the weight her frame withers to betray her grief as you slink into a cause, case, memory, or the Opportunity that pulled at the seams of your village. So you should be aware that you also should not purchase candy, soft drinks, or cigarettes; wear hoods in rain, pray in a sanctuary, swim in a pool, shop and handle goods, fall asleep on a public bench; play music in your vehicle, request assistance when in crisis,
“welcomed her into the world
with the fanfare of 26 sleepless hours,
giddy and chewing bubble gum cigars
for a sugar high to get through a cnn broadcast
of a million men gathered three states over.
passed the day with nods of approval
to the t.v., her and mother sleeping peacefully…”
I was 21 years old, 20 years ago, on October 16th 1995.
That was the day of the Million Man March/Day of Absence.
In what I named “solidarity,” I refrained from attending class. I was a solid student. Mostly. So I doubt any of my professors batted an eye. Besides, almost half of the campus had boarded buses to DC so there was little of the typical foot traffic seen by HBCU campuses at that time of year–somewhere around midterms and homecoming and still warm enough on the East coast to be “out.”
I also refused to go to the part time cashier job I had just started at the Sears department store in the mall. It was a job I kept for an entire week. I quit that day in October because as I told my supervisor when I called to explain my absence, I didn’t “plan to…
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Source: Paradox: Remembering the Million Man March/Day of Absence On Its Twentieth Anniversary
Mantra of the Moment: "Some books are bound tightly for years for reasons. Some books are burned for their own good Love."
I was 21 years old, 20 years ago, on October 16th 1995. That was the day of the Million Man March/Day of Absence. In what I named "solidarity," I refrained from attending class. I was a solid student. Mostly. So I doubt any of my professors batted an eye. Besides, almost half of the campus [...]
Stop pissing on our heads and calling it rain.
Their fairytale fits an acceptable narrative we are inclined to admire. I cannot imagine the biracial Obama married to a white woman or highlighting--in any definitive way--his primary raising by his white grandparents and his very privileged raising from private schools on through his Harvard days. These choices, too, are parts of the narrative we are fed and need to nourish us, I suppose, considering the moment at which he and his family emerged on the scene. But then there are moments in which I have to wipe clear the glass in this boxed story.
Digging in the crates for Flashback Friday.
September 4, 2010
” Don’t forget who you are…and where you stand in the struggle.”
So Much Things to Say — Robert Nesta Marley
Long time; no talk, yeah? Still on my overly punctuating game you’ll notice from the three pieces of it in that short not-really-a-sentence. Pardon my geekiness: that ain’t changed. My address has—whew-ew! Fat stats have—whew-ew! On the other hand, Kashi still rocks my socks. And alas, it turns out I am still 13, unsure, and putting on a serious show that suggests I just might be. Of course there are some things I have always known: that one day you would forget me, that trouble don’t last always, and right is right and never wronged nobody (as Grandmommy says). And sadly, for what I don’t know I spend an inordinate amount of time talking out loud to myself trying to create formulas and work out equations that will make…
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Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day's troubles are sufficient for that day.
darlene anita scott 