered off. They’re married, dating, or otherwise casually acquainting themselves with one another. You, on the other hand, are single with no prospects, and, dare it be said, lonely for acceptable, intelligent conversation and companionship. You’ve taken a long look at yourself and measured your surroundings. You’ve found everything in good, no, fine order, but you cannot for the life of you figure out why on earth you aren’t married, dating, or otherwise casually acquainted.
Maybe your breath stinks.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe your expectations are too high. Perhaps you desire someone who is as fine as Morris Chestnutt or Angela Bassett; who’s got the riches and financial savvy of Oprah Winfrey or Ted Turner; and who is as svelte as Terrell Owens or Serena Williams. Maybe your aim isn’t as high as that but you do require a good-looking, independent, and healthy suitor. Perhaps you’d like for that person to make you laugh; help you feel at ease; support your dreams and ambitions; love Jesus, your family, and your dog; have a sexual appetite and sensualness that matches yours; and can cook and clean up after him or herself without having to be reminded to do so. Certainly that’s not too much to want. Is it?
Maybe you’re not looking in the right places. Sister, maybe church is not the place. It’s too full of women – that is, if you’re seeking a man. Brother, maybe there’re too many women at church for you to choose from; it seems all of them are hungry. Uh, that is, if you’re looking for a woman. Maybe looking back into your repertoire of past mates seemed like a good idea at one time, but when you did, you remembered why you left them in the past. The club? Who can talk and get to know someone over the latest Young Jeezy, Soulja Boy, or T-Pain cut? The gym? Maybe. You’ll at least be more fit. The coffee shop? Perhaps, just don’t overdose on caffeine. The car wash? You may meet the likes of Franklyn Ajaye or Marlene the Hooker – the chick you thought was Rose Royce.
Maybe you’re too perfect – or at least you give off the appearance of perfection. For the most part, you’ve got it together. You may have a few loose screws, but at least you know they’re loose AND you have the tools to tighten them if you really wanted to. You don’t necessarily require perfection in your mate, only that he or she bring to the table the same thing you do. Among other things, you’re fully capable of caring for yourself – your person, your family, and your home; making your own ends meet; achieving great satisfaction with your career; and finding peace in the most contrary of places. If that makes perfection, so be it. And if being damn near perfect is the problem, damn the problem. You can’t be any less than your best.
Maybe there is no answer. It just is what it is. And certainly that’s unsettling. But you can rest assured that perhaps it’s not you. Jesus just has a bigger plan for you. So, in the meantime, enjoy your Self, enjoy life, stock up on some breath mints, and never give up on what you’re looking for.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 18, 2008
The object of preaching is to constantly remind mankind of what they keep forgetting; not to supply the intellect, but to fortify the feebleness of human resolutions.
-- Sidney Smith
Rev. Wright was right – a cab probably never “whizzed past” Hillary because of her race; rich white people don’t walk around thinking about poor black people; and Guilliani nor Hillary have ever been called niggars.
On Sunday mornings, in black churches across this nation, our discourse has much to do with our current corporate situations. It’s a fact that black people in this country suffer profusely in comparison to white people. At church we talk about the fact that black people often lack of access to quality health care. Pastors talk about police brutality and corruption against Africans Americans and the racial profiling and societal stereotyping that run rampant in our community. Preachers preach on how many black communities are in poor repair and have been subjected to subprime mortgages that have stripped us of our homes – the only asset many of us had. Ministers talk about the more than one million African American men currently in jail or prison which leads America to the perception that young, black men are prone to thievery, violence, and other criminal behavior, and how, in comparison to whites, blacks are more likely to receive substandard legal representation and harsher sentences. That’s what we talk about.
Black churches, the place where you can communally receive the balm of Jesus, have always been the bastion for vital community discussion. Black free-thinking pastors, brave enough to speak their minds and hearts, have always been the purveyors of Jesus’ healing and restoration, and we generally hold them in high esteem for their courage and audacity to speak aloud our position. Who is America to chastise the messengers of our relief?
Not long ago, someone said that the beauty of an Obama campaign and subsequent presidency was that America would get to view another perspective, a perspective that has long been denied, ignored, or diminished. Last week all of America got a perspective they had not been willing to see – that black folk have an opinion about our treatment and we take it to Jesus in the way it feels to us.
Who among us has not sat in church and heard the pastor profess something disparaging about American philosophy, practices, and leadership? Who among us has not heard the preacher “whoop” out a thing or two about social injustices and attached names to the offenders? Suffice it to say, given America’s beleaguered history, how many African American preachers have not talked about the “chickens coming home to roost?” Whether you agree with the message or not, you understand the sentiment and viewpoint with which these statements are delivered.
Talking about what hurts, shames, and demeans us in a safe place like church has been the tradition since we came to this country. When we go to meetin’, we hear about God’s grace through the tribulations of our life. We hear about how Jesus walks with us as we walk into our glass-ceilinged work places. God steers our wheels, bridles our tongue, and soothes our angry soul when we get pulled over because we were driving while black on the wrong side of town. Jesus eases our dismay and organizes our fight when greedy developers infringe on our 40-year old established-for-black-people communities with new, yet substandard or priced out of our range homes. And Jesus pushes us through to the next level when all stops are pulled to dirty our work and discount our accomplishments. Black churches and their pastors, in no uncertain terms, remind us, with tongues as sharp and versed as poets, that our struggles are real, the personal is political, and that we’ve got much work to do so stay alert and keep focused on God. All that is is the truth.
Possibly, Rev. Wright’s sermons reminded America that it cannot tolerate the truth, that truth points fingers and requires that one be conscious of and accountable for change, that perhaps paying attention to the pained emotion beneath words requires one to act and think differently which ultimately means one has to do the hard emotional work of uprooting, repudiating, and redefining how he or she thinks and behaves. Perhaps Obama, by association, is now thrown on the trash heap with the likes of other truth tellers like Al Sharpton and Dick Gregory and cannot recover from this slam. Perhaps America just does not want to think and be reminded, but instead wants to be alarmed that anyone would believe America is not the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Sidney Smith
Rev. Wright was right – a cab probably never “whizzed past” Hillary because of her race; rich white people don’t walk around thinking about poor black people; and Guilliani nor Hillary have ever been called niggars.
On Sunday mornings, in black churches across this nation, our discourse has much to do with our current corporate situations. It’s a fact that black people in this country suffer profusely in comparison to white people. At church we talk about the fact that black people often lack of access to quality health care. Pastors talk about police brutality and corruption against Africans Americans and the racial profiling and societal stereotyping that run rampant in our community. Preachers preach on how many black communities are in poor repair and have been subjected to subprime mortgages that have stripped us of our homes – the only asset many of us had. Ministers talk about the more than one million African American men currently in jail or prison which leads America to the perception that young, black men are prone to thievery, violence, and other criminal behavior, and how, in comparison to whites, blacks are more likely to receive substandard legal representation and harsher sentences. That’s what we talk about.
Black churches, the place where you can communally receive the balm of Jesus, have always been the bastion for vital community discussion. Black free-thinking pastors, brave enough to speak their minds and hearts, have always been the purveyors of Jesus’ healing and restoration, and we generally hold them in high esteem for their courage and audacity to speak aloud our position. Who is America to chastise the messengers of our relief?
Not long ago, someone said that the beauty of an Obama campaign and subsequent presidency was that America would get to view another perspective, a perspective that has long been denied, ignored, or diminished. Last week all of America got a perspective they had not been willing to see – that black folk have an opinion about our treatment and we take it to Jesus in the way it feels to us.
Who among us has not sat in church and heard the pastor profess something disparaging about American philosophy, practices, and leadership? Who among us has not heard the preacher “whoop” out a thing or two about social injustices and attached names to the offenders? Suffice it to say, given America’s beleaguered history, how many African American preachers have not talked about the “chickens coming home to roost?” Whether you agree with the message or not, you understand the sentiment and viewpoint with which these statements are delivered.
Talking about what hurts, shames, and demeans us in a safe place like church has been the tradition since we came to this country. When we go to meetin’, we hear about God’s grace through the tribulations of our life. We hear about how Jesus walks with us as we walk into our glass-ceilinged work places. God steers our wheels, bridles our tongue, and soothes our angry soul when we get pulled over because we were driving while black on the wrong side of town. Jesus eases our dismay and organizes our fight when greedy developers infringe on our 40-year old established-for-black-people communities with new, yet substandard or priced out of our range homes. And Jesus pushes us through to the next level when all stops are pulled to dirty our work and discount our accomplishments. Black churches and their pastors, in no uncertain terms, remind us, with tongues as sharp and versed as poets, that our struggles are real, the personal is political, and that we’ve got much work to do so stay alert and keep focused on God. All that is is the truth.
Possibly, Rev. Wright’s sermons reminded America that it cannot tolerate the truth, that truth points fingers and requires that one be conscious of and accountable for change, that perhaps paying attention to the pained emotion beneath words requires one to act and think differently which ultimately means one has to do the hard emotional work of uprooting, repudiating, and redefining how he or she thinks and behaves. Perhaps Obama, by association, is now thrown on the trash heap with the likes of other truth tellers like Al Sharpton and Dick Gregory and cannot recover from this slam. Perhaps America just does not want to think and be reminded, but instead wants to be alarmed that anyone would believe America is not the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 12, 2008
I love to read and I want my children to be fluent readers and lovers of books...
-- Peg
So how do we get kids to read?
Read with them!
That’s right. Put aside Zane, Dickey, Monroe, and Morrison and pick up a kids book by Laura Numeroff, Ezra Jack Keats, Karen Beaumont, Joanna Cole, and, of course, J. K. Rowling.
Really, when was the last time you read a Dr. Seuss book and actually heard a Who beckoning? Have you read about Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar’s big-a appetite? What about his grouchy ladybug’s bad days or mixed-up chameleon’s search for self-acceptance? Have you ever read The Three Pigs and compared them to your life? Have you ever taken a picture walk through a book, letting the pictures tell the story, making predictions about the outcomes in the story, then being pleasantly surprised when the story turns out exactly the way you predicted? Never?! Well then you’ve never read a book with a kid! How do you expect a kid to read if you’ve never read a book with him?
If you’ve never read a book with a kid, you’ve not become acquainted with Junie B. Jones (Barbara Park), the 6-year-old princess of shameless behavior, who takes on a life of her own as you read cringingly through her grammatical errors and sassy backtalk. What a great opportunity to teach a kid to learn the proper way to talk! And you probably know not of niño gatito Skippyjon Jones (Judy Schachner) and his many Chihuahua amigos, Los Chimichangos, whose travels are as brilliant and exciting to your imagination as they are to a kid’s. And reading el Skippito’s spirited adventures can make you sound just like an adulto Speedy Gonzales! ¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!
Of course if you’ve never read with a child, you’ve probably never tried to turn down Mo William’s pigeon’s attempts to drive the bus or stay up late. And you’ve probably never figured out how dinosaurs eat their food, say goodnight, clean their rooms, or play with their friends (Jane Yolen). If you’ve never read with a child you have no idea where the wild things are (Maurice Sendak), why mosquitoes buzz in people’s ears (Verna Aardema), or how Chrysanthemum (Kevin Henkes) solved the problem of her name. If you’ve never read with a kid, you’ve never had the chance to creatively drive home some great big point about fine living and even greater character message while making up funny voices and faces to fit each character in a book.
You may remember Judy Blume’s Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing or Beverly Cleary’s Ramona from your days as a kid. They’re still popular; read them with a kid. Kids will probably turn you on to Jeff Kinney’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid or Mary Pope Osborne’s Magic Tree House Series where adventure and history mesh. You may even get pulled into the Spiderwick Chronicles, tales of elves and trolls and goblins, if you like that kind of stuff. Better yet, you may want to find out what girls and boys really want to know by reading The Big Book of Girl Stuff, which’ll teach you how to make friendship bracelets, handle crushes, and have the perfect sleepover, and The Big Book of Boy Stuff where you’ll get solid info about playing practical jokes, getting beans out of your nose, and figuring out what that smell is.
Reg Weaver, President of the National Education Association, said “you’re never too wacky or wild to pick up a book and read to a child.” Reading with a kid is your chance to be as free and foolish as you wish, and there are a busload of books and babies whose paths need to cross. Reading increases a child’s literacy skills and gives you an opportunity to escape the reality of your everyday business. So, if you want a kid to read, for just a little while – 30 minutes a day max – with your own child or a borrowed one, read with them and they’ll quickly pick up the habit.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Peg
So how do we get kids to read?
Read with them!
That’s right. Put aside Zane, Dickey, Monroe, and Morrison and pick up a kids book by Laura Numeroff, Ezra Jack Keats, Karen Beaumont, Joanna Cole, and, of course, J. K. Rowling.
Really, when was the last time you read a Dr. Seuss book and actually heard a Who beckoning? Have you read about Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar’s big-a appetite? What about his grouchy ladybug’s bad days or mixed-up chameleon’s search for self-acceptance? Have you ever read The Three Pigs and compared them to your life? Have you ever taken a picture walk through a book, letting the pictures tell the story, making predictions about the outcomes in the story, then being pleasantly surprised when the story turns out exactly the way you predicted? Never?! Well then you’ve never read a book with a kid! How do you expect a kid to read if you’ve never read a book with him?
If you’ve never read a book with a kid, you’ve not become acquainted with Junie B. Jones (Barbara Park), the 6-year-old princess of shameless behavior, who takes on a life of her own as you read cringingly through her grammatical errors and sassy backtalk. What a great opportunity to teach a kid to learn the proper way to talk! And you probably know not of niño gatito Skippyjon Jones (Judy Schachner) and his many Chihuahua amigos, Los Chimichangos, whose travels are as brilliant and exciting to your imagination as they are to a kid’s. And reading el Skippito’s spirited adventures can make you sound just like an adulto Speedy Gonzales! ¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!
Of course if you’ve never read with a child, you’ve probably never tried to turn down Mo William’s pigeon’s attempts to drive the bus or stay up late. And you’ve probably never figured out how dinosaurs eat their food, say goodnight, clean their rooms, or play with their friends (Jane Yolen). If you’ve never read with a child you have no idea where the wild things are (Maurice Sendak), why mosquitoes buzz in people’s ears (Verna Aardema), or how Chrysanthemum (Kevin Henkes) solved the problem of her name. If you’ve never read with a kid, you’ve never had the chance to creatively drive home some great big point about fine living and even greater character message while making up funny voices and faces to fit each character in a book.
You may remember Judy Blume’s Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing or Beverly Cleary’s Ramona from your days as a kid. They’re still popular; read them with a kid. Kids will probably turn you on to Jeff Kinney’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid or Mary Pope Osborne’s Magic Tree House Series where adventure and history mesh. You may even get pulled into the Spiderwick Chronicles, tales of elves and trolls and goblins, if you like that kind of stuff. Better yet, you may want to find out what girls and boys really want to know by reading The Big Book of Girl Stuff, which’ll teach you how to make friendship bracelets, handle crushes, and have the perfect sleepover, and The Big Book of Boy Stuff where you’ll get solid info about playing practical jokes, getting beans out of your nose, and figuring out what that smell is.
Reg Weaver, President of the National Education Association, said “you’re never too wacky or wild to pick up a book and read to a child.” Reading with a kid is your chance to be as free and foolish as you wish, and there are a busload of books and babies whose paths need to cross. Reading increases a child’s literacy skills and gives you an opportunity to escape the reality of your everyday business. So, if you want a kid to read, for just a little while – 30 minutes a day max – with your own child or a borrowed one, read with them and they’ll quickly pick up the habit.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 7, 2008
The troubles that chase you away also show you the road.
-- Kigezi proverb
Taking a deep and frustrated breath, she slowly placed the key in the lock. She could imagine what was on the other side. It would be dark, probably cold, and there’d probably be a smell. She had no idea how long it’d been that way on the other side of the door, but she knew once she walked inside, things were going to require her attention.
As she stood there, she tried to calculate how things had come to this. She knew she’d been neglectful, sometimes flippant about making sure the edges of her life weren’t frayed, at least not so frayed that others could see them that way. Did others see, she wondered. Could they tell it was all a bit out of control? Somewhat overwhelming? She looked around at her neighbor’s homes to notice if anyone else could have possibly been in her predicament. She looked even closer to see whether they could be peeking at her through closed blinds and drawn curtains. She noticed no one.
What she did notice though was the tug of her coat and her little one’s voice saying over and over, “mama, gotta go pot!” She imagined her baby boy “going to pot” right there on their porch in his undies. She also imagined stepping inside, in the dark, wading her way through the morning’s left over rush, and quickly getting him to the bathroom. But unlocking the door and stepping over this threshold was too much reality for her right now. So, weighing her options, she yelled at baby boy, “just go pot then!”
And hearing him cry from her yell didn’t make this any easier. She sighed, leaned against the door, watched his confused and contorted face, and slowly began to let out a few sobs of her own. “God,” she asked, “what is it you want me to know right now? What is it you want me to do? Here I am. I’m listening.” She took a seat on the cold, cement steps and listened through the night’s wind.
She heard the wind chimes, a plane overhead. She heard the millions of thoughts whirling in her head. She heard herself breathing and her heart beating.
She felt the cool breeze on her neck, the cold of the cement on her bottom. She felt baby boy’s confusion, his wonder at not going inside, and his fear of asking the questions. She reached for his little hand and pulled him to her, feeling him ease into her as he always did.
In the peacefulness of that moment, listening to the wind and rubbing her baby’s hand, it all became clearer. This moment is life, just like every other moment she’d been blessed with. And it was the moments of life that were passing her by. When was the last time she listened to the wind? When was the last time she was this still? When was the last time she’d tuned in to her baby boy? How much had she missed because she’d not stopped or slowed down and paid attention?
She sat thinking long and hard, not about all that she’d missed. She always thought about what she was missing and how she could make up for it next time. Instead, she thought about never missing out again, turning it all around, facing her fears, and making peace with her demons. She thought about being honest with herself, treating herself with respect, being a better example to her son about how to be the best steward of all that was given to her. She’d grown so accustomed to just denying it all or living with it that it was difficult to imagine it all healed, lifted, and gone. But the wind whispered to her and the chime rang for her and in them she heard confirmation that the moments of life were meant to be walked courageously, intentionally, and with care. Holding her man-child, she knew she had no other choice.
She stood, lifting her now wet boy and turned the key in the door. She opened it and found a house not so dark – the full moon was shining through the back window; not so cold – the heat that rises to the ceiling had fallen comfortably throughout; and not so smelly – the food in the frig had not rotted. The morning’s rush mess was not so bad and baby boy was actually asleep. She’d call the electric company shortly, pay the bill over the phone, and they’d reconnect her tonight. In the meantime, she’d clean baby boy and put him in his bed, light a candle, take stock in this teachable moment, and never let another one pass her by.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Kigezi proverb
Taking a deep and frustrated breath, she slowly placed the key in the lock. She could imagine what was on the other side. It would be dark, probably cold, and there’d probably be a smell. She had no idea how long it’d been that way on the other side of the door, but she knew once she walked inside, things were going to require her attention.
As she stood there, she tried to calculate how things had come to this. She knew she’d been neglectful, sometimes flippant about making sure the edges of her life weren’t frayed, at least not so frayed that others could see them that way. Did others see, she wondered. Could they tell it was all a bit out of control? Somewhat overwhelming? She looked around at her neighbor’s homes to notice if anyone else could have possibly been in her predicament. She looked even closer to see whether they could be peeking at her through closed blinds and drawn curtains. She noticed no one.
What she did notice though was the tug of her coat and her little one’s voice saying over and over, “mama, gotta go pot!” She imagined her baby boy “going to pot” right there on their porch in his undies. She also imagined stepping inside, in the dark, wading her way through the morning’s left over rush, and quickly getting him to the bathroom. But unlocking the door and stepping over this threshold was too much reality for her right now. So, weighing her options, she yelled at baby boy, “just go pot then!”
And hearing him cry from her yell didn’t make this any easier. She sighed, leaned against the door, watched his confused and contorted face, and slowly began to let out a few sobs of her own. “God,” she asked, “what is it you want me to know right now? What is it you want me to do? Here I am. I’m listening.” She took a seat on the cold, cement steps and listened through the night’s wind.
She heard the wind chimes, a plane overhead. She heard the millions of thoughts whirling in her head. She heard herself breathing and her heart beating.
She felt the cool breeze on her neck, the cold of the cement on her bottom. She felt baby boy’s confusion, his wonder at not going inside, and his fear of asking the questions. She reached for his little hand and pulled him to her, feeling him ease into her as he always did.
In the peacefulness of that moment, listening to the wind and rubbing her baby’s hand, it all became clearer. This moment is life, just like every other moment she’d been blessed with. And it was the moments of life that were passing her by. When was the last time she listened to the wind? When was the last time she was this still? When was the last time she’d tuned in to her baby boy? How much had she missed because she’d not stopped or slowed down and paid attention?
She sat thinking long and hard, not about all that she’d missed. She always thought about what she was missing and how she could make up for it next time. Instead, she thought about never missing out again, turning it all around, facing her fears, and making peace with her demons. She thought about being honest with herself, treating herself with respect, being a better example to her son about how to be the best steward of all that was given to her. She’d grown so accustomed to just denying it all or living with it that it was difficult to imagine it all healed, lifted, and gone. But the wind whispered to her and the chime rang for her and in them she heard confirmation that the moments of life were meant to be walked courageously, intentionally, and with care. Holding her man-child, she knew she had no other choice.
She stood, lifting her now wet boy and turned the key in the door. She opened it and found a house not so dark – the full moon was shining through the back window; not so cold – the heat that rises to the ceiling had fallen comfortably throughout; and not so smelly – the food in the frig had not rotted. The morning’s rush mess was not so bad and baby boy was actually asleep. She’d call the electric company shortly, pay the bill over the phone, and they’d reconnect her tonight. In the meantime, she’d clean baby boy and put him in his bed, light a candle, take stock in this teachable moment, and never let another one pass her by.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 6, 2008
Big girls do cry.
-- Anonymous
Sometimes we get lonely. Sometimes it seems nothing is going our way. Sometimes it feels as though no one is in our corner or available with a strong shoulder for us to lay our head on. Sometimes it’s just one of those days and you just want to curl up somewhere and cry.
But grandmama told you a long time ago that you should be a “big girl” and not cry about it. She said babies cry and Lord knows you left the baby stage many, many years ago. She told you to just suck it up, shake it off, and get over it. You’ll be alright, she said. You’ll be alright because she was.
Was she? Did you ever see your grandmother cry because she was hurting or stressed out? Or did she only want you to see her cheerful and strong so she only cried in the dark or at church where it’s okay for praying and beseeching grandmamas to cry? Do you think grandmama was really alright?
Hopefully by this point in your life you realize that, while grandmama an’ ‘em meant well, that their intention was not to deaden your emotions, but to teach you to restrain your feelings so you wouldn’t be perceived then treated as weak and inferior, maybe they were wrong or misinformed about crying. Maybe you learned that tears were a problem, but now that you’re grown and experiencing life on your own terms, you know that tears are the result of a problem and that their release is in fact natural, curative, and necessary.
Research suggests that tears contain stress-related toxins and other waste products that if not released can negatively impact your health and well-being. If you hold tightly to grandmama’s directive to suppress your tears, your body may be a campground for all kinds of bacteria, viruses, and infections that are the culprits of tumors, high blood pressure, and heart problems. And how relieved do you feel after you’ve had a good cry? You may not have solved the problem that resulted in your crying, but releasing all the toxins makes you feel lighter, cleaner, and sometimes clearer.
Perhaps if grandmama had released her tears freely and more often, the preacher who offered her last rites could have spoken about the condition of her heart and not the murderous heart disease that ended her life.
Don’t deny your tears like grandmama did. Let them go as you let go of the internal messages that have kept you from crying. Grandmama now understands.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Anonymous
Sometimes we get lonely. Sometimes it seems nothing is going our way. Sometimes it feels as though no one is in our corner or available with a strong shoulder for us to lay our head on. Sometimes it’s just one of those days and you just want to curl up somewhere and cry.
But grandmama told you a long time ago that you should be a “big girl” and not cry about it. She said babies cry and Lord knows you left the baby stage many, many years ago. She told you to just suck it up, shake it off, and get over it. You’ll be alright, she said. You’ll be alright because she was.
Was she? Did you ever see your grandmother cry because she was hurting or stressed out? Or did she only want you to see her cheerful and strong so she only cried in the dark or at church where it’s okay for praying and beseeching grandmamas to cry? Do you think grandmama was really alright?
Hopefully by this point in your life you realize that, while grandmama an’ ‘em meant well, that their intention was not to deaden your emotions, but to teach you to restrain your feelings so you wouldn’t be perceived then treated as weak and inferior, maybe they were wrong or misinformed about crying. Maybe you learned that tears were a problem, but now that you’re grown and experiencing life on your own terms, you know that tears are the result of a problem and that their release is in fact natural, curative, and necessary.
Research suggests that tears contain stress-related toxins and other waste products that if not released can negatively impact your health and well-being. If you hold tightly to grandmama’s directive to suppress your tears, your body may be a campground for all kinds of bacteria, viruses, and infections that are the culprits of tumors, high blood pressure, and heart problems. And how relieved do you feel after you’ve had a good cry? You may not have solved the problem that resulted in your crying, but releasing all the toxins makes you feel lighter, cleaner, and sometimes clearer.
Perhaps if grandmama had released her tears freely and more often, the preacher who offered her last rites could have spoken about the condition of her heart and not the murderous heart disease that ended her life.
Don’t deny your tears like grandmama did. Let them go as you let go of the internal messages that have kept you from crying. Grandmama now understands.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 5, 2008
Not only does The Flavor of Love paint a demeaning picture of male/female relationships and women in general, it also presents the mostly African-American contestants in an embarrassing light...
-- Common Sense Media
Admit it, you watch it. As a matter of fact, you’ve seen all three seasons of The Flavor of Love, its reunion episodes, and cheered when Ms. New York got her own show. You watch the show with your mouth open wide, your nose turned up, and disbelief on your face that somebody so, well... you know. But you watch it. You watch it for its comedic relief and because you just can’t believe it. You watch it and you tell no one about your hour-long breach in judiciousness, your descent into the abyss of ridiculous and unintelligent television programming, and you watch bug-eyed at that train-wreck of a show as it takes off and travels wildly each week through the airwaves, mad that you gotta wait ‘til next week to see “Cutie” yell at “Bootie” and Flav shell out his clocks to the bawdiest contestants you’ve ever seen in your life. Aren’t you embarrassed that you’ve been caught?
(So is the “Thought...,”!)
Here’s what’s really embarrassing. Shows like this are a slap in the face to Black girls and women who have to keep their wheels turning 24 hours a day just to get ahead. This show, and others like it, objectify us, relegate us to eternal positions of jezebels, and receive greater ratings than the shows that project us in serious intellectual and professional stations. Shows like The Flavor of Love push all of us 500 steps backwards and nearly smash apart our efforts at Black female development, advancement, and empowerment. Yet, each week we watch the show.
It’s not so much about the television show as it is about the fact that we’re watching it. We’re in such awe at its outrageousness that we have acquiesced to its base messages – (a) it is necessary to compete and fight over a man and (b) the uglier and louder the fights the more the man will believe you are down for him. How utterly ridiculous is that premise!? Yet, we watch the show each week, boosting its ratings, giving clear sanction to its parent company and the advertisers that this kind of programming is acceptable and pleasing.
Certainly we should consider this and stop watching the show and others like it. But, again, it’s much bigger than the show. Just as we are stupefied by the drama in the hot tub, SO ARE OUR BABIES! And while we can discern what’s done for entertainment purposes, our children aren’t always so clear. Not only are they unclear about what they’re seeing, the messages they are receiving – (a) it is necessary to compete and fight over a man and (b) the uglier and louder the fights the more the man will believe you are down for him – make it difficult for them to distinguish healthy relationships, both male and female and women’s friendships.
By ceasing to view these artless reality shows, three things would happen – (1) the ratings would go down, (2) the programmers would be left with no choice but take the shows off the air, and (3) we could use the time we waste watching the shows to teach and show our children models of what real living looks like. We could teach our girls that bachelor millionaires are hard to come by, and that if and when they do surface, it’s not necessary to parade oneself like cattle in order to marry him. Bigger still, we need to show our girls how to make a million or more of their own!
With that time, we could teach our boys that real dating and mating have very little to do with how much money you have, and if your relationships ever become about money, then a new look needs to be taken. Our boys should understand from us that all girls don’t place priority on money, big cars, houses, or jewelry; that most girls and women are looking for the same core values they are – to be loved and loved well.
It is our responsibility as adults to provide for kids the counter programming that television reality does not offer. We can turn off the televisions and be their source of information about healthy, loving, and lasting relationships in the real world. We can show them how women can trust one another and be friends. We can teach our babies social skills that keep them from resorting to name-calling and spit fights in a fit of anger. We are able to do this, those stinky television shows can’t and won’t.
As long as people watch, there will be narrow-minded shows like The Flavor of Love. But as long as there are shows like The Flavor of Love, there should be a clamoring from us to organize, collaborate, and get in the floor with our children to ensure they are protected and mentally mobilized against the sexism espoused by the thinking behind this and these types of programs. With every free element in your energy and for the perpetuation of our Black Selves, you must thwart the hold dumb and demeaning television programming has on our children.
And on you.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Common Sense Media
Admit it, you watch it. As a matter of fact, you’ve seen all three seasons of The Flavor of Love, its reunion episodes, and cheered when Ms. New York got her own show. You watch the show with your mouth open wide, your nose turned up, and disbelief on your face that somebody so, well... you know. But you watch it. You watch it for its comedic relief and because you just can’t believe it. You watch it and you tell no one about your hour-long breach in judiciousness, your descent into the abyss of ridiculous and unintelligent television programming, and you watch bug-eyed at that train-wreck of a show as it takes off and travels wildly each week through the airwaves, mad that you gotta wait ‘til next week to see “Cutie” yell at “Bootie” and Flav shell out his clocks to the bawdiest contestants you’ve ever seen in your life. Aren’t you embarrassed that you’ve been caught?
(So is the “Thought...,”!)
Here’s what’s really embarrassing. Shows like this are a slap in the face to Black girls and women who have to keep their wheels turning 24 hours a day just to get ahead. This show, and others like it, objectify us, relegate us to eternal positions of jezebels, and receive greater ratings than the shows that project us in serious intellectual and professional stations. Shows like The Flavor of Love push all of us 500 steps backwards and nearly smash apart our efforts at Black female development, advancement, and empowerment. Yet, each week we watch the show.
It’s not so much about the television show as it is about the fact that we’re watching it. We’re in such awe at its outrageousness that we have acquiesced to its base messages – (a) it is necessary to compete and fight over a man and (b) the uglier and louder the fights the more the man will believe you are down for him. How utterly ridiculous is that premise!? Yet, we watch the show each week, boosting its ratings, giving clear sanction to its parent company and the advertisers that this kind of programming is acceptable and pleasing.
Certainly we should consider this and stop watching the show and others like it. But, again, it’s much bigger than the show. Just as we are stupefied by the drama in the hot tub, SO ARE OUR BABIES! And while we can discern what’s done for entertainment purposes, our children aren’t always so clear. Not only are they unclear about what they’re seeing, the messages they are receiving – (a) it is necessary to compete and fight over a man and (b) the uglier and louder the fights the more the man will believe you are down for him – make it difficult for them to distinguish healthy relationships, both male and female and women’s friendships.
By ceasing to view these artless reality shows, three things would happen – (1) the ratings would go down, (2) the programmers would be left with no choice but take the shows off the air, and (3) we could use the time we waste watching the shows to teach and show our children models of what real living looks like. We could teach our girls that bachelor millionaires are hard to come by, and that if and when they do surface, it’s not necessary to parade oneself like cattle in order to marry him. Bigger still, we need to show our girls how to make a million or more of their own!
With that time, we could teach our boys that real dating and mating have very little to do with how much money you have, and if your relationships ever become about money, then a new look needs to be taken. Our boys should understand from us that all girls don’t place priority on money, big cars, houses, or jewelry; that most girls and women are looking for the same core values they are – to be loved and loved well.
It is our responsibility as adults to provide for kids the counter programming that television reality does not offer. We can turn off the televisions and be their source of information about healthy, loving, and lasting relationships in the real world. We can show them how women can trust one another and be friends. We can teach our babies social skills that keep them from resorting to name-calling and spit fights in a fit of anger. We are able to do this, those stinky television shows can’t and won’t.
As long as people watch, there will be narrow-minded shows like The Flavor of Love. But as long as there are shows like The Flavor of Love, there should be a clamoring from us to organize, collaborate, and get in the floor with our children to ensure they are protected and mentally mobilized against the sexism espoused by the thinking behind this and these types of programs. With every free element in your energy and for the perpetuation of our Black Selves, you must thwart the hold dumb and demeaning television programming has on our children.
And on you.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 3, 2008
Every time a girl reads a womanless history she learns she is worth less.
‑‑ Myra and David Sadker, “Failing at Fairness: How America’s Schools Cheat Girls”
Welcome to another March of Women’s History Month! You’ll be delighted this month with full coverage of famous firsts by women like Mae Jemison who became the first black female astronaut and Toni Morrison, the first African-American woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature. You’ll be swamped by biographies of notable women like Bessie Coleman, the first black woman to receive a pilot’s license and the first woman to get an international pilot’s license. You’ll get your feel of stories about women’s suffrage, women’s rights, and the Women’s Movement. Television will bring you lots of women’s movies like “The Color Purple,” “Waiting to Exhale,” maybe even “She’s Gotta Have It.” And right away, you’ll see and hear commercials celebrating the lives and contributions of U.S. women and marveling at the strides and advances women have made throughout every genre of life.
What? You didn’t know there was a such thing as Women’s History Month?
And neither do our baby girls!
First, let’s be clear. A look at and celebration of the contributions of women to American life is in no way a slight to men or boys, just as Black History Month was not a slight to anybody who isn’t Black. It’s an opportunity to take a 31-day moment to look a little closer at how women have added to and starred in the breath and course of America. Women’s History Month gives room for women to see the larger picture of themselves and collectively pat one another on the back. And it would not be a celebration if it snubbed men who have stood side by side with women to make humanity as whole and healthy as possible.
Now, that said, our baby girls. When LaTika picks up her 5th grade American History book, she will read about explorers, the Colonial era, the Boston Tea Party, the American Revolution, the Constitution, and snippets of slavery and the Civil War. She will read about Columbus and the Pilgrams, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, and Harriet Tubman as she relates to the significance of the Underground Railroad and role of the abolitionist. For the most part, LaTika will study this history and without demur take it as the only history alive.
Until she one day needs to know with certainty who she is and where she came from, although by this time she has made some wrong choices and taken some bad turns.
If only Latika’d had an ancient hero to light her way, one who was built like her and looked like her. If only the textbook editors had cared enough about her psychoemotional development to include sections about how women fared and contributed during the making of America so that LaTika could use these stories as models for living and surviving. If only she could have heard feminine voices in the pages of her history book. If she and other girls and women had only been considered, perhaps LaTika’s search for self would not be so undeniably hard.
Today is our opportunity to make that change. Textbook publishers like Houghton-Mifflin or McMillan/McGraw Hill may never include the in-depth women’s material necessary for helping a girl find herself in history; it’s up to us, it’s our responsibility to help girls see themselves in the making of this world, this country, and our community. Our baby girls must know about Sacagawea, Phillis Weatley, the Salem Witch Trials, slave narratives, the Seneca Falls Convention, the 19th Amendment which gave women the right to vote, Ida B. Wells Barnett, Margaret Sanger, The Feminine Mystique, N.O.W. and the Coalition of 100 Black Women, Shirley Chisholm, Title IX which prohibited sex discrimination in federally-funded education programs, Ms. Magazine, Roe v. Wade, Sandra Day O’Connor, Geraldine Ferraro, Anita Hill, Condolezza Rice, the wage gap and the glass ceiling, and countless other women and issues that make this country what it is.
Certainly, like Black History Month, there’s more to learn and discuss about Women’s History than can be done in one month. For that reason and the fact that our girls deserve to be acknowledged in the history of America, we celebrate a life-long observance of the gifts women have provided us throughout history. This we do for the love, perpetuation, and sustenance of our girls and all humankind.
Sadiqqa © 2008
‑‑ Myra and David Sadker, “Failing at Fairness: How America’s Schools Cheat Girls”
Welcome to another March of Women’s History Month! You’ll be delighted this month with full coverage of famous firsts by women like Mae Jemison who became the first black female astronaut and Toni Morrison, the first African-American woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature. You’ll be swamped by biographies of notable women like Bessie Coleman, the first black woman to receive a pilot’s license and the first woman to get an international pilot’s license. You’ll get your feel of stories about women’s suffrage, women’s rights, and the Women’s Movement. Television will bring you lots of women’s movies like “The Color Purple,” “Waiting to Exhale,” maybe even “She’s Gotta Have It.” And right away, you’ll see and hear commercials celebrating the lives and contributions of U.S. women and marveling at the strides and advances women have made throughout every genre of life.
What? You didn’t know there was a such thing as Women’s History Month?
And neither do our baby girls!
First, let’s be clear. A look at and celebration of the contributions of women to American life is in no way a slight to men or boys, just as Black History Month was not a slight to anybody who isn’t Black. It’s an opportunity to take a 31-day moment to look a little closer at how women have added to and starred in the breath and course of America. Women’s History Month gives room for women to see the larger picture of themselves and collectively pat one another on the back. And it would not be a celebration if it snubbed men who have stood side by side with women to make humanity as whole and healthy as possible.
Now, that said, our baby girls. When LaTika picks up her 5th grade American History book, she will read about explorers, the Colonial era, the Boston Tea Party, the American Revolution, the Constitution, and snippets of slavery and the Civil War. She will read about Columbus and the Pilgrams, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, and Harriet Tubman as she relates to the significance of the Underground Railroad and role of the abolitionist. For the most part, LaTika will study this history and without demur take it as the only history alive.
Until she one day needs to know with certainty who she is and where she came from, although by this time she has made some wrong choices and taken some bad turns.
If only Latika’d had an ancient hero to light her way, one who was built like her and looked like her. If only the textbook editors had cared enough about her psychoemotional development to include sections about how women fared and contributed during the making of America so that LaTika could use these stories as models for living and surviving. If only she could have heard feminine voices in the pages of her history book. If she and other girls and women had only been considered, perhaps LaTika’s search for self would not be so undeniably hard.
Today is our opportunity to make that change. Textbook publishers like Houghton-Mifflin or McMillan/McGraw Hill may never include the in-depth women’s material necessary for helping a girl find herself in history; it’s up to us, it’s our responsibility to help girls see themselves in the making of this world, this country, and our community. Our baby girls must know about Sacagawea, Phillis Weatley, the Salem Witch Trials, slave narratives, the Seneca Falls Convention, the 19th Amendment which gave women the right to vote, Ida B. Wells Barnett, Margaret Sanger, The Feminine Mystique, N.O.W. and the Coalition of 100 Black Women, Shirley Chisholm, Title IX which prohibited sex discrimination in federally-funded education programs, Ms. Magazine, Roe v. Wade, Sandra Day O’Connor, Geraldine Ferraro, Anita Hill, Condolezza Rice, the wage gap and the glass ceiling, and countless other women and issues that make this country what it is.
Certainly, like Black History Month, there’s more to learn and discuss about Women’s History than can be done in one month. For that reason and the fact that our girls deserve to be acknowledged in the history of America, we celebrate a life-long observance of the gifts women have provided us throughout history. This we do for the love, perpetuation, and sustenance of our girls and all humankind.
Sadiqqa © 2008
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