The Next President

As I sat there, watching our next President (okay J, I'm ready to name and claim it) I realized, sitting there snuggled between my parents, with my nephew cuddled up on my mother's chest sleeping that that little boy has the possibility of inheriting a world in which the notion of a black President is normal. I was born only 21 years prior to my little nephews and yet, there worlds and the possibilities witnessed within the Obama candidacy are so vastly different than mine.
I just wish my grandmother was here to soak it all in and enjoy our nation coming into some of its full promise.
I am so proud to be an American right now and what my country in standing up to do.
I am so proud to be a young person, as my peers are being galvanized across the nation into political action and community service.
I am so proud to be a black American, and I know that my ancestors, our foremothers and forefathers are looking down on us as we move toward creating a truly more perfect union

Michelle's the ticket

Our sister Michelle

As I sit here, riveted by the television watching the Democratic National Convention on CNN, I know that Ida B. Wells, Fannie Lou Hamer, Coretta Scott King, Shirley Chisholm and my own beloved Granny are smiling down from heaven and sending a spirit of peace down to our future first lady Michelle Obama.

I know that it is her husband who is running for President and not her, but her presence on the stage - standing proud, strong, beautiful, intelligent fills me with a sort of unplaceable pride and gives me a feeling of joy and hope. During my freshman year, my momma would send me little care packages to lift my spirits when the burdens of being a young black woman at an elite college got a little too heavy. She would always include an inspirational note cards with dancing, smiling black women encouraging me to take heart and claim my inheritance of excellence. And while those cards put a smile on my face to know that at home, Mommy was holding me down in prayer I wasn't all too sure...

Then Michelle Obama comes on the scene; standing serenely next to Brother Barack; enduring the type of media scrutiny that has largely bypassed Cindy McCain; raising her girls and hopping all over the nation to campaign on her husband's behalf. All the while quietly helping to change conceptions of what black womanhood can mean. She has faced down all the attacks on her personality, background and statements with grace. She did not let the punditry turn her into a caricature of the ugly stereotype of the black woman - harsh, brash, angry. She was too smooth to go down like that.
Seeing a woman come from a background that is so similar to mine and other young sisters -proudly African American, highly educated and talented emboldens us. She is another positive reflection and I appreciate her calm presence in this circus of a campaign season.

I indeed speak her name and secretly wish I could cast a vote for Obama/Obama in November.

Stand and Deliver

They probably won't be making a movie about me and my students (and if they did I hope the trailer is a little more sleek then this joint), but as the first day of school gets closer I find myself trying to imagine what things are going to be like. What kinds of students will be sitting in my class? What kind of teacher will I be? Will it be obvious that I'm new to the game? I have no idea what to expect.
But I think if I can channel the vibe of Mr. Escalante of the movie then I'll be alright.

if only my life as a teacher would follow the same positive trajectory as a touching 80s movie.

funky fresh

stevie doing his thing on an old school sesame street episode. the 70s were too real.

Next Year in Accra!

When I was abroad in London I would meet students at SOAS or random folk in the street and they would inevitably ask me where I was from. And I thought the answer was obvious (by my hard/nasal American accent), and I'd tell them, the States. Then they would ask where I was really from. Thats when things got a little sticky and I'm stumble through an, "Uh ummm... Brooklyn, Trinidad and Panama are where my mama and daddy are from. But we were slaves. Well not me, but you know what I'm saying right?"

The perils of being New World black.

Then one of the security guards from my school who would always greet my friend by calling her an Ethiopian princess (although she ALWAYS let homeboy know she is Eritrean) asked me where I was from. As I stumbled through my answer, he told me that I looked Nigerian and from then on would call me a Nigerian princess. And I was well maybe, who knows? But I secretly relished being included in his daily greetings of all the African students, although I've never seen the shores of the motherland.
In fact, I know more young white Americans than black who have been blessed with the opportunity to go to Africa. And yes, I'm more than secretly jealous. There is something to be said of seeing a nation in which people with brown/black skin run tings. My homeboy Jason said it best, reflecting on his trip to Ghana - "There were black faces on the money!" Going back to Trinidad brings about some of those emotions, but I yearn for the day to actually go to Africa and see the place where my line started.

Young black Americans need our version of the Birthright trip that young Jewish students from throughout the diaspora are entitled to - a fully endowed trip to their homeland. Oprah, Skip Gates, Bob Johnson and all other wealthy Negroes need to get on board with my idea for a Sankofa trip, the black American version of the Birthright Israel trip. The devil is in the details though, who is eligible? where will they go? how will we figure out where people go, we were enslaved, we don't know where we're from?! Thats where technology comes in! Courtesy of a DNA test a la African American Lives, we will figure out were the majority of our ancestry is from (for my Caribbean folk things will get a lil hairy, but UWI has resources and archives).

I want to see Africa not just for the safaris, and the kente cloth - I could go to the Bronx Zoo and 125th for that. I want to see where the music I listen to is from, the roots of our worship, how we dress, walk, talk and eat the foods that we do. I want to see the diasporic connections. I want to see, live with my own eyes, that while I am from the United States and my parents from the Caribbean, that my journey started elsewhere.

Then we will go home again.

Or watch me turn out like some Skip Gates, with little traceable roots to Africa, resulting in a trip to Ireland.

My Granny

Disclaimer, this picture is just one that I liked and thought was cool, and not of my own Grandmother, Lucille.

For some reason, lately my granny Lucille (whom my sisters and cousins lovingly called Grandmother) has been on my mind quite a bit. So it is only right that I memorialize her via blog...

I know that everyone loves their grandma and thinks that she is the greatest - but I really, really loved my grandmother. And to those of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, ya'll missed it - she was a firecracker. She was blunt and honest to a fault but you never doubted for a minute that she loved you and her occasional "constructive criticism" was only out of love. She helped raise my sisters and I taking us to Trinidad every year and dragging us all over the City. Our Friday afternoons together are some of my best memories - she would listen to whatever news I had and treat me like a little adult, while all the time having candy handy (to offset her terrible cooking I guess).

And her death 4 years ago in my freshman year is possibly the biggest loss I have endured in my life thus far. I didn't just loose a granny that November night back in 2004, I lost my second-mother, my best friend and my role model. She was and is my hero (next to mom dukes of course).
I could go on and on about how bomb she was - how she went back to college and got her degree in her 60s; how she was the most well traveled woman evar, globe trotting from here to China; how she would drag my sisters and I all over the city to the Bronx Zoo, Ellis Island, museums and free events of all sorts just to make sure our world was bigger than Bed-Stuy; and how she helped give me back my voice and beat stuttering by encouraging my love of music and singing. But that wouldn't even begin to fully do her justice, simply put she was the most gully person I've ever known and I miss her dearly every day.

I wish she was still here so that she could have read the thesis that was dedicated to her and watched me walk across that stage and get the degree she worked so hard to help me secure. I wish she was a phone call away so that whenever I get back from a trip we could chat about how no where even comes close to NYC. I wish she was here so that I could tell her about my new life as a teacher and have her tease me about my new professional role. But mostly I miss laying next to her on that big old bed, enjoying quite time as she calls me sugar dumpling. I would do anything if the good Lord were to allow me just few more minutes with her - we would meet in her kitchen and sit across from each other at the table over greasy Chinese from up the street and I would give her one last big hug and say, "See you later Grandmother, I love you. Thanks for helping to teach me how to be a woman."
I still say those things and many more to her, but only in my heart and mind. And while it hurts that she missing the realization of her dreams for me I know that God relays my messages for her.

Here's to you Grandmother and as is written on my dedication page of my senior thesis: "To the memory of my Grandmother, Lucille - I dedicate this thesis and my education to her."

the fact(s) of blackness

After watching this clip, from the bomb satire CB4 I was immediately reminded of my time at college and how righteously black(West Indian, Aframerican, pan-African, internationally African American) I felt. At first it was if just being there was like doing my bit to further DuBois dream. Then after my first semester of freshman year I learned that I would have to be a little more than just a black undergrad, I would have to become a (hood) scholar and work harder in order to go further to truly live the dream and come into my inheritance left to my by my Grandmother and the other immortal souls of those who've come before and made a way out of no way.

So basically my fact of blackness was never no secret. After reading a post from my homie's blog
about his own journey into race consciousness I realized a little more that "race" and how we identity it and how we see ourselves within its constructs depends almost entirely on whether you come from the majority or a minority group. When one is white, the concept of race is understood in kind of a vague way, perhaps not a primary identifying factor (I'm guessing here guys, so feel free to add yo' two cents). But for me, a black woman I've lived my race in ways that my white brothers and sisters haven't been asked to by and large.

Unlike my freshman year when I felt the need to almost perform my blackness - coming from high school in Harlem and a childhood in Bed-Stuy into the new reality of Amherst, Mass I wanted to prove my "authenticity". (Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, but it looked like fresh kicks and a Northface or snorkel for my NY folk) But four years hence, mad black studies courses later and after vibing with black/brown folks in Brazil, Trinidad, London, Chicago, etc... I've come to believe the words of Ngugi wa Thiong'o (thanks for the book J) - to paraphrase from The Wizard of the Crow - the secret of black power is unity in blackness.

I gotta figure out a way to sneak in a little bit of Decolonizing the Mind in my classroom this fall.

summertime chi

I'm done with TFA's NYC Institute! And I can honestly say it was probably the most difficult thing I've ever done. Even the thesis. The fact was, I could've quit or gotten out of any of my previous responsibilities without much fallout however, as a summer school teacher, quitting was never an option. I never even considered it, and now that I'm done, I feel confident that I prepared my students as best I could for their Global History Regents next week. (I hope they remember the lesson I gave them where we made facebook pages for global leaders).

As a bit of a reprieve I decided to book a vacation to Chicago. Not much sun and surf, but I have a lot of friends here and the tickets were cheap. And now that I'm here, trying to figure out ways to hang out with the Obamas, Common and Kanye West my mind keeps imagining the fall, when I'm an "adult", leading my own classroom, being responsible for the education of children. I just graduated and already I'm being thrown into an unknown world, after being certain of my steps for so many years.
First there was doing well in middle school to get into a good high school, then working hard in high school to get into a good college (Amherst), then it was surviving college with good grades and a thesis in tow to get honors. And now I am to feign maturity in front of my kids. Show them that being black or Latino doesn't have to me academic ineptitude, while at the same time juggling a grad school course load. But its all been done before by others, so why not me?

Last night, sitting with my friend in her living room watching the commencement DVD, I realized that corny as it sounds, this really is the commencement of my life, things are getting started. But before I get down to it, there is still time to chill, and enjoy my little budget vacay and be with friends as we sit and guess what life will have in store for us.