In order to succeed, people need a sense of self-efficacy, struggle together with resilience to meet the inevitable obstacles and inequities of life.
-- Albert Bandura
So where does this sense of self-efficacy come from? And how does one become resilient? Through managing obstacles and inequities? Well, how does one learn to do this?
Okay, so here’s a little Psychology 101. Bandura, one of the big giants of psychology – you know, the guy who studied the aggressive kid who beat the hell outta the Bobo doll – believed that self-efficacy, or one’s belief in his abilities to handle situations that affect life, is developed via modeling, experience, and encouragement, that one’s belief in Self is strengthened when consistently exposed to these occurrences, and the absence of dependable events ultimately leads one to have a fragile sense of self-efficacy and human agency.
Further, Bandura asserted that when a person overwhelmed by doubts about their capabilities is faced with challenges, he is more likely to give up and settle for mediocrity, whereas a person who believes in and trusts his abilities will put forth greater effort to beat down the challenge.
So, in order to succeed in life – to trust oneself, not give up, and settle for the okey doke – one has to see, do, and hear/feel success, and, through human or personal agency, be motivated to act on what he’s seen, done, and heard/felt. If he adds to that the ability to bounce back, recover, and learn from botched attempts at success, perhaps success is a mere right waiting to be obtained.
Oh but it were that easy.
It’s more than a notion, this self-efficacy thing. For some of us, self-efficacy is a luxury. Living year after year and generation after generation in poverty and deprivation sometimes makes it difficult to consciously conceive and act upon the belief that rising above such circumstances is possible. Trusting your ability to make sound and safety decisions while being beaten within an inch of your life each night by another whose sense of self-efficacy is diminished is possibly improbable especially since it’s happened for 10 years at the drop of a dime. And, it’s possible that your baby boy feels the same sense of mistrust of himself as he tries to master third grade standards and middle class behavior in a No Child Left Behind environment. A lack of self-efficacy begets more lack of self-efficacy and the inability to make responsible choices and decisions.
Even for those of us whose circumstances are not as bleak, self-efficacy can be fleeting or fractional. Perhaps you are highly competent on your job. You’ve received all kinds of commendations and accolades for the work that you do, and you’re regarded as one of the best in your field. But at home, baby, you suck. You can’t keep your house in order, your marriage is in shambles, and your kids are the worst on the block. It could be that maybe you’ve never seen a model of how to effectively manage a home, marriage, or children; your experience with these entities is so limited; and you’ve yet to receive a pat on the back for even trying to keep it all together that you don’t even have the wherewithal to try to keep it together and make it different.
The point is in order for a person or community to be successful, to rise above current circumstances, see beyond the moment, and live life to the fullest, self-efficacy must be operational. Each of us has to believe in our capacity to face and conquer life’s obstacles. We have to look at where we are, marvel at how we got here on the bones and scraps we were thrown, and remind ourselves of the toils that we as individuals and a community of people overcame to see this day. We made it on sheer grit, and if we can remember the grind of our ancestors (the models), the lessons we learned along this path (the experiences), and the blessings of God to see a new day (the encouragement), we’re well on our way to receiving the right of success for ourselves, our children and the community.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Apr 23, 2008
Apr 14, 2008
When you want to believe in something, you also have to believe in everything that’s necessary for believing in it.
-- Ugo Betti, Struggle Till Dawn
If you believe that today will be a good day, you have to believe in your ability to make it the best. You have to believe that others will do their best to make it a good day, and you have to believe that everything in the world is working at its best and doing its part to make it a good day. You have to believe all of this in order to believe it’s going to be a good day.
Tall order? Probably. Unless you can control everybody or everything else in the day. But, geez, who really wants to do that?
What you can control, maneuver, and believe in is you and your abilities to make this day what you want it to be. You can control your first thoughts of the day; hopefully they’re prayers for the people and the world around you. You can control how you leave your home – orderly, full from a wholesome breakfast, loved and kissed on, secure, and eager to return to its comfort. If you can do these things, you can believe when you first hit the public, your day will be a good one.
You can believe your day will be a good one if you can remain calm and even-tempered in morning traffic, especially if you take time to notice the tulips and blossoming trees along your route that have sustained themselves amid precocious weather. Your day will be a good one, if, when you finally make it to the office, you can steer clear of office gossip and idle banter that seeks to usurp your energy, power, and competence while still being a teamplayer who is professionally cooperative and good-natured. Even if others try to stick it to you, beat you to the punch, or pull the rug from under you, if you gave the day, your work, and others your best and most sincere effort and attention, you can believe the day will have been a good one.
If at the end of the day, you can say that you helped someone, that you made a difference for somebody, that you panted a seed for tomorrow, and your head and heart are clear and unfettered, you can know without a doubt that today was a good one. And, frankly, that’s enough. That’s plenty.
You are the key to making it work for yourself, the key to making this day the best it can be. It doesn’t have to involve any one else but you. Of course it would be nice if others fell in line and did what you needed them to do. That would certainly make for a perfect day. But that doesn’t always happen if it happens at all. Really, it’s all about your action and response to the day and the day’s participants and that’s all you can control.
If no one else does their part to make this a good day, you’ve still got and will always have you to make it the best. And that’s something to believe in.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Ugo Betti, Struggle Till Dawn
If you believe that today will be a good day, you have to believe in your ability to make it the best. You have to believe that others will do their best to make it a good day, and you have to believe that everything in the world is working at its best and doing its part to make it a good day. You have to believe all of this in order to believe it’s going to be a good day.
Tall order? Probably. Unless you can control everybody or everything else in the day. But, geez, who really wants to do that?
What you can control, maneuver, and believe in is you and your abilities to make this day what you want it to be. You can control your first thoughts of the day; hopefully they’re prayers for the people and the world around you. You can control how you leave your home – orderly, full from a wholesome breakfast, loved and kissed on, secure, and eager to return to its comfort. If you can do these things, you can believe when you first hit the public, your day will be a good one.
You can believe your day will be a good one if you can remain calm and even-tempered in morning traffic, especially if you take time to notice the tulips and blossoming trees along your route that have sustained themselves amid precocious weather. Your day will be a good one, if, when you finally make it to the office, you can steer clear of office gossip and idle banter that seeks to usurp your energy, power, and competence while still being a teamplayer who is professionally cooperative and good-natured. Even if others try to stick it to you, beat you to the punch, or pull the rug from under you, if you gave the day, your work, and others your best and most sincere effort and attention, you can believe the day will have been a good one.
If at the end of the day, you can say that you helped someone, that you made a difference for somebody, that you panted a seed for tomorrow, and your head and heart are clear and unfettered, you can know without a doubt that today was a good one. And, frankly, that’s enough. That’s plenty.
You are the key to making it work for yourself, the key to making this day the best it can be. It doesn’t have to involve any one else but you. Of course it would be nice if others fell in line and did what you needed them to do. That would certainly make for a perfect day. But that doesn’t always happen if it happens at all. Really, it’s all about your action and response to the day and the day’s participants and that’s all you can control.
If no one else does their part to make this a good day, you’ve still got and will always have you to make it the best. And that’s something to believe in.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Apr 9, 2008
If someone else has done it, you can too.
-- Cynthia Copeland Lewis, “Really Important Stuff My Kids Have Taught Me”
And even if nobody’s done it, you can do it. Why not?
Have you ever lay in bed at night and thought up a solution to a problem, you know, some problem that all of us have? Like if your car alarm goes off and you’re inside the mall or somewhere crowded, how would you know unless your key vibrated or made a sound to let you know there was trouble at your car? Or maybe you have the tried-and-true answer to no weep onion cutting and it has something to do with citronella, glycerin, Vodka, and baby diapers. Or, perhaps you’ve figured out how to leave no child behind by simply using hard work, neighborhood schools, and a paddle. Oh wait, that’s not new, that’s old school.
But maybe you have a new take on an old thing, like Chrysler did with its throwback PT Cruiser. Maybe the old thing just needs new energy, like putting the spice and sauce back into a staid marriage. Or maybe you’ve thought to brilliantly repurpose a thing, like the emerald green damask Martha Stewart Collection tablecloth you use as a shower curtain because it perfectly matches the tile in your bathroom or making cloth grocery bags from old family reunion t-shirts.
Maybe you’ve come up with an expansion to something old, like McDonalds did when it added gourmet coffee to its menu to attract a different customer. Or you can upgrade or replace an idea, like Adobe Acrobat does every 20 minutes. Or you can buy out, take over, and give a thing a new name, like J.P. Morgan did with Bear Stearns.
Or maybe you want to do the thing that’s already been done, you just want to leave your mark. Maybe you’d like to put on another production of “Dreamgirls” that is just like the original version except this time you’re the producer. Maybe you too want to record a version of “The Christmas Song,” only this time it’s your voice on the CD. That’s okay because your mark is your own; nobody will touch the thing in quite the way you’ve touched it.
Whatever you do, if you can think it, you can do it, and DON’T let anyone tell you otherwise. Do it big; do it new; do it small; do it the same. Whatever, it’s there for you to do.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Cynthia Copeland Lewis, “Really Important Stuff My Kids Have Taught Me”
And even if nobody’s done it, you can do it. Why not?
Have you ever lay in bed at night and thought up a solution to a problem, you know, some problem that all of us have? Like if your car alarm goes off and you’re inside the mall or somewhere crowded, how would you know unless your key vibrated or made a sound to let you know there was trouble at your car? Or maybe you have the tried-and-true answer to no weep onion cutting and it has something to do with citronella, glycerin, Vodka, and baby diapers. Or, perhaps you’ve figured out how to leave no child behind by simply using hard work, neighborhood schools, and a paddle. Oh wait, that’s not new, that’s old school.
But maybe you have a new take on an old thing, like Chrysler did with its throwback PT Cruiser. Maybe the old thing just needs new energy, like putting the spice and sauce back into a staid marriage. Or maybe you’ve thought to brilliantly repurpose a thing, like the emerald green damask Martha Stewart Collection tablecloth you use as a shower curtain because it perfectly matches the tile in your bathroom or making cloth grocery bags from old family reunion t-shirts.
Maybe you’ve come up with an expansion to something old, like McDonalds did when it added gourmet coffee to its menu to attract a different customer. Or you can upgrade or replace an idea, like Adobe Acrobat does every 20 minutes. Or you can buy out, take over, and give a thing a new name, like J.P. Morgan did with Bear Stearns.
Or maybe you want to do the thing that’s already been done, you just want to leave your mark. Maybe you’d like to put on another production of “Dreamgirls” that is just like the original version except this time you’re the producer. Maybe you too want to record a version of “The Christmas Song,” only this time it’s your voice on the CD. That’s okay because your mark is your own; nobody will touch the thing in quite the way you’ve touched it.
Whatever you do, if you can think it, you can do it, and DON’T let anyone tell you otherwise. Do it big; do it new; do it small; do it the same. Whatever, it’s there for you to do.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Apr 7, 2008
We must accept finite disappointment, but we must never lose infinite hope.
-- The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
There’s a lot of talk these days about hope; it’s the new buzz word for some. Of course most of us have been hoping all of our lives – hoping the to make ends meet, or better yet, get rich; hoping we’d be and stay well; hoping to meet the man or woman of our dreams; hoping our children will have more to their names than we do. If you think about it, we live our lives on hope, getting up each morning on the optimism of hope.
But is there a time when hope dies, when it’s no longer alive? Is there a time when we’ve given in and given up on hope, no longer holding out hope that things will change or a better day will come? Are there days when we’ve only regarded hope as a four-letter word and one in which we’d be foolish to bank? Has there been a time for you when hope was defeated and unrecoverable?
If there was that time you let go of hope and you believed nothing about its possibilities, certainly you felt hollow, raw, and done. Certainly the world around you lost its color, faded to grey, and what was once bright became like a 1950’s black and white Polaroid. When you lost hope, simply set it down to flicker out for the obvious, the easy, and the right now, you felt your narrow box become just that – a box, nothing more, nothing less, just a nondescript cell of dullness, mediocrity, and predictability. Hope was gone, and all you had was where you were.
It’s not easy to give up hope. There’s something that runs through our blood that keeps hope from fading. Perhaps God placed it there and it was triggered and motivated by our foreparents who unconsciously rouse us to keep its embers burning.
What if your grandmother had given up hope, if she’d stopped praying and persevering for things to change, to be different and better even in the face of the impractical? Would her life, your parents life and your life have moved forward? Her hope was not limited by moments and periods of struggle and uncertainty; her hope was not in vain; and her hope had the punch of a world champion boxer. It must have because you’re here.
To give up hoping is to stop breathing. To no longer wish for or believe in possibilities and opportunities is like water hitting the dam wall. It stops and goes backwards, mixing with other water and becoming backwash. Without hope, there’s no movement, no newness or air or life. All you have is stagnation surrounded by dust and whatever else is left when dreams and desire fade away.
Thank God hope is alive, and even though recent politics has made it a household word, or at least a word you can say outside the home and not be looked upon as a fantasist, we know. We know hope’s been around, gone, and come back several times. We know how to hope and dream and believe. We know how to hope even when the outcome seems unrealistic. For hope is what we do, hope is who we are, and hope will keep us moving toward what is good and right. Hope is what keeps us alive and living.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
There’s a lot of talk these days about hope; it’s the new buzz word for some. Of course most of us have been hoping all of our lives – hoping the to make ends meet, or better yet, get rich; hoping we’d be and stay well; hoping to meet the man or woman of our dreams; hoping our children will have more to their names than we do. If you think about it, we live our lives on hope, getting up each morning on the optimism of hope.
But is there a time when hope dies, when it’s no longer alive? Is there a time when we’ve given in and given up on hope, no longer holding out hope that things will change or a better day will come? Are there days when we’ve only regarded hope as a four-letter word and one in which we’d be foolish to bank? Has there been a time for you when hope was defeated and unrecoverable?
If there was that time you let go of hope and you believed nothing about its possibilities, certainly you felt hollow, raw, and done. Certainly the world around you lost its color, faded to grey, and what was once bright became like a 1950’s black and white Polaroid. When you lost hope, simply set it down to flicker out for the obvious, the easy, and the right now, you felt your narrow box become just that – a box, nothing more, nothing less, just a nondescript cell of dullness, mediocrity, and predictability. Hope was gone, and all you had was where you were.
It’s not easy to give up hope. There’s something that runs through our blood that keeps hope from fading. Perhaps God placed it there and it was triggered and motivated by our foreparents who unconsciously rouse us to keep its embers burning.
What if your grandmother had given up hope, if she’d stopped praying and persevering for things to change, to be different and better even in the face of the impractical? Would her life, your parents life and your life have moved forward? Her hope was not limited by moments and periods of struggle and uncertainty; her hope was not in vain; and her hope had the punch of a world champion boxer. It must have because you’re here.
To give up hoping is to stop breathing. To no longer wish for or believe in possibilities and opportunities is like water hitting the dam wall. It stops and goes backwards, mixing with other water and becoming backwash. Without hope, there’s no movement, no newness or air or life. All you have is stagnation surrounded by dust and whatever else is left when dreams and desire fade away.
Thank God hope is alive, and even though recent politics has made it a household word, or at least a word you can say outside the home and not be looked upon as a fantasist, we know. We know hope’s been around, gone, and come back several times. We know how to hope and dream and believe. We know how to hope even when the outcome seems unrealistic. For hope is what we do, hope is who we are, and hope will keep us moving toward what is good and right. Hope is what keeps us alive and living.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Mar 20, 2008
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
--- 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 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
Feb 13, 2008
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
-- 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 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
Jan 24, 2008
Love letters make love stay visible. You can rub it, smell it, touch it, share it, and sleep with it under your pillow. Write a love letter on a bed sheet with magic markers; sleep under it. Write a love letter on the sidewalk with purple chalk really big. Write a love letter in the sand and leave it to wash away. Write a love letter to yourself, listing all of your finest qualities. Rave about you then mail it to your house. Write a love letter on a cotton scarf with India ink; give it to someone. Design your own stationary and use it. Make a love letter box and keep romance in it.
-- Sark
-- Sark
Dearest,
If a tree is me and an eagle is you, then, can we say we are a part of nature? If I love you very hard, so hard that you can feel me needing you from a thousand miles away, can we say our bond knows no distance? If I sing you a song, a song with blushing sentiment, or, if I write you a poem filled with all the adoration I can compose, surely we can say the language is intimately ours.
If all that I enjoy of life -- the sun shining on the ocean, the innocence of animals, the newness of Spring, the excitement of falling in love -- and all that I wish for -- happiness, affection, purpose, and certainty -- is magnified in you, I know that I can say God is listening to my appeals.
If we dwell in our own world, a world that no one and no thing can penetrate, and if we call this world our private and trusting space and bring to it only what is real, strong, and absolute, and if, as that world revolves around us, it sustains our mental and physical capacity, allowing us to create, advance, and improve for the good of one another, can we say that our world is all we need?
If I dream of you distinctly and consistently, longing to touch you, longing to feel your warmth and response to each stroke of my hand on your handsome and sensual frame, and if I whisper your name throughout our love-making, tell you that I love you, hold you very tightly and make you promises at the height of my pleasure, certainly we can say our arousal and emotions are parallel. And if I share with you everything that is deep within me, each habit and secret, each pain and worry, each mood and indifference, and if I bring to you all of my enthusiasm and zest for living,
and the undying optimism for the lives around me, can we say that all of me is
exposed and in your hands, trembling for a balance?
If we become the best of friends, the most sensitive lovers, and if everything in our
individual lives falls properly and in our favor, can we say we have defined completely the meaning of love? If all that I feel for you can be embraced in one word, can I say forever?Sincerely .......
Sadiqqa © 1994
Jan 22, 2008
It is not our responsibility to prove to people who we are. Our job and responsibility is to “be.”
-- Iyanla Vanzant
Most of the hours of our day are spent trying to convince someone of our value. We’re forever on our toes, always looking over our shoulder, and constantly breaking our backs just to prove we are irreplaceable and indispensable. And what do we have to show for it? Headaches.
Today, stop spending so much of your time trying to show folks that you are valuable, that you have a contribution, and that you are worthy to be heard. Instead spend your time breathing, smiling, laughing, eating, sleeping, and slowing down. Complete your work with consciousness, not competition; live with and love your family and friends with honesty, not confrontation; and move about the world with gentleness and consideration, not force or gruffness. Exhibit excellence in your work and style by simply being and doing the best you know how. Not better than, not greater than, but with the most confidence and precision you can muster. If you can spend your time focused on these things, if you can rise above trying to bear out your significance, you can eliminate unnecessary aches and pains.
After all, when it’s all said and done, people will think what they want, whether you do anything or not. Spend your time just being. Your truth will surface and say all that needs to be said.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Iyanla Vanzant
Most of the hours of our day are spent trying to convince someone of our value. We’re forever on our toes, always looking over our shoulder, and constantly breaking our backs just to prove we are irreplaceable and indispensable. And what do we have to show for it? Headaches.
Today, stop spending so much of your time trying to show folks that you are valuable, that you have a contribution, and that you are worthy to be heard. Instead spend your time breathing, smiling, laughing, eating, sleeping, and slowing down. Complete your work with consciousness, not competition; live with and love your family and friends with honesty, not confrontation; and move about the world with gentleness and consideration, not force or gruffness. Exhibit excellence in your work and style by simply being and doing the best you know how. Not better than, not greater than, but with the most confidence and precision you can muster. If you can spend your time focused on these things, if you can rise above trying to bear out your significance, you can eliminate unnecessary aches and pains.
After all, when it’s all said and done, people will think what they want, whether you do anything or not. Spend your time just being. Your truth will surface and say all that needs to be said.
Sadiqqa © 2008
Jan 21, 2008
My task as a believer is not to inspire those who come out to hear me to believe, but to help open up a space in each of them so that belief, if it ever comes, may have someplace to take root and grow.
-- Renita J. Weems, “Listening for God”
We want to make a difference in the lives of those around us. We teach and instruct, train and model, and do our very best to shape and mold. We give our all hoping that those we touch will go out and do a good thing in, to, and for the world.
But sometimes doing what we do, putting in the long hours of making sure others have all the tools for successful living, is only about preparing the soil for the seed to be planted. Sometimes our task is only about pointing someone in the right direction and showing them which way to go so that they can begin to lay tiles to step forward on.
It may take years for the seeds to be planted, take root, and yield any fruit for the bearer to enjoy and benefit from. It may take a lifetime for tiles to be laid then traveled in a satisfying direction. The important thing is that you helped to start the process by tilling the ground in which the toiling could be done.
And sometimes that’s all you’re supposed to do.
Sadiqqa © 2008
-- Renita J. Weems, “Listening for God”
We want to make a difference in the lives of those around us. We teach and instruct, train and model, and do our very best to shape and mold. We give our all hoping that those we touch will go out and do a good thing in, to, and for the world.
But sometimes doing what we do, putting in the long hours of making sure others have all the tools for successful living, is only about preparing the soil for the seed to be planted. Sometimes our task is only about pointing someone in the right direction and showing them which way to go so that they can begin to lay tiles to step forward on.
It may take years for the seeds to be planted, take root, and yield any fruit for the bearer to enjoy and benefit from. It may take a lifetime for tiles to be laid then traveled in a satisfying direction. The important thing is that you helped to start the process by tilling the ground in which the toiling could be done.
And sometimes that’s all you’re supposed to do.
Sadiqqa © 2008
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