Are we living breathing time capsules waiting to be opened by future generations?
Alive. Merely existing.
Unquiet extreme desperation for something more but we don’t know what that more is. Blend in. Blend in. Like a Chameleon. Validation mode on.
Fire Salamanders emerge from still hot ashes and charcoal bits whence Paul dipped his hand yet brought back his hand unscathed by neither flames nor poisons.
Creator demands that we be broken down into our Essential Elements.
Are we really primordial primates amphibian reptiles species awaiting Rebirth into the next level of Evolution?
Sentient beings searching for our next form. Next pattern. Next Dimensions, Galaxies and Multiple Universes.
We 20th Century born sat at the feet of our Elders absorbing our family oral traditions. Treasured Griots sharing knowledge, wisdom and understanding.
But how will our 22nd Century descendants interpret the Throwing of our old bones.
Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Long abandoned Blogs filled with dusty forgotten posts on desiccated lives. Forever seeking release from a wireless tangled Matrix.
Will we stand the test of time?
Or will Haramattan Sirocco winds blown from Pyramids and Sphinx wipe our Talking Heads from the Akashic Records.
This is another non-PC post dealing with racial attitudes. If you’re white this blog post is gonna Fuck with you to the utmost. I pull no punches and make no apologies for my words. If you don’t like it feel Free to Unsubscribe. I don’t give a flying Fuck.
Often my colleagues of Color and I will talk about the racist comments and insults we get on a daily basis while performing our jobs as Security Officers at the museum. One encounter by a Black co-worker who is a retired Marine Officer and who is multi-lingual especially sticks out. A white visitor told him he was an Uppity Nigger. His response, “I come from a long line of Uppity niggers and am proud of it.” I’m sure that white patron had no answer for that one.
Basically during my tenure at the museum patrons have cursed me in every language know to mankind and called me everything but a child of God.
Now let me back track to my encounter this past week with a dumb-ass old white woman who had the nerve, gall and audacity to come up to me and compare my beautiful cornrows to a Medusa sculpture. I was raised to respect my elders but there are times when you just want to slap the shit out of old white people whose minds are still stuck in the early 20th or 19th Centuries. Then there are the trust fund babies and wealthy white folks of privilege who have that “To The Manor Born” attitude to most workers of Color and especially Black workers.
Dear Folks of the Caucasian Persuasion. Do Not Touch my Hair. This is not a petting zoo. Do not ask me stupid questions like, “Do you comb your hair?” Do Not compare my braids, locs or cornrows to Medusa and I won’t say anything about your wrinkles, age spots or your open audacity and stupidity to think you can come up to any random Black person that you don’t know and just spew the first idiotic thing that issues forth from that pie hole in the middle of your face. And No you Do Not have the right to become offended if I call you out on your arrogance and foolishness. Keep your ignorant racist sexist dumb words and attitude to yourself! Don’t get it Twisted. Mammy and StepAndFetchIt are long gone. In fact do me a favor. Shut the Fuck Up and stop commenting on my appearance! Don’t Fuck with the African Goddess! I am a Proud Uppity Black Woman with Attitude. Don’t you forget it.
I don’t have too many problems with other working class whites. We are more or less sailing in the same ship but if you’re Black and you commit the smallest infraction of the rules we get thrown overboard. Most of the problem lies with the 1%. The “Beautiful People.” The Society Matrons. The Trust Fund Babies. Tea Partiers formerly known as the “Moral Majority.” You know them. The patrons who attempt to give you half chewed gum and candy or some sort of other garbage thinking you’re a fucking janitor. I tell them them the trash can is located in the nearest restroom.
Caucasian Americans let’s get re-educated. No I don’t look like another Black person you may know or see on TV, in the movies or in magazines. Black people have the most diversity of skin color, hair textures, and hues than any other race on earth. Unless that particular Black person is an identical twin there goes the notion that we all Look Alike.
If you don’t know me. Don’t touch me. Keep your hands to yourself. Hey you never know. The Black might rub off!
Yes I speak proper English and not Ebonics. Sure I can lapse into slang but only around my friends. Stop saying how you’re incredibly amazed at how “articulate” I am. That’s a back-handed compliment which is really an insult in disguise. Quit being so condescending.
No I absolutely Do Not take or sell drugs. Black does not equal drug addict. However it is obvious that you do since you seem to know so much about illicit drugs. No I’m not here to be your sex slave. Don’t even go there! For I will put your sorry ass out of my galleries. If we were out in the street my foot would be up your ass! You may have gotten away with raping my Great, Great, Great Grandmother back in slavery days but today I will not only knock you silly but cut off your minuscule package and shove it down your throat.
You insult me to my face and make snide remarks behind my back. You extend your hand in supposed friendship and support, with that phony shit-eating grin while telling me “I Voted for Obama!” Really. Oh joy! How white of you! You know what? I don’t want to be your friend. You would not survive a week No Not even a day in my Black skin. You need to back the Fuck up and get out of my face with your hypocrisy. My patience is gone and Love Don’t Live Here Anymore.
Black in America ~ Kujichagulia — Self–Determination
Obsidian Ebony Sioux Blackfoot Visions
Stephen and I in December 1961.
My family ranges from pale white with blue eyes to Darkest Black. However I really had no idea of my Rainbow family until Aunts passed away and then when my father died in 1995. Then I was confronted with somebody who had white skin and blue eyes saying that they were my cousins. I always knew my Paternal Grandfather had been married twice but it was then that I realized his first wife must have been white. That was probably the real reason he left Petersburg, VA and moved to New York during the early 1900s…
As a child during the 1960s, I remember being called Tar Baby. I remember my mother who was light-skinned but who suffered under Jim Crow in Dayton, Ohio saying, “If You’re white you’re alright. If your Brown stick around. If you’re Black Get Back!” Every day on the playground of a Black school Black kids would taunt me. Tar Baby! African! Monkey! I came home crying every day. My Dad who was Dark-Skinned always told me, “The Blacker the Berry the Sweeter the Juice. If the berry’s too light it has no use.” That would give me comfort.
Defiant precocious DeBorah
However it took decades before I was comfortable in my Black skin. But the pigeon holing by the Black Community, My Community was very evident in the 60s and 70s when I was coming of age. I don’t have what many Black people define as African features. Whatever that means. From a child even until now Black people, white people and other Peoples of Color will ask me if I’m part Native American. The answer to that question is Yes but if they looked closely at the African continent they’d find Black people with all manner of varied facial features. But nobody does. They just assume.
My Speech. My Dad taught me to speak what he called “The King’s English.” Slang was not allowed in our home. As a result Black people say I sound like I’m white or that I speak proper. Excuse me but aren’t we all supposed to speak English instead of Ebonics?! White people say I’m very articulate (unsaid ~ “for a Black person) It’s a No Win situation.
First Dance with My Father
The kinky nappy hair did not help. I was called Brillo pad. There was the evil straightening comb with Dixie Peach and Ultra Sheen (hair grease). My Mom telling me to bend my head so she could get to my “Kitchen.” My hair was so thick, teeth broke out of combs my mother attempted on my Kinapps. Then came 1972 when my Dad decided that I was going to get an Afro. Watu Wasuri Use Afro Sheen. Then I was Beautiful. Angela Davis Black Panther Party Soul Train Beautiful. In the 80s I surrendered to Jheri Curl Juice. Since then I’ve been pig-tailed, relaxed, braided, loc’ed and now with my not so thick Menopausal hair I’ve returned home to my Afro. Not as Fierce. Somewhat wiry and thanks to L’Oreal always colored various shades of red.
The new stigma for me now, Ageism. Being a Black Woman over 50 who thanks to that once hated Dark Skin now is grateful because Black Don’t Crack!
1961- A Very Good YearLittle MeMMC 2002 GraduationVictory Salute at Seven Bell Fitness Gym
I’m very glad that Lupita Nyong’o was voted World’s Most Beautiful Woman! So proud to see a Dark Skinned Sister Honored in this Fashion.
I read her Oscar Acceptance speech reprinted in Essence Magazine. It certainly resonated with me. Even though I’m 25 years older than her and was raised in New York City I can still hear the taunts of “Tar Baby”, monkey, Black African (Black was not Beautiful in the 1960s) from my school-mates on the playground. Watu Wasuri Use Afro Sheen came much later in late 1970s. Still light skin was in. There was a saying I heard many times growing up, “If you’re light, you’re alright. If you’re brown still around. If you’re black get back.” From straightening combs to weaves the Self-hatred becomes internalized.
Weaves looking like Davy Crockett hats perched atop uneasy heads marching LocKstep with conformity. Multi-hued raccoons skipping across Jungle Fever Brows missing nesting material in which to snuggle Eurocentric brainwashing.
Even when I went into the U.S. Army my always thick, kinky and Knappy was called a Brillo pad. I was always made to feel so ugly usually by my own Black people. I expected whites to call me the “N” Word after all this was the 1960s and my parents who knew Jim Crow by heart prepared me for rejection as a Black girl in a white dominated society. In a way I was very surprised to hear that in a Black dominated/ruled society/country such as Kenya young Lupita experienced similar taunts, jibes and insults.
Many times I would come home from school crying. I hated my skin color and my hair texture. My father tried to soothe my broken spirit and build my self confidence by telling me, “The Blacker the Berry the sweeter the juice. If the berry’s too light it has no use.” I did feel better for a while but it was not until I was well past age 40 that I began to really appreciate being dark-skinned with coarse thick hair. For one thing now that I’m well past 50 all this wonderful melanin truly means, “Black Don’t Crack”. As for my hair menopause has removed the thick & coarse texture but I’m proud to wear my hair natural since age 36. Over the years there were times when I battled a Eurocentric mindset but as I journey through middle-age and beyond I embrace and am one with my African heritage.
Yes Ladies, “Say it Loud! I’m Black and I’m Proud!”
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 