Stand With Jada

When I saw the atrocity that was #Jadapose, I, like many others, had begun to feel myself losing hope for humanity

The 16-year-old teen was invited to a party where she was later raped, and pictures of her naked body surfaced on social media. 

I barely have any words for this. 

It shouldn't have to take someone to think that if it were their mother or sister or some female relative close to them, for them to consider or care. Where is the regard for her humanity? For the fact that her body was violated, showcased, and then MOCKED for all to see? Her raped BODY was ridiculed through a hashtag on Twitter and accompanied with other Black teens striking the "#Jadapose". To add insult to injury, there were individuals who were siding with the rapist, shaming Jada for what was DONE TO HER, and making comments such as "he could rape me anytime", trivializing this devastating situation. While the media attention gained to counter this has been garnered, it is sad that people were initially learning about Jada's rape as a joke.

This is reminiscent of Sarah Baartman (the "Hottentot Venus"), the slave woman who was displayed as a freak, her body on exhibit for people to publicly oogle, touch, examine, mock and ridicule. After her death, casts of her body were made and they (along with jars filled with her organs) remained on display in Paris for many to view like some exotic showcase. This correlation is VERY troubling.  

I applaud Jada for her bravery, but it rips me up inside to see how hollow her eyes looked as she spoke. Void of hope, or comfort. This violence against Black girls and women, the cultural dismemberment of black bodies, and the trivialization of rape needs to stop. I want to say that I hope those responsible for this are brought to justice, but what about the ramifications? What steps will be taken afterwards to prevent this from ever happening again? This dehumanization is so deeply ingrained in our media and culture and fed to us systematically, how are we going to dismantle it? How can I and my fellow sisters dwell safely in a world where rape is trivialized and the victims can find no escape from blame, both physically and via social media? One can identify their cultural affinity within "Black twitter" or other groups within social media that are alike. It can be seen as a source of support or a platform to propel ideas of uplifting and activism. After this case however, I see them as attackers. Black faces ready to humiliate, target, scrutinize, brutalize, attack, and shun other Black faces. For far too long, it has been too easy to sit behind a computer or mobile device, and potentially damage someone's life (sometimes ultimately ending it). This sets the example for other races to follow, a guide on how to treat us too. That Black bodies and lives are not valued, and that we should be treated as such. I wish more people were aware of this.

At this point, I urge you all to stand with Jada and pray for this world. My hope for humanity has just about run out. 

#YouOkSis?: My Personal Experiences with Street Harassment

"Ayo ma!"

"Psssst"

"Aye Slim"

"Hey Chocolate"

"Aye Darkie"

"Nice **insert body part here**"...

I was always told that I looked older for my age. At 11-years old, I had to go down to the DMV to get an ID because movie theaters tried to charge me for an adult ticket. People just didn't believe me when I told them my real age. 

I remember being in the library. I was strolling around, looking for a book for my sixth grade summer reading project, until I was approached by a man. "Hey ma, how you doing? You look so beautiful" he said. He was double my height and looked like he was about twice my age. I was weary of this. "I'm fine" I replied. I was always told to ignore strangers, especially strange men, but he kept following me down each aisle of the library, making comments about my body. After some time, and still not being able to shake him off, I asked "How old are you?" He said 22. At that point, I explicitly backed away from him, tried to laugh off the fear swirling around in my belly, and told him I wasn't interested. He tried to go after me for a moment, but I escaped into one of the bigger common areas that had more people inside. My heart was pounding. I was so confused as to what just happened. For many years, I would believe that I was being "hit-on" or "holla-ed at" and should have been proud, but in hindsight, I was being harassed. 

At age 15, I was confronted by two men at the front door of my apartment building. One of them kept saying "Come on, it's Valentine's Day, gimmie a kiss" and he wouldn't let me through until I complied. He kept toying with me. Calling me beautiful one moment then charging towards me, prepared to strike me when I wouldn't submit to his advances the next. His friend stood there and laughed at me as I cowered in fear. I was defenseless. I just stood there and silently prayed that I would be let through. Eventually, he got tired of me not giving in, and decided to let me into the building. I was paranoid for the rest of the night. I waited a couple of days before I told my mother. She bought me mace, taught me how to hold my keys in my fist, and taught me where to strike if I was ever confronted with danger. I still shudder whenever I think about that night. It could've turned into something so much worst, and I probably wouldn't even be here today. I'll never forget how much fear that man instilled in my heart-- or his friend who stood by and laughed as it was happening. 

As I got older, things didn't really change. Actually, men got much more aggressive with their advances: stalking me down two or three blocks, yelling from across the street with a group of other boys/men, asking me explicitly sexual questions (a cab driver did this to me as he was driving me home), asking me to give them a kiss or a hug, and even going so far as to touch me. But they were just flirting right? It was all just fun right? Wrong. The feeling of shame I had would override the relief of being back in the safety of my home, and that was wrong.

I watched my friends go through it too, and it was so normalized that I couldn't mentally place it as anything bad at the time. This was usually how some Black guys talked to Black girls on the street. Some of my friends would smile at being barked at from across the street, or laugh at the crude comments about "how nice your ass looks in those shorts." It was confounding. I had a friend who was used to this, but instead of ignoring them, sometimes she'd say things like "Don't 'pssssst' at me! I'm not a cat" or "Leave me alone". I tried this. This got guys really angry. They would hurl the word "Bitch!" at me and say things like "Well you were ugly anyway" just to repair their hurt ego. It made no sense. The girl you just accosted with insults was the same girl you were just begging to give you the time of day. 

This cycle of harassment continued for a long time. Seeing that my first time being approached by a man was with harassment, I just thought that that's just how men normally expressed their interest in women, and I should be grateful for even being approached. I was taught to giggle and think it was cute. To laugh it off or accept it as a compliment. I was constantly told to "smile" and made to feel like the sole purpose of my being was to "make his day". And to reject them was to either be a) accosted even more or b) called a bitch. I never realized that the men who did this had no respect for themselves (or me) to be talking to me in that manner.  Most of the time, I didn't respond. I was made to believe that if I ever responded to them, I was "asking for" and "allowing" the continued abuse through this interaction. So I opted for silence. However, there was always something about being silent towards my harassers, that made me feel like I was losing power over myself. Sure, I was choosing the safer option by ignoring them, but to hear their slimy words crawl out of their mouths and to not respond felt like it was stripping something away from me. I'm tired of forfeiting my power to these men. 

But then the shaming from everyone else begins. 

"You have no respect for yourself" 

"Well it was showing so I had to touch it/say something about it"

"You allowed this to happen to you"

"You shouldn't have been wearing that anyway"

"You shouldn't have been alone"

"You should expect things like this"

The list goes on.

I've seen girls cross streets to avoid walking through large groups of boys/men, girls putting on their headphones and blasting music, all just to protect themselves, while still making themselves uncomfortable to accommodate the culture of street harassment. 

I just don't understand how certain men could walk around thinking that they have so much agency and ownership over women's bodies that they could talk to them about it (and even touch it, without permission) in any way they please. It's sickening. A man approached me disrespectfully while I was with my mother. This happened twice. My mother was furious. Not only because of the fact I was underaged, but because he had the audacity to disrespect me while my mother was standing right next to me. She had to scream at the top of her lungs "SHE'S TWELVE", but they would just snicker and smirk to themselves. Street harrassment knows no bounds. While this world has these men conditioned into thinking that it is harmless, going about your daily life as a woman becomes a frightening ordeal. 

This NEEDS to be addressed. Many don't understand that this is what breeds violence against women, perpetuates rape culture and victim-blaming, and causes the dehumanization of women to continue. This is especially prevalent among WOC.

So it is my hope that by sharing my story that, not only will I encourage other women to share their stories, but we could also bring to light an issue that has been plaguing women for years. Do not be intimidated into silence. Our voices are important, and the strength of our words can put an end to the abusive reign of street harrassment.

#YouOkSis?

Why I Love Nicki Minaj So Much

As much as I've tried to repress it, and feed into the negativity surrounding Nicki Minaj (folks being nit-picky over her overall image and the meaning of her lyrics), I can no longer contain my adoration of Nicki Minaj. She lets every woman and girl channel a "little Nicki" inside them that lets them be crazy, ridiculous, and insane, all while leading a fierce movement of our own. She used the all-too-popular "Barbie" doll image and turned it into her own brand. She bursted on the scene and made a huge statement. She's so much more universal (to me) than female rappers that have come before her. She stretched herself outside of rap, into pop, gaining a wider audience and I think that's simply genius. If you could reach the point where you have a 7-year old white girl singing your songs on Ellen Degeneres, then you're doing something right. People call her fake because of the whole "Barbie" thing, or a sell-out because of the whole rap-pop transition she made, but Nicki Minaj has been able to keep herself fresh with her outlandish outfits and wigs, and has still been able to maintain herself as a well-know artist. People don't realize that one must do what they have to do first, before they can do what they want to. In this case, in order to gain the enormous audience and fame she has, she had to reach over into pop and experiment with something new. As much as many may love hardcore rap, that only reaches but so many in comparison to pop. She found an angle by which she could appeal to many while still inserting her rap here and there. She couldn't just be raw. I've seen it with Rihanna. We all loved her as the sixteen-year old Island Girl, but paid much more attention to her when she was the "Good Girl Gone Bad" and fully transitioned into pop. Some can't handle the raw, Caribbean flare. In Nicki's case, they couldn't handle her raw style and bars, so she found another way to deliver them. 

Nicki is also an amazing business woman. She has her own perfume, her own moscato, her own line of clothing, her own MAC lipstick, her own headphones, and even her own Beats Pill. Honestly, whenever I think pink,  besides Breast Cancer Awareness, I think Nicki, and she has branded herself well enough to make it marketable. That's an inspiration. How many women, with her kind of fame, in the rap industry, maintain this level of entrepreneurship? Close to none. 

I'll never forget the time "Itty Bitty Piggy" came out. I was never the one to really listen to rap, but I tolerated it. When I heard Nicki spit those verses over Soulja Boy's "Donk" beat, I was hooked. I knew every word, every breath, I even knew how to change my voice so that it could sound like hers. Other girls in my school caught the bug too. I saw some walking around with her iconic bob with the pink hair in the back, and Barbie necklaces. My friends and I downloaded almost every song from her mixtapes and any song she was featured on, we just waited until her verse came so that we could go HAM. Years later, she has my (then nine year old) sister singing along to "Super Bass". Now, after listening and falling in love with "Pills N Potions" and singing with her word-for-word at the Fourth of July Philly Jam, I'm eagerly anticipating her new album. Clearly, she was influential and has remained so for a while now. Give her some credit.

Now, I'm not here to sound like a fanatic or a die-hard Barb, but I really want people to appreciate what Nicki has done with her work. People will say that she "sold-out", but when she was underground for so long, rapping about some real shit, no one cared to listen. So I understand why she had to change, why she had to branch out. She explained it in "Dear Old Nicki". We're in a world where we have to be constantly stimulated. In music, we want to be reminded of the classic oldies but with fresh and unique intertwined. What we're asking is demanding, and I think Nicki's approach to it was appropriate. Once I let go of everyone's doubting and the "she's doing too much/she's fake" mantras, I really got to see and embrace her for who she really is. That was heightened even more when she made her speech at the BET Awards addressing the fact that it is difficult to thrive in a male-dominated world. Even in your craft, in your passion, you have to work twice as hard (or even harder) just to get people to BELIEVE and even consider that your work can match the caliber of men. It goes deeper than allegedly "throwing shade" at Iggy Azalea. 

Nicki is living her dream and doing what she loves. That alone is motivation for women and girls everywhere to do the same. Besides the money, fame, and power, that's all a product of resilience and hard work. She shows us that the ultimate prize is to embody your dream and encourage others to do the same. We may be scrutinized, we may slip-up or become deterred, but that should never stop us from being fulfilled. Nicki is more than what we see of her and more than what I can say of her. We've witnessed glimpses of her growth, development and how she has CHANGED. She's only human. She has showed us how, in different courses of our lives, change is important, but must be embraced in order to be better than you've ever been before. It was just magnified under the scope of fame, and some can't bare to see celebrities being human. But she's still made it. One thing's for sure, Nicki is doing the damn thing, and I ain't mad. So for those who need inspiration, or those who just don't get the hype around Nicki, look and listen a little closer. Her existence alone is the spearhead of an empowering movement, and I am here for it. She is one of the most influential women of our generation, a loaded statement, but an appropriate and deserved one. Reign on Queen Barb, I'm standing right there with you.

Also, she a Trini so that's always a plus :)

Cornrows and Double-Dutch

Right before I went back to school on Monday, my mother braided my hair up in a very intricate up-do with a combination of cornrows and twists. I feel like braiding my hair is almost therapeutic for her. It's our time to bond and a bit nostalgic for her, always bringing up how thick my hair was when I was little, and how that hasn't quite changed. While at the grocery store today, a white woman tapped me and complimented my hair style. "I really like that" she said as she pointed. I was flattered, then wondered if she had ever seen anything like it. Approaching almost two years after I shaved all of my hair off, I've gotten a plethora of remarks and compliments that were different from when I had straight hair. A lot of how-did-you-get-your-hair-to-do-thats and questions about products. I'm getting used to the inquiries and want for knowledge. This particular situation, however,  triggered a memory for me. 

It took me to a time back in sixth grade. Just being let out from school, we decided to wonder around before going home. Middle school brought freedom not given lightly to elementary schoolers, and there weren't many after-school programs to get involved in. My friends and I wandered around until we were in front of the Brooklyn Public Library. So we decided to play double-dutch. After a couple rounds filled with games, turns, and tricks (pop-up, mumble, typewriter, criss-cross, the kick... you girls remember those?) a white woman walked up to us. She had this incredulous look on her face and her tone mimicked that sentiment. "Oh my goodness" she beamed "I've never seen anything like this! May I take a picture of you guys doing that?" My friends and I sort of stared at each other. She was a stranger but we were out in public so it shouldn't be anything bad. We agreed. My friend, Tasmine, was the best one out of all of us so we let her "jump" for the picture. I was one of two turners. The woman took out her large camera and snapped away, a smile strecthed across her face as if it would stay there forever. 

What really struck me was how common in our community double-dutch was and how alien it was to her. It made me think about how normal it was to rummage through my mother's drawers at home for old telephone cords to bring to recess or barbecues or playgrounds or block parties. How it made grown women kick off their work shoes just to bask in the essence of memory, both amazed and pleased that their bodies still remembered the rhythm of the ropes. How you NEVER bought an actual "jump-rope" from the store. To pray that you don't get hit with the rope or a huge welt would form on your skin. How normal it was to claim "zero" so that you got to jump before the person who actually claimed "first". Three jumps for everyone, five if there was a smaller group. If you didn't know how to turn, you learned (I was intially "double-handed" lol). If you couldn't do double-dutch, you did single. I thought about how normal it was to have other girls come up to you, asking you to play and how you'd let them, without hesitation. There were few competitions, but they always ended up melting into afternoons of bliss. No hard feelings. It was easy to make friends through double-dutch. It was something that brought us together. Under this one, simple thing, black girls united, and I wonder if it was that unity that amazed her. That ability to teach, learn, embrace, showcase, and impress through the simple notion of double-dutch. I know that I would be amazed by such a thing, its beauty manifested in children. Little girls with cornrows and braids, plastic beads hanging down each one.

I yearn for a time in which women really could come together like that. I feel so conflicted by posts and pictures of women viciously berating other women, then preaching for us to collaborate in the same token. While I understand that we are no longer children, why can't we unite for something meaningful, for the sake of ourselves? I had a conversation with my mother the other day. I said, "I've been made to feel like, on countless occasions, that this world has no place for me." I already have two strikes against me in this world, black and woman. It is hard not to constantly feel like I don't belong. So, calling all of my sisters, I need you. We need each other. There are bigger things in this world. I once heard someone say jokingly "Damn, it's a shame that the only thing we could get black people to mobilize for is a party." Let's change that. Those hundreds of missing girls in Nigeria? We're talking about them. We're not hiding behind silence. We're trying to do something about it. Let's continue the conversation and bring to light other events such as those. Our women are powerful and we deserve to be in this world. 

 

It may not be as simple and free-spirited as the afternoons spent playing double-dutch, but it is the substance, the sigificance behind unity, that matters the most.

Distance

I’ve learned how
To hug my friends
While keeping them
At arm’s length

Curious

I want to know
How you taste
While the sky
Is coated
With darkness

Stardust

And I hope the next person who enters my life

Be it a friend or lover

Loves me deeply

Like they have speckles of star dust 

Enclosed in the cusp of their hands

And every opening of palms

Is like showers of shooting stars

Divinity

I don’t believe I ask for much. 

Daddy always said that I deserved the world
I’d always laugh and blush whenever he said this.

"Oh Daddy", I’d beam

But he’s right

I should demand everything

Fill myself with handfuls and mouthfuls of life

Letting it drip greedily from my lips

Never let the hardness of this world have it’s way with you

Stop spreading yourself thin
Never ask for little

Wear the stars around your neck 

And hold the sun in your belly

You are divine
And deserve the world

Flexi-Glass

They broke me
and I laid there and tried to die. 

My spirit said no.
My presence said no.
My existence said no.

So I’m standing now,
but it hurts to move and I don’t know which way to go.
This ground is unsteady and I’m staggering around.
But I must move.
It’s all on me now.
It’s up to me, and God, to get where I need to go, 

and be who I want to be.
I can do it.
I know I can.
I must.

Noire

I remember liking a boy in the second grade. I told one girl. She told everyone. He found out. Then him and his friends called me black and ugly. They all liked the new Spanish girl with the pretty long hair and hat that matched her uniform skirt. I was Pecola Breedlove. I wanted sapphire blue eyes to void the dark skin. When I was 13, I bought blue contacts. Finally, I'd be getting what I wanted. All of the guys would fawn over me and my big blue eyes. I wouldn't be ugly anymore. They were difficult to put in. I had to wake up an hour earlier than I normally would just to put them in. Then, my eyes were itchy and irritated all day. I was constantly rubbing them or running to the restroom to make sure they were still in tact. It blurred my vision. Since I never got fitted for them, they weren't comfortable to wear at all. So here I was, walking around with these blue eyes that I coveted for so long and I literally couldn't see through them. I soon came to the conclusion that, I didn't want to use them anymore. These eyes, being this other person that all the boys would like, I didn't want to be that. So I took out the contacts that night and left them on my dresser. I threw them out after they dried up and cracked apart. If guys didn't like me because I had deep, dark, almost-black irises, to hell with them. People forget that even the moon hugs the ebony midnight sky, and it is unafraid. I'm not ashamed of my blackness.

Crossroads

On August 23rd, 2013, I looked up the Women's Track and Field Olympic A qualifying time for the 400 meter dash. I set 51.55 seconds as my goal for the near future.

This indoor season was terrible. It hurt even more to see friends of mine do so well, it was a long time coming for them. Don't get me wrong, I'm overjoyed for them, ecstatic even. But I can't help feeling that I should be up there with them, running beside them. Instead, I'm struggling to crawl when there was a time when I could run so quickly. 

Whenever anyone asks me about my times, I could only think about high school. That's the only part of me I'm not ashamed of. The only part of me I could preach proudly about. I'm not sure where that part of me went. All I know is that this feeling, not making it back to finals in our Ivy League conference and not even being able to smell nationals, cut deep this time around. I just remember sitting in the middle of the infield of Dartmouth's track and feeling the tears pour out uncontrollably. I couldn't stop them. I was embarrassed. I felt like no one believed in me anymore and all I was useful for was a cheerleader. Now, as much as I love supporting my teammates, I did NOT come to this university, to this track team, to cheer from the sidelines. I came to run and make my mark. But I didn't do that. In fact, I failed miserably to do so. The one thing that I looked forward to, my redeeming glory-- the relay, was forfeited from me. Although it makes sense-- my teammates ran faster than me so I wouldn't be a contender-- I couldn't help feeling counted out. They didn't have faith in me anymore, and I understand why. 

So where do I go from here? I spent a lot of time not knowing how to move forward. I feel like it's too late, that if I tried to do anything remarkable, I missed my chance. I'm tired of having to stop, reboot, and begin again from the beginning, losing all previous momentum. One of my friends asked me "Are you even getting better?" No, I haven't gotten better, and that rips me up inside. I've tried to look more at the positives but those are scarce. At the end of my indoor season this year, I ran a whopping 60 seconds in the 400 meters. Sixty. Whole. Seconds. To put this in perspective, my senior year of highschool, I consistently ran between 55-56 seconds. I haven't ran this slow since my first year of running track, my freshman year of highschool. So you all see my frustrations. You all see why I feel ashamed and just plain ole low. You all see how I've blamed myself over and over. You all see me drowning. 

I don't know what's going to happen now. I do know that I NEVER want to feel the way I felt Saturday March 1st, 2014 as I sat in the middle of that oval and cried. I do NOT want to feel what it's like to see every last one of your teammates make it and all you can do is click "Like."

I don't want to sit back and say "I wish that was me." 

I just want to know that there is someone that still believes in me. Track and field is my heart and I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I'm dying. While I do enjoy being a motivator, I've found myself needing and seeking motivation. 

I can't do it all and I'm about to break. I'm praying. Lord knows I've been praying. Simply put, I need help from you guys. I just need help. 

I've been silent about my pain for too long. I just need help.

Exposure and Coping: Day 3 Burmingham, AL

3/12

Visited so many places of worship today. My first time in a synagogue (went to three actually) made me realize that the tensions that we have back in Brooklyn between the blacks and Jews is due to our unwillingness to learn about each other. Before this trip, I had never been in a synagogue and I don't know that I would've ever gone had I not been on this trip. That realization scares me. As much as I'd like to think of myself as an open-minded person, I haven't made much of any effort to learn about a people that I wouldn't care to know much about. Although this was never explicit, my refusal to open up to learning more has kept me and the rest of Brooklyn in thickness of the tension. 

Today was a step in the right direction for me. I learned that there are different denominations in Judaism. I met a female rabbi. I learned that on some level, we are all connected by faith. Faith and love. Those together are powerful vehicles. 

Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was the site where the four little girls were killed during the bombing. They had just finished Sunday school and were getting dressed to go sing in the choir for service. The youngest killed was only 11 years old. It's difficult to understand why God took away the lives of these young, precious children, but He always has a plan. Whenever youth are taken away from us so violently, we are always so quick to gnash our teeth and curse the heavens. These little girls are forever remembered in our hearts and had compelled others to make things right and not let their lives lost go in vain. 

The end of the day at Birmingham bought a lot if uneasiness. Our speakers talked a lot about how Birmingham was so great, although there were certain parts that remain almost completely segregated. Some of our speakers that preached from a Jewish point of view told us only of how isolated they were from the movement hence very removed from the plight of African Americans during the Civil rights movement there. There were so many questions that they simply couldn't answer and it wasn't long before we were all stuck. After the heaviness of Selma, we kept seeking out ways to dispel that heaviness and rationalize everything we felt. At this point and time however, all we can do is let our feelings just sit or float above our heads. I forget that sometimes we're not going to get all of the answers and we must be able to move beyond that. Not to necessarily be content with half of the puzzle, but to make use of the pieces we have and continually pursue the rest. I'm not sure that I'll be okay will never finding all of the pieces, but I'm determined to make the most of, and make a difference with, what I have. 

Pigment of Our Imagination: Day 2, Selma AL

3/11 

I've able to connect three quotes I've encountered previously into my experiences today:

1) Trauma is the wound that cries out

2) If we are silent about our pain, they will think we enjoyed it

3) The worst thing you could ever be is a silent witness

All of these these things have one thing in common: the importance of the voice. When trauma cries out, it's always in a manner that we recognize. In being able to identify, we are humanizing this person. In being able to talk through her trauma, Ms. Joanne Bland is able to begin working her way through her wounds. She told us about Selma, the march across Edumund-Pettus, and Bloody Sunday. What surprised me the most was that most marchers were killed back in Selma, not on the acutal bridge. They followed them back, and terrorized them for the rest of the night. Ms. Bland recalls a woman being pushed down steps, breaking both of her arms, and not being able to stop to help her unless they wanted to end up like her. At the age of eleven years old, Ms. Bland had been arrested over 20 times. Eleven. Years. Old. Selma is so deeply marked by violence. Most of the houses look dilapidated and worn. There is a statue of Martin Luther King Jr that reads "I Had A Dream." There was a dismal cloud that hung over our heads as we felt that the dream of Selma had be lost, never to be recovered. A particular moment on the tour around Selma that marked me was when we stopped in front of a house. It was this beautiful house with four gigantic columns in the front. It was the slave master's house. It hurt my heart to hear Ms. Joanne's unfortunate encounter with the tour guide in which she assumed that she knew this house was built, the marvelous wooden staircase was carved, by the hands of slaves. Ms. Joanne then took us to the last piece of land that could be saved from where they organized for the march. We each picked up rocks and were told that this is sacred. That no matter how low we may feel, look at this rock and always remember that there is hope. I tried to feel it. To feel the hope. To walk away triumphant. But teardrops from the sky plopped unto my head and there was a gray haze. I couldn't feel the hope. 

So we learned a lot about the Voting Rights and there was more and more blood shed. Their cries and screams etched on my skin. I feel haunted. I walked across the Edmund-Pettus bridge. I saw the memorial and there was this picture of Jesus on the cross. Above him it said "The Lynching of Jesus Christ." That had a way of coloring Jesus, likening him to the black people. I still don't know how I feel about that. 

Julian Bond spoke to us today. Prolific. 

Everything just feels like a scrambled mass in my head. Reminds me of what Bond said today "America scrambled is 'I am race'" I'm overloading myself with information and race relations and the like. All I can do is talk through it. So as I leave Selma, Selma has left me feeling weary. 

"The struggle continues..." 

Remembering the Forgotten, the Lost, and the Criminalized: Day 1, Montgomery AL

3/10

Perplexed. That's the only word I could think of when asked to describe my first day in Montgomery. I really wanted to say something like "overwhelmed" or "bombarded", but every site we went to just kept me thinking more and more about the country I live in. 

We started at the Southern Poverty Law Center. As soon as we walked in, we were bombarded by the images of faces, of people, some of which, I didn't know. Their stories, a daunting reminder of why I'm here and how I got here. We were taken through a timeline-- scanning through every individual's story, their martyrdom, humanizing them. Giving a face to a name to a life. To freedom. We moved to another room. One of the striking images I saw was this one:

The message is so powerful to me. Too long, I've idly sat on the fence of neutrality, careful to offend, quick to silence  myself. I never liked confrontation. I didn't want to get into anyone's way with my opinion. Now, thankfully, I've been able to see that standing for something is much more powerful than complacently accepting both sides. It's a way of using my voice as agency.

While in the museum, our guide Donovan shared a testimony with us that was very moving. He said that when here arrived at Alabama state, he realized that he hated black people. It was hard to hear him say that because, to some extent, I've felt that way too. I'm not sure if there are some connections to self-hate, but there was a period of time where I hated how us, my people, strove to keep the division within us and between other races. They kept up with the perpetuation of the stereotypes. Their overt "blackness" made us seem tainted. I loathed them. So even as I squirmed in my seat a little as he expressed his sentiments, I couldn't help to subconciously nod along with him. 

The most important part is that the hate doesn't stay. It doesn't cultivate. We welcome love into our hearts and stop the scrubbing away of our skin. We aren't tainted. We are human. We are moving and there is progress.

We then moved to the Civil Rights Memorial. I loved the motivation behind using water as a part of the memorial. As a Christian, the sacredness of water is deeply rooted in my psyche. It makes me think of renewal (as in baptism), the many many passages that have been traveled through water to salvation, and also purification. I watched as the water cascaded down the words engraved on the walls, washing over the names of the martyrs, but never washing them away. It's a fresh start and preservation all at the same time.

Dexter ave. King Church, the church that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr pastored in, was our next stop. Inside the small foyer, there was a mural in which reflected all of the figures of the Civil rights movement. We made our way through King's office, then into the church itself. The residing pastor spoke to us and once again, there was the message of love. Love breathes life into us and fills our veins with hope. Love protects and preserves us. We should always embrace love. Whenever we hear about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr during the Civil Rights Movement, we always think about him as a leader, motivator, advocate, preacher.. some prominent figure that was almost supernatural and divine. However, after visiting his church and the parsonage, I realized that he was a regular man. He was a father. He was a chain smoker. A lot of things troubled him and he was so moved that he decided to do something about it. It was in making those conscious decisions, to be a part of a movement in civil rights and justice, that propelled him into the superhuman we know him as. The epitome of ordinary people doing extraordinary things. 

Moving along to have lunch in downtown Alabama, I had no idea who was about to grace me with their presence. They walked in, gracefully and deliberately. They clung to each other lovingly. The Graetz's took their seats next to me and Mrs. Jean Graetz looked at me and smiled warmly. After acquainting ourselves with them, Robert Graetz began to speak about his life. I was in awe. Scarcely had I thought about the prominent white figures during the Civil Rights movement. This man literally walked side-by-side with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, in his faith, prepared to die for what's right. What was amazing is their sturdy faith in God. This faith was in them as they marched, as they received threats, as their children's lives hung in the balance, and they trusted God all along the way. Sixty-three years. They have been married for 63 years. I still can't wrap my mind around it but I could see it in the way she whispered words into his ear as a thought escaped him or how they were always color-coordinated. A power couple, withstanding the trials of time and history.

They still continue their activism. One particular story they shared was the death of their son to AIDS and how they contiue to deal with the issues of today by accepting modernity while still keeping their faith. As I presented them with their Thank You card, Mrs. Graetz hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. What she said earlier resounded in my head at that moment: "You all look like my children." We are all connected. I've been thinking so much about history and memory as a duo. How one without the other leaves the story unfinished. It only took meeting a stranger for the first time to know that we have a commonality, a link shared between us. With this link, we complete each other's histories, and continue to share memories. 

The final place we visited for the day was the Equal Justice Initative. The presentation they had before us was sobering. I had no clue that there are children, ages 13-14, who have been sentenced to life in jail without parole. Yes, CHILDREN have be sentenced to die in prison. This exists, and it was a really harsh reality to come to terms with. There was a  picture shown with the inmates working in a field and a warden keeping watch over them. It looked like slaves on a plantation with the overseer keeping watch. At that moment I thought "forget about The New Jim Crow, this is The New Slavery." The individuals in the firm took the time to talk about the work that they do with the prisoners and we saw several testimonies from those whom were able to receive parole and eventually be released from jail because of the kind of work EJI does. I recognized the importance of creating a narrative for a prisoner that rehumanizes them. Creating one in a way that makes them worthy of redemption. One of the speakers stated that it's been hard for America to admit it's wrong, and we continually see this catastrophic cylce through history as many lives have perished because of this denial. There were more comments surrounding mass incarceration, systemic oppression, minorities being the disproportionate majority in the jail system, and it just became overwhelming.

The above image is one of the result of intimidation tactics used keep black people systematically oppressed through the courts. When Black people are rejected from being chosen for a jury due to ridiculous circumstances such as "looking too menacing" or being separated from their spouse, we end up in a court room in which most of the people in the audience are black, most of the jury is white, the judge and prosecution are white, the defendant is black. Those who are there in the largest numbers don't hold the most power. In this dynamic, how could we expect our system to bring any kind of justice to our people of color? 

So after a long day of visitng, talking, listening and learning, it's been a little difficult to process it all. I'm very grateful for the end-of-day discussions (although we are always dog tired at that point) because it helps me to weave through my thoughts and reactions. Why did I feel a certain way? What angered me the most? What gave me the most hope? What am I going to do when this is all over? There are so many questions. It feels like I've been here for a week and it's been just one day. Everything is jam-packed and there is threat of explosion. Is explosion a bad thing? We've spent so much time condensing history, cutting out stories and conveniently forgetting faces of people just so we could cover up the atrocities that is American history. So maybe, just maybe, explosion is not all that bad. Someone has to tell the story, someone has to listen, someone has to pass it on.

Opportunities

Been a little while. With the madness that is spring semester of junior year, I'm delighted to say that I've finally found a reprieve. This week (SPRING BREAK WOOOOHOOO), I'll be going down south to explore the history of the civil rights movement. 

I feel so immensely blessed to be apart of this trip.

Alliance and Understanding (AU) has functioned as a cultural dialogue between the historical relationships between minority groups, specifically Blacks and Jews. After a series of lectures ranging from discussions on the non-violence preparations and demonstrations to the role of Jewish women during the Civil rights movement, the program culminates in a spring break trip to Atlanta, Selma, Burmingham, and Montgomery. Once there, we plan to travel through the history of the civil rights movements, visit the various notable sights, and potentienally meet individuals who have experienced the events surrounding the movement. 

I anticipate the trip to be exciting, but also very heavy. We're planning to visit the church that was bombed and the four little girls who perished. Heavy. 

I'm not too sure what to expect but my mind and heart are forever open to whatever may happen. I hope to walk away with a deeper sense of self through learning about others who sacrificed for me. I hope to gain a deeper respect, a deeper understanding. I hope to learn how to engage more actively with history and to always ask questions. I hope to become a leader in discussions about race relations and tensions-- from then and now. 

Lastly, I just hope to make the most of this experience. Besides the fact that I actually have somewhere to go this year, it's actually something meaningful. I'm ready to engage everything fully, holding nothing back. I'm ready to truly feel, and to be unafraid of doing so. 

So with that, let the chronicling begin.

Be kind to yourself. Take the extra time in the shower to just let the warm water roll down your back. Sip warm tea heartily and let it soothe your insides. Kiss the aches in your cramped hand. Dance wildly to your favorite song and laugh. Cry extra hard when you need to. Hold yourself, tightly. Send a wish up in the clouds every night. Dream. Wiggle your toes in warm water. Wear fluffy socks and flowy skirts. Use extra soft blankets. Sing until you can feel the notes streaming down your face.
 Taste the salt in your tears and remember that your soul is as vast as the ocean. You are its depths. Spray body spray, everywhere. Put rings on every finger. Adorn yourself. Please yourself. Love yourself.