Nia

Nia: To make our collective vocation the building and developing of our community in order to restore our people to their traditional greatness

Our traditional
greatness never diminished.
We survive, despite.

Ujamaa

Ujamaa: To build and maintain our own stores, shops and other businesses and to profit from them together

I don't have rambling thoughts to share today (I do have rambling thoughts...on the differences between supporting individual Black-owned businesses and building community-owned businesses in the Black community. Maybe one day I will organize my thoughts enough to share them, but today--

I just wanted to share this about a community banding together to build food and economic security in their own neighbor:

More details included in this article.

Ujima

Ujima: To build and maintain our community together and make our brothers’ and sisters’ problems our problems, and to solve them together
The Ujima celebration hosted by Nsoroma Institute at the Charles H Wright museum was powerful. From the call of the drums to the libations (with kola nut, water, spirits, and smoke--because Queen Mother believes in doing things real) to words from the youth and the elders, I was fed.

I wish I had been taking notes during Minister Dawud Muhammad's talk. He said so much that really spoke to me and that I needed to hear. He noted that "there's no picking and choosing in 'collective'" and likened "throwing up crescents, crosses, and ankhs" to divide to gang divisions. And Baba Malik Yakini shared a little of the history of Nsoroma and outlined plans to think about how to move forward the educating the youth since the closure of Nsoroma as a charter school.

Also, on today's theme, there's an editorial that suggests making a New Year's Resolution to not call the police. I've thought about this a lot recently. Of course the question becomes what do to instead. Rather than "handing off" the problem to police, committing to not calling them means that we take collective ownership of the problem and attempt to solve it. In the remote past, I called police twice: once after a really unsuccessful mugging (he got nothing; I got a strong dislike of people behind me unexpectedly touching my neck) and once for a very loud domestic dispute in an apartment above me. I've mostly convinced myself that I could just let random property crimes go (the main challenge there being that if I ever needed a police report for an insurance claim, there would be a problem), but I don't have any strategy for safety concerns. INCITE! seems to have developed the beginning of a toolkit on the "community accountability," though I haven't explored the listed resources yet. 

Kujichagulia

Kujichagulia: To define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves

Self-determination is perhaps the principle I personally hold the closest. It starts on an individual level, where I revel in my power to define who and what I am, but expands so far beyond that. I've been thinking about this one off and on for the past week:

• A Facebook friend shared a status from someone, who was so steeped in his own privilege, that he felt comfortable implying that Black people--daring to assert that Black lives matter enough that public officials should be held accountable for killing us--were somehow being distracted from the real goal. I cannot actually tell you what his real goal was, as a flash of incandescent rage promptly erased it from my consciousness. I think, however, that it had something to do with electoral politics. Kujichagulia means that we decide what our priorities are and fight for them in our own ways. 
• While Detroit is the Blackest city in the U.S., 50% of the Black population in Michigan is living under state, rather than local, control. While the emergency manager has left, the city's finances are now subject to oversight by a financial review commission. For most of the last two decades, the Detroit public school system has been run by state appointed emergency mangers and has been shrunken. There is also the EAA, a state-run district that now includes the "lowest-performing schools"--a district whose chancellor earns a $325,000 salary, where standard operations include 100 kindergarteners in a classroom, and where inexperienced teachers depend on problematic software to teach. Weep for our children, Detroit. Note that attempts to expand the EAA beyond Detroit to the rest of the state failed in the state legislature. And as we strive to live the principle of kujichagulia, recall that "Only a fool would let his enemy teach his children." Particularly since the state is upfront about rejecting any obligation to provide them a "quality" or "equitable" education, merely a "free" one.
• There are many paths forward. Part of self-determination has to be recognizing the right of everyone to find and live their own path. As Baba Malik wrote, "All resistance to oppression is healthy for the oppressed."

My disjointed thoughts...

Reflections on Umoja

Habari gani?

Two things happened to make me go deep as I reflect on the principle of the day:

1. So. Yesterday I got a text from someone I haven't heard from in a year and nine months--despite several calls, emails, and texts from me. And the last interaction came about as an extremely delayed response to an email I had sent four years prior. My immediate reaction to the text was: "What the frick-frack? Is that how they're celebrating Christmas now, with amnesty for those who decide resurface after long absences?"

I recognize that I am good at Walking Away. Gold star good. Gold medal good. Double platinum good. I am quick to say (or think) "I don't need you." And, pretty much, it's true. Grandma has a story of coming over to find toddler me climbing up on the kitchen cabinets to reach the cereal. I had a problem and I was taking care of it myself.

2. My child asked me today why I don't talk to our neighbor. I really don't talk to her. I do not so much as acknowledge her presence and I see her so infrequently these days that I'm pretty sure that she has learned that talking to me is not an option.

Umoja: To strive for and to maintain unity in the family, community, nation and race

Maybe my lesson for this year will be how to build unity when we, and others, are imperfect. I will learn balance: loving people and giving them space to work out their own issues, while also taking care of myself and avoiding toxic situations. I will consciously work on building unity where it is difficult, recognizing that that is where it matters most.

My sincerest apologies on not providing vicarious adventures

Dear Married Friend:

I'm sorry to be such a disappointment. I know, I know. I'm single, I'm gay, I'm young(ish)--you were really hoping for a bit of vicarious excitement. Again, I'm sorry. I have no lascivious lesbian debauchery to share. In fact, instead, I'd like to vicariously live through you. Please, do indulge me.

Tell me about how it is when you want to get in a workout, maybe a yoga class or spinning and you just do. With absolutely no cajoling, someone else is just there to keep the kids for you--without even the need for you to be hovering on the edge of a cliff first.

Tell me about thinking about moving and being able to have a partner to consider with--to plan, to dream, to budget, to worry, to soothe.

Tell me about there constantly being a warm body in the bed when the temperatures drop.

Tell me about having someone whose job is it is to have your back--who signed up for that and means it.

Again, I'm sorry I can't fulfill your desire for titillation and adventures at the club. I understand there is porn that might help you with that.

Much love and respect,
Your Single Friend

p.s. If you ever want me wax poetic about freedom, answering to no one, doing it my way, paying the cost to be the boss,… I got you.

Laverne Cox is amazing

Katie Couric was interviewing both Carmen Carrera and Laverne Cox. In the first segment she had the audacity to ask Carrera about her "private parts"--after having been graciously deflected with slightly more subtle versions of that question. Then when Laverne Cox came on stage, Couric asked again about transition and got taken to school:

"The preoccupation with transition and with surgery objectifies trans people and then we don't get to really deal with lived experiences. The reality of trans people's lives is that so often we're targets of violence. We experience discrimination disproportionately to the rest of the community. Our unemployment rate is twice the national average and if you're a trans person of color, it's four times the national average. The homicide rate in the LGBT community is highest among trans women.

And when we focus on transition, we don't actually get to talk about those things."

Video available here:
http://katiecouric.com/videos/orange-is-the-new-black-laverne-cox/

Rambling about Naming

I've got a name kink. For real. I like names. I like stories about names. People who say my name the way I say it get bonus points. I really like names and I'm always interested in the whys of choosing names. Names are intensely personal and yet very public. They're one of the first gifts parents give their children, and one of the most lasting.

My name is "They Came Together And United." That might suggest to you that "James" and "Joseph" are not names I considered when looking at baby names. I named my kid "Let Us Be Glad." Though English is my first language and the only one I have ever been fluent in, I've never wanted to give anyone an English name. Instead, I chose a name that contained all the love and hope that I had for my newborn and three years later, we both like it. It may not do much good on a resume, but I've never seen it as my duty to make myself palatable to the mainstream, nor is that a value I would hope to pass on.

One thing I've always wondered is what it's like to grow up with a name that is full of meaning that is automatically understood by everyone in your community…how that shapes how you grow. What if, rather than a dismissive "that's different" or a blank "that's pretty," telling people your name is just straightforward. So if your name is "In the Night" or "In the Hand" or "My Hope" and everybody just calls you that without thinking AND knows exactly what it means, does that lift you up? Make you rooted?

I know someone who chose her children's names to sound like "senator's names." An Illinois senator named Barack notwithstanding, looking at the names of current senators suggests she was right to choose solid English names. A research study confirms what everyone assumed was true anyway--"African American sounding" names get fewer callbacks on equivalent resumes. Which has caused some people to remove race markers from their resumes--organizations, experiences, and even their names. I find this a little heartbreaking.

Outside of considering giving someone a namesake, it never occurred to give anyone an English name. The only two that ever really impressed me were "Excel" and "Sincere." Not sure why, but those speak to me.

Anyway, I've been rambling about this because the first baby born in 2014 in some Texas hospital was named "So'Unique Miracle." That apparently is enough to spark internet vitriol directed at the parents. Which is a bit *odd* to me. Maybe it's because, to me, the name suggests her parents value her. Maybe it's because I'm sure there are many who'd have plenty to say about my naming choices, if I cared to listen. Maybe it's because we're just coming off Kwanzaa. Maybe it's because I remember a baby Miracle from years ago whose name caught me off-guard, but eventually seemed perfect. Maybe it's because being on Team Parent makes me wanna scream "we're doing the best we can, back up off!!!" half the time.

Regardless, I hope all our children take the gifts of the names we give them and benefit from them and rename themselves, if and when they need to.

Judging Bad Parenting

This week, I had one of those days when "I'm a bad mother" was echoing through my head. Normally I feel like I do a decent job of parenting and my family is pretty darn wonderful. Most days I believe that. That day, drained by several days that were filled with 16 hours in the car and three work meetings, I was not at my parenting best. I was not quite calm and  objective in handling a three year old who soaked a car seat in urine while taking a four hour nap in the car, who attempted to unbuckle the seat belt as we traveled 70 miles per hour on the highway, and who managed to pull out of my grip and dash across the parking lot after we went picked up our dog who had been boarded while we were away.

Not my best day ever.

Watching that chubby body run away in a parking lot filled with cars reminded me of the case of Raquel Nelson. In 2010, she was coming home from shopping with her three children. They were an hour behind schedule because they had missed their bus. Rather than add an extra half mile to her journey by walking to the out of the way crosswalk, she planned to cross the street at the bus stop which was directly across from her apartment building. While they were waiting, other people began to cross,  which encouraged her four-year-old to slip out of her hand and start crossing. She followed. She, her son, and her daughter were hit by a drunk driver and the four-year-old boy was killed. The drunk driver who killed the child--and was guilty of two prior hit and run incidents--served only six months of a five-year sentence. Raquel Nelson was tried and convicted of second-degree homicide by a vehicle, crossing roadway elsewhere than a crosswalk and reckless conduct. She had faced up to two years in jail. Somewhere along the way, common sense was injected into the case and at her retrial, she pleaded no contest to the jaywalking charge and the other other charges were dropped.

Luckily, my Boobaloo is slow enough that I was able to recapture that little hand before circumstances conspired against us. The three of us made it home, safely. The car seat cushion had finished washing while we were gone. No one, other than me, attempted to judge my parenting for something that happens all the time. My family remains whole and healthy and safe and mostly sane.

Gardening Progress

I am not nearly as good a gardener as I was four years ago. Weeding is a haphazard affair. I am less vigilant about watering. And yet, I still persist. And I am excited to see growth. 

I find that gardening, like relationships, require faith. Faith that my efforts are not wasted, that eventually there will be a harvest. My young tomato plants look a little silly, currently dwarfed by their tomato cages. I have faith that those cages will eventually keep the plants from toppling over when they are huge, covered in ripening tomatoes, and wanting to sprawl.

I have six Brussels sprout plants. Honestly right now, without the tags, I'd be hard pressed to differentiate between the Brussels, the collards, and the broccoli. I am excited for when they grow enough that I have no doubts. I've never grown Brussels before and while they're not my favorite vegetable, they're Booba's. There is something very powerful about growing them for him.

Also in the garden, we have lettuces. Which is a little odd since I typically only make salads using spinach, but lettuce is soooo easy to grow. Still, with what I spend on spinach, I should definitely be making yet another attempt to grow it and not be so deterred by the creatures who insists on munching it before I get the chance to.

Toddler Food

I am lucky. Some people have children who are picky eaters. Their children refuse to eat anything other than chicken and pasta. Or the kids will only eat breakfast then pick at food the rest of the day.

My child will eat anything and a lot of it.* I guess my first hint should have been at 9 months: my Boobaloo crawled in lap and demanded to sample my ginger tea. It was home-brewed ginger tea and it was STRONG. I shared a sip, figuring it would be the last request. After a tiny sip, he tried to get the cup again, insisting, "Mo'! Mama, mo'!" Anyone who can appreciate the spice of a properly made fresh ginger tea is not going to be a boring eater.

I decided that slathering artichoke-spinach hummus on a tortilla and topping it with a slice of tomato sounded good. Booba agreed and gobbled that up, along with walnuts and strawberries, for lunch.

Life is good.

* So far, he's turned down arugula and has picked the rosemary leaves out of his alecha. Everything else seems to be on the good list.

What is Detroit spending money on?

"Mommy, why they putting the concrete in that dump truck?"

I really don't know. Apparently, our city--which is on the verge of bankruptcy, where the state-appointed emergency financial manager is threatening to liquidate art work and any other public asset to creditors, where we cannot keep the street lights on consistently--is replacing driveways and sidewalks in my neighborhood.

Some of it would seem to make sense…probably some areas do need to be replaced. They ragged and uneven and I can't imagine someone in a wheelchair navigating over them:

Though my neighbor wanted to know why they aren't grinding up the stumps before replacing driveways like this one. The workers, of course, said the inspector makes decisions on what to replace before they come out; they just do the marked areas.

Other areas are cracked, but flat and not stopping any movement:

Or driveways that are ugly, but functionally fine:

I find it especially odd since the sidewalks and driveways have been like this for *years*.

Inclusion and Exclusion on the Gender Binary

I confess I've never wanted to attend the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. I thought about it briefly once and then learned there were group showers--I haven't had to deal with that experience since high school gym class and I was not about to sign up for it again. So this is from an outsider's perspective.

Apparently someone has a petition going to call for a musician boycott of the festival because the event is not trans-inclusive. The organizers are adamant that the festival is intentionally a space for "women born women."

I find this interesting for several reasons and there are several issues all tangled up:

Freedom of association (and not just as related to Congress)
On the one hand, I think people should be free to associate with whomever they like. Personally, if integration had required me to go to school with hostile people--or (say what?) send my precious child into such an environment--it would not have happened.  I have no desire to give my time, energy, or money to anyone who doesn't appreciate my humanity. There's a fiercely proud slice of my personality that believes that any space that doesn't welcome me, doesn't deserve me.

Freedom of speech (and not just as related to Congress)
At the same time, people should also be free to boycott or protest their exclusion, as they like. Particularly in cases when perhaps simply raising awareness of an issue would change how it's viewed. Until I read the organizer's letter on the topic, I hadn't known that trans women weren't considered "womyn" and part of the target audience of the festival.

"Women born women" as a Gender Identity
This idea is new to me. My gut reaction is that I was not born a woman, I was born female and I matured into my womanhood. Odd label aside, I'm not sure I'd consider this a "unique gender identity." And this is perhaps because these days I find myself in more spaces where the distinction is more likely to be femme/stud and not woman/man. So I now tend to think of gender expression as a huge component of gender identity and then I falter at how to read "women born women" other than as a way to tell trans women they are not "really" women who belong in women's spaces. Indeed many of the comments I read seemed very much related to the typical concerns that get trotted out in discussion of who gets to use what restroom.

Call it what it is
I wonder why the organization don't just rename the festival. Instead of saying it in footnotes (or actually: having the discussion in facebook pages outside of the main one), why not just call the festival Michigan Female-born Womyn's Music Festival? Then they could simply point to the sign and redirect those women who thought, as women, they might be long at the gathering. This would clarify: unless you were born with a vagina, this isn't your space. And then maybe supporters could stop attacking self-identified women,  calling them "men" and "he" and "him," simply because they want to participate in a so-called "women's event."

Privilege
I don't necessary have the highest levels of privilege and power in this society. But I am very aware of the privilege that comes with being cis-gendered/gender-conforming or whatever you want to call being born with a vagina and identifying as a "woman." Here's just a few:

• No one has ever challenged my right to use the women's bathroom
• I never had to think about when/if to reveal to anyone what genitalia I was born with or what genitalia I had. Or worry what would happen if they found out without my telling them.
• No one (okay, no reasonable person) will consider my not conforming to feminine ideals/stereotypes as valid reason to consider me not a woman.
• I can be rude/aggressive/just mean and no one is going to take that as proof that I'm not really a woman and am just proving my stored "male privilege."
• New revelations of about what genitalia I have now/had a birth is not going to lead to the loss of my housing or employment.

Here's a long list of privileges.

While I think, as I wrote, that people are free to associate with whomever they like, if we want to be conscious and connected, it is important for us to think about we are excluding and why--particularly in cases in which we are in the position of power and privilege (however unusual that may feel for us).

Thinking about Love

"You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free."-Thich Nhat Hanh

A friend of mine posted this quote on facebook. My immediate reaction was a confused "Hunh? How can one person's love be responsible for making another feel free???" I was very confused. A different friend attempted to explain it to me, using more paragraphs and the concrete examples that I need to understand things. She spoke of the need to love someone as he or she is, to take people as they are and not try to change them, and to support them in what they do. Ohhhh

That makes sense to me, though I would probably phrase it as "to love someone, first you have to accept they are free." I don't think it's possible to love someone without understanding their flaws, those quirks that make up who they are. And beyond the flaws are those things that are just different. Not flaws, but also not characteristics or choices or feelings that you would select for them. I tend to think of love as that space where you accept who a person is and still hold them closely in your heart.

But I also wonder what it would mean for my love to help a person feel free. What would that look like? Would that be my reaching out to help a person remove the barriers that pin them? Is this referring to a type of agape love, rooted in social justice? Is this about helping a person to open up with themselves and recognize their inherent beauty and power?

Free Family Events in Detroit Area

Admission to Cranbrook Institute of Science will be free after 5pm on February 1st and the first Friday of each month until June 2013 (they close at 10pm).

Admission to The Henry Ford Museum on February 4th (9:30am to 9:30pm) is free in honor of Rosa Park's 100th Birthday.

The admission to the Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA) is now free for residents of Wayne, Oakland, and Macomb counties. The museum itself is wonderful and there are many family-friendly performances regularly. Upcoming Family Sunday events include:

• February 3 - 2pm Storytelling by Ivory Williams
• February 10 - 2:30pm Chinese New Year Lion Dance performance 
• February 17 - 2pm Puppet Performance by Schroeder Cherry

Defining Women

What is a woman?

That was the question up for discussion. And I was stumped. I had nothing to say, because I didn't have an answer. A woman isn't one thing, can't be summed up in a single phrase. Women can be strong and can be weak. We can be brave and we can be cowardly. We can be loving and we can be spiteful. Women can be whole and we can be broken. Women are so, so, so many things. Woman can manifest every possible form of human expression. We aren't one thing.

Then, of course, the question for me would be that if I truly believed that why was I there? What in me needed sisterhood, needed a community of women if I couldn't even define what a woman was? And that question was easier for me to understand and wrap my head around.

For me, women have been my nurturers. Women have cooked for me. They have sent me home with leftovers when they worried I would spend too much time studying and not enough in the kitchen. They invited me to holidays with their families and then cooked vegetarian baked beans for me…because even though my not eating meat didn't make any sense to them, they wanted me to be nourished in their homes. They have combed my hair. And while, yes, sometimes that was attacking my kinks with a vicious hot comb, it was also me sitting between knees as gentle fingers massaged my scalp and adorned my head with braids. Women have held me, soothed me, and moved me.

I enjoy the company of women, though I may not quite be able to tell you what a woman is.

Most of the other women at the table had many descriptions of women. And for nearly every one, I wanted to amend with a "sometimes." And, as often happens when self-identified gay and bi women get together, the conversation turned toward femininity and femme and stud and roles. That conversation followed a fairly predictable path, with one group decrying the reenactment of heterosexual male/female roles while another group  expressed how labels are a convenient way to help us understand each other and that to pretend they don't is to hide reality. And then there was my favorite group…those who welcomed everyone to take or reject whatever labels/roles/behaviors they wanted--and asked that their own choices, different though they might be, be just as respected. They spoke for themselves, shared of themselves, defined themselves, all without permission and without apology, just with an honest attempt to be heard and understood.

I do so love the company of women.

A journey of 21,000 miles begins with a single step

Listening to NPR this morning, I learned that journalist Paul Salopek is preparing to walk from the Rift Valley in Ethiopia to Chile. Africa, Asia, North America, South America. The Bering Strait. I am beyond impressed. In so, so many ways.

On one level, this must be his passion. You don't make a 300,000,000-step journey in order to collect a paycheck. And yet, he is getting paid for this; this is his work. National Geographic is funding much of his walk and will be publishing updates from the travel at Out of Eden -- A Walk through Time.

As always, I am excited about purpose. When people manage to get beyond working and into fulfilling and maybe even a calling. I'm feeling inspired right now.

Rich Blocks, Poor Blocks

Actually, it's more like "rich Census tracts, poor Census tracts." Rich Blocks, Poor Blocks offers interactive maps displaying median incomes for Census tracts. Very interesting. I'm looking at Detroit and being fascinated by the juxtaposition of lower income areas right against higher income ones.

Habari gani? Ujima!

I am mother. This is now the core of my identity. Everything else I am is secondary. I remember, a decade and a half ago, in a discussion around identity politics, one person was very adamant that she was a physicist before she was a woman. I didn't understand at the time how an acquired role could become more essential than one she had worn since childhood. I understand now.

Before I was a mother, I was more involved in my communities. Volunteering was an important part of my life, supporting or belonging to various groups was a priority. Since I've had a child, particular one who is rather…active, I haven't been volunteering or investing my time in the groups who are doing good work in the community. I feel the pendulum about to swing back.

I am raising male child. As much as I don't want sex/gender to matter, as much as I joked about only revealing Booba's sex to those who changed diapers, as much as I find it ODD that so much emphasis and expectation are placed on the genitalia a person a person has, I am very aware that my child is a Black male in this society. Before I was a mother, the murder of Trayvon Martin may have made sparked righteous indignation. As the parent of a spirited, amazing, beautiful Black manchild, I still felt the injustice pulling at my bones, but the sense of loss, of mourning, of powerlessness felt so much more intense. As a mother, I feel a heightened sense of responsibility for my brothers and their safety as they navigate a society that views them as a threat.

Every time a police officer acknowledges my two year old, I feel the most striking sense of cognitive dissonance. When they wave and smile as I tow him in the bike trailer, when they offer him stickers, I want to ask--to demand--that that remember this when he is 16. That the same spirit whose beauty they appreciated then, now walks in a bigger body. When they're deciding to investigate what he and his friends are doing, I want it remembered that our young men *are* part of the community that the police are charged with protecting.

As I reflect upon the principle of ujima during this Kwanzaa, I am very aware that my brothers' problems are my sisters' problems are my problems and I commit myself to joint work to solve them.

Connections

After more than two years of ignoring the fireplace, suddenly Booba has been getting soot on socks, toys, fingers, cheeks and everything else. It has been extremely frustrating and just was not making any sense to me. Until yesterday. Booba told me that presents come from the fireplace—ah, the light bulb above my head was bright.

I have never talked to Booba about Santa Claus. I didn’t grow up believing in Santa—I was very aware that presents did not come out of a magical void, that there was definitely a cost associated with them. Especially since I don’t celebrate Christmas, there seemed no need to seed an impressionable mind with what I consider nonsense. So, if we lived in a bubble, Booba would never believe that getting dirty in the fireplace will result in presents. We do not live in a bubble. I have a job and while I am at said job, Booba goes to a daycare where they apparently discuss magic elves delivering gifts through chimneys.

Finally understanding just why soot is suddenly an issue in my house, I yearned for the bubble—that safe place where I wouldn’t have to worry about outside influences teaching my child questionable things. I could postpone all those philosophical discussions I’m certainly not trying to have with a two year old.

One day’s frustration aside, I really don’t want that bubble. I appreciate the women at the daycare, who love my child and take care of Booba when I’m working. They teach him about shapes, skipping, and sharing. He gets to practice having friends, including apologizing when he hurts his friends. I appreciate my relatives whose houses don’t have the same rules as mine, who care for my child, even when they don’t do things the same way I would.

I realize that who I am, who Booba is, who we are as a family, only exist in the context of our extended family, our community, our city, our peoples, our nation, our world, our universe. I give thanks for the connections that bind us, uphold us, and lift us, despite my smaller moments when I just want that bubble. I set my intention to live more in the us, and less in the me.

Habari gani? Umoja! Today, my spirit celebrates unity.