Every February (like clockwork), I fret about what messages I want to elevate during Black History month. Am I sharing the affirmational works of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., Audre Lorde, Shirley Chisolm, and James Baldwin? Or am I having a time to unpack how anti-racist curriculums affect my own life?
For the latter, I am still toeing the line. I appreciate the efforts many are doing to educate themselves (specifically in reaction to the many deaths and assault of Black people in this country and abroad). However, I haven’t mastered what to do these new conversations. I have noticed that I am “burning out” quicker than what I used to. I have noticed that my previous work with the Diversity and Inclusion office in undergraduate days had not prepared me for being really honest with myself. Do I want to be available for most discussions about race, trauma, and justice? I am bouncing on my feet like a tired boxer, but I am still in the ring. Truthfully, I am processing last year. Some psychotherapists say that events tend to revisit a person when they are in a safer place to deal with those emotions. Yet, I did feel tired under the Trump-era of politics (which has now molted onto a lot of other areas of American life). I am still owning all of my complicated feelings about the United States as a Black person. To trust or not to trust what the future brings.
I am reading again, for fun and for graduate studies. I am unpacking racialized trauma in Kiese Laymon’s memoir Heavy. I will need to dedicate a separate blog post to that memoir alone. It unravels a person. However, I am also getting to the must-read recommended by my former Islamic studies teacher — The Autobiography of Malcolm X (as told to Alex Haley). There’s also Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights.This collection of short essays I label as my light read before bed. With that said, my mind has been working overtime. Black stories. Black narratives. Black ways of processing.
At first glance Carol Cronin’s painting, Draíocht, reminded me of the space wormhole featured in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine(1993-1999). For context, this wormhole held great significance to various species in the galaxy. It allowed planetary travel, where one could enter one quadrant and then quickly be on the other side of the galaxy — via wormhole. For Bajorans, who lived on a planet near the wormhole, it held great spiritual reverence.
If one is familiar with Star Trek, you may recall there are discussions on philosophy, political differences, and cultural interactions. On the space station (Deep Space Nine), a Bajoran liaison officer Major Kira Nerys, maintains strong loyalty to her people of Bajor. She experiences how to engage with Starfleet aboard the command station. I will not spoil the many seasons, which one can binge on Netflix – but I will say a few words.
Kira Nerys, as an officer and a person of faith, meant so much to me as I watched the series. Her home, Bajor, faced extreme occupation from a nearby planet, Cardassia. She became a freedom fighter from an incredibly young age, and as a result went through layered trauma. One could connect similarities that we see today, but I will allow you the reader to fill in the blank.
When I look at Carol Cronin’s painting, I reflect on the significance of hope. For Bajorans and Starfleet personnel, the wormhole was sacred for various reasons. For the former, sacredness means that spiritually-gifted individuals, such as the emissary (Captain Benjamin Sisko) can consul with spiritual guides inside that swirling mass. For space officers, the wormhole brought economic opportunity for trade but also a vector for individuals to bring violence (if they intended to do so).
Below, I have written a poem directed toward Major Kira Nerys aboard Deep Space Nine. The readers should note that Major Kira has witnessed a dominion war and severe oppression against her people. She has made new friends and acquaintances aboard the station during these times as well. She has had her spiritual faith tested through disbelief from others and the erasure of practicing one’s values. Her planet has undergone various leadership changes as you can imagine, for better and for worse. I did not plan on writing a poem-style letter to a Science Fiction character, but the writing goes where it wants to.
who does not pain at the destruction of their people.
I know not when the breath settles
the shoulders,
or when the mind says:
“It is okay,
you have found home,
and you are of here…
of the Bajor
you fought so hard for.”
[1] Note: Carol Cronin’s paintings are available for purchase on her website: www.carolcronin.com. I had the pleasure to learn about her work from my MFA instructor this past summer.
Last month, the Unlocking Us podcast hosted by Brené Brown, delved into a dynamic discussion about anti-racism and accountability. Austin Channing Brown, the guest, gave listeners a wealth of information and read portions of her new book I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. I encourage you to hear the entire audio interview here.
Source: Spotify
Here’s what I loved about this episode: Brené and Austin are candid about the racism in the United States. The conversation holds space for the visceral feelings of Black people with a nod to collective trauma. At the same time, the episode acknowledges how one can rationalize their current position about racism, anti-racism, and social responsibility. The two women address how white supremacy can manifest in overt and subtle ways within our communities.
I felt seen. The more Austin Channing Brown talked about her own experience, I conjured up my own. From stress within the body to faith-based interaction, she voiced many truths. Now as a young Black woman who existed in predominantly White spaces, it is important for me to unpack the role of niceness. How does it show up for White folks? How does it show up as a survival tool for myself and others who are marginalized? In other words, this episode will truly help you understand why the “can’t we all just get along” statement is dehumanizing and lacks accountability for one to show up as a better human being.
Between starting high school and finishing undergrad being “nice” became unbearable. As a young Black woman, I chose silence when I shouldn’t have. If I could take my younger self by the shoulders I would say this:
Do not tolerate people’s behavior when it assumes that you are comfortable in hearing racist jokes. Even if these jokes are meant to show that they (one’s friend) is not racist but their family members are — it will harm you in the end. Be vocal in the moment (when it is safe to do so).
Power-play and gaslighting are real terms. Do not accommodate someone else to the point where you do not recognize that you are being manipulated. “You’re overreacting” and “You need to calm down” are insidious.
Do not downplay folks who use the ‘N’ word even if they are singing to a song. Do not let that word slip “unnoticed” in the Facebook Messenger group chat.
You are Black enough, and it’s emotionally violent to be dubbed an oreo (someone who people see as a White person even though they are in fact Black).
It’s better to stand on your own than to swallow racial trauma over and over again — with a “smile” on your face.
Breaking the Barrier:
There are many deaths highlighted in the Black Lives Matter movement, and it can be one quick step to fall into despair or numbness — depending who you are. However, it became more apparent than ever to instill hard, concrete steps about anti-racist work. Yes, both Browns’ discuss the resources coming forth from book clubs but I have a new set of next steps for myself.
As I said earlier, I had/have experiences in being the: doormat, token Black friend, peaceful stoic, and etc. What would it look like if I got more vocal? Perhaps, this mere blog post serves as a stepping stone. I am telling you the necessity of not staying silent and getting into good troubleas the late Representative John Lewis echoed in his mission for civil rights.
Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.
Representative John Lewis
By choosing to do the work for ourselves and our communities, we become free. Now do not misunderstand me this work will take strength and perseverance — we are all capable of going forward.
I encourage you to get comfortable with a new onset of voices. How are you participating in anti-racist work? Type your comments below.
As the photographer knelt, I noticed how the roses wilted under the July heat. Mere weeks ago, their petals soft and plump decorated the park. Today, a singular man goes from each low rose bush and captures their waning breath.
My mother and I watch him under the cool shade provided by the gazebo. I wonder if the photographer considered coming to the park earlier — when the sun did not blind one’s eyeline. My family tried our best to pull out of our apartment parking lot by nine a.m. Yet, our efforts were futile. The eighty to ninety-degree heat steams under our cloth masks, and we decide to stay in shade. As a faithful jogger (under COVID 19 quarantine), my dad left us to circle the park. However, I let my eyes walk for me and complete this summer’s journey.
A family of four stroll through the grounds ahead, and in seconds a couple of fast-pedaling kids whiz by on their bikes.
“She wants to go too,” my mother comments. We watch the little girl next to her family and sense her urgency to follow the bicyclists long gone. The small child stays behind, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Does she want to run? To skip? To take air too as the children with bikes do? Who knows?
My mother and I find ourselves in a conversation about children and their understanding of all matters. A child can take a large conversation that affects the world, and somehow make it small enough to fit in the palm of their hand. They can show this finding to their friends, and soon they note what must be done.
My mother and I take turns commenting on the social media pictures we have seen. Children on the shoulders of their parents at protests. Children with signs in hand – parading down their neighborhood sidewalk (sometimes in their bathing suits). Children with onesies fashioned with slogans. Children who remind me of my own childhood. Everything is serious and everything can be dealt with too. I wonder if my nieces and nephew find these realizations. In an Instagram post, I am content that they are fishing on the lake and I wonder if their presence can be a protest that they belong in nature too.
“Did you know that scorpions used to be as big as baby bears,” I say. To my mother’s amusement, our conversation takes turns at the best times. A lot of small things started off big, and likewise big things find their survival too. I wonder if scorpions and a variety of other animals take space – acknowledging all their ways they can be big and small. Perhaps, people do that. Certainly, children of all ages do. As someone’s child, we remember many things about where we came from and where we go now.
Children and scorpions and politics make their way into my mind. They are all there tacked on the corkboard like ideas.
The summer sheen threw light all over the garden. The photographer, now positioned by another rose bush, captured only what he saw. What did he see? What did we all see on our journey – the walk with no set course? I walk with my eyes and I am minding the thoughts as they come.
Crows, renowned for their ominous color, often receive the brunt of many misconstrued narratives. When they flock in groups, one might call it a murder. According to some scientific researchers, this designation is frowned upon. I wonder what the original scare of crows was and when did it take place. When did the crows, folks of color, and the concept of blackness; equate to danger?
*
The newscasting segment can start in two ways. One, it can define the song which will be sung about the people who came out in larger groups. Will it be a warning call? Will the song describe the looters, the crescendo of voices, and the unrest? Sometimes when I am not moving, I can trace the fear all over my body. It spreads over my chest, curves under hip, and burrows into my back. Sometimes when I am not moving, I imagine myself as black as a crow. As black as that. As black as that.
*
On Thursday, my mother and I drove to one side of town. Soon, we spilled out into another city and we observed the darkening silence.
Stay safe
My mother says to the young teenager on the moped.
Stay safe
We let the words drift out of our car, and into the street. The row houses, bodegas, and gas stations teem with folks. They are Puerto Rican. Black. Arab. Hispanic. White. Biracial. We pronounce Stay Safe as many times, as if it were a blessing to give. As if we had the ability to make marginalized people into birds, so they could open their large crow wings and go. Go so far and so close into the sky that heaven would know that their creation beckons safety again. Again.
*
A month ago, the dark ink grew runny veins, and the word COVID-19 housed a lot of fear. I watched the black crows huddle together on the hospital lawn, when I dropped my mother off at her workplace. I do not remember if I misconstrued their presence and created a narrative that would soothe my own bias. I do not remember if these black birds had been there for the whole five years I lived here in Pennsylvania. Yet, I kept praying in bed with no light, in the car with its shell, and in the awareness of my body: that crows, and people deserve a better story.
I miss the places more than the actual people. Or I miss the people in their spaces. Do you think people can become landmarks? Some of my work friends have been laid off (or they’re working from home and I don’t feel right to ask them if this is so). Some of my classmates find solace in our virtual classroom. Some of the spaces converge and house new communities.
Even though my work lunch dates have lapsed, I still dream up my workmate’s laughter, witty jokes, and all the other things an N95 mask muffles. One of my professors opened a chat room where students could share their thoughts. Deep down, I know as people we need each other’s honesty on how we’re doing. However, in this pandemic experience, I am still cautious of how much to let out. I do miss the residual joy. I miss witnessing it.
Since I am an essential worker, I look for a shred of calm on the drive to and from work.
I watch the storybook houses, the dilapidated duplexes, and the grocery outlets blur together. There used to be fuller parking lots. There used to be the slush of school children crossing the street, and the crossing guard waving at all the cars — morning and afternoon. I wait for the quiet salaam.
I miss the anonymity of the Punjabi food market. I would come in, say hello to the clerk, and sweep through the aisles like a feather. I miss the wide swoop of the doors leading into Goodwill, when we didn’t need anything at all. I miss the mouths with straight teeth, missing teeth, or with bright lipstick.
When my family and I start to experience cabin fever, we drive all over – dividing the town like origami. The Lehigh Valley becomes a construction paper box and we are finding the corners that keep us in. Weeks earlier, my parents and I looked out onto it’s aerial space and awaited our chance to discover a place we had not been before.
I whisper a quiet salaam at the places we drive by.
I lay the quiet salaam on my pillow and let it breathe. It swirls around with the blades of my ceiling fan, as I think about the places I cannot visit right now. I miss the places more. Their buildings flanked by trees, with a corral of cars out front, and with me whispering how I want to be there. I want to be there with people I loved, even if I didn’t know their names.
I slip my hand right into hers. This is the warmth I want to last forever. It’s tenderness provides equilibrium to both of us. Hand in hand, we are speeding down our school corridors. When I am older, the hands will become arm links instead. Perhaps, this is more appropriate. We’re supposed to hold hands with boys, men, and our parents by chance.
She keeps me warm. Women friendships tend to deconstruct social taboos. I tell my best friends almost everything, and I spend less time scrutinizing the risky text messages. The messages which detail love, depression, obsession, and animosity toward something (or someone). Yet, for this week’s graduate school assignment about such relationships – I kept staring at the wall. Did I really want to explain the blurriness of friendship, relationship, and missed connection? Did I tell my best friends everything?
I should tell these truths with my chest. During work hours, I cycle through a slew of podcast episodes and audio books as I ‘clammer’ away at my keyboard. Brené Brown, the beloved researcher on shame and vulnerability, presented more of her discoveries on theOn Being podcast.Brown talks about how necessary it is for individuals to not walk around with emotional and mental ‘armor’ all of the time. Yet, she does note that others may need more boundaries for their own safety and protection in today’s world. However, I am mindful on this tidbit and how it affects friendships.
I remember the grade school friendships that flowered and lilted. Our green plaid skirts and white button down shirts look tidy in the one photograph. All the girls in my fifth grade class smile or face the camera head on. Only one says no. Her solo picture is a blur of the back of her head. Her flowy brown hair is tied in a ponytail that day. Every other day, she embodies Alanis Morissette and Joni Mitchell.
Soon my family would face the music, and move out of the state. I do not remember crying over this move, but instead scowling on how my mother sold my six-track CD changer. The tears would really come in seventh grade.
Wash, Rinse, and Repeat.
With another kodak camera in tow, I collect the visual memory of my classmates and friends again. This time I know how collapsing long-distance friendships can be. I don’t visit like I promised, and unlike grade school there aren’t letters exchanged. We have Myspace and then Facebook for better or for worse.
My best friends and I used to write notes in little spiral notebooks and pass them to each other. We used to spread bubble letters on college-ruled line paper and create nicknames for each other. One friend created their own code-language, and together we became good at hiding from authority figures. I remember how sacred those friendships felt, since these were ‘real’ schools (with the exclusion of home school). I can see our scrawny and plump limbs interlocked on the bright yellow tire swing in third or fourth grade. Leave (Get Out) by JoJo soars through the wind and I am happy that I brought my tape recorder for this very purpose.
In college, a friend of mine whizzes down the freeway listening to JoJo again. Her green sedan also feels like home, and the warmth starts to waft in again.
Even with the friendships I haven’t mentioned, I am aware of when I feel seen and safe with these women. The candid safety to tell a story — keeps showing up in my discussion board responses. In graduate school, I have completed one workshop so far and countless discussion posts. I am both anxious and scared sh**less on what happens next. I like the readings. A lot of times they peel back a layer, place a crack in the partition screen, or start to blow out part of the wall I constructed. I’m worried that I substituted friendship for something else entirely, but I do not say this in my discussion post.
Women aren’t tidy. Generally, our lives are never akin to fixed labels and expectations. That’s what scares me about one of the readings. When I skype call one of my best friends, I start to fall into a predictable rhythm. When I rapid-fire message another friend, I am trying to stay afloat in my general emotional state. Don’t start to drown in your own emotions when you talk. When I grow silent and stop checking in, I feel inarticulate in my friendships.
I try to breathe and show up as myself at the same time.
Brené Brown proposes that individuals should lead with soft fronts and hard backs. Her quip about wanting a strong everything makes me laugh. It’s very true. I want to appear brave and also be brave. At the halfway point (dear me at the age twenty-five), I find that I’m harder on myself and how I participate in my friendships. My heart still sags at the thought of ghosting people after high school. My heart winces on the entire undergraduate experience, and occasionally expresses gratitude for the relationships that lasted.
In primary and secondary school, I often held hands with my friends. A hand embodying safety and assurance. The warmth spreading over the knuckle ridges and the shallow enclave of the palm. I am still keeping a bit of that warmth in me, and often I’ll go looking for it in my friendships.
With the threat of another war (or escalation), there are unanswered questions on the trajectory of this decade. Three days ago – only a mere step in to the new year – we’re faced with uneasiness. The reports that the United States is responsible for the killing of a top Iranian general, Qassem Soleimani, unsettled a lot of congressional leaders. Some noted that they were not consulted on the magnitude of such a decision – one that lead to an assassination. So how do we shape our politics? What does fairness look like and more so how are leaders convincing their citizens they have their best interest at heart? I have more questions than answers but what else is new —
I’ve seen the #NoWarwithIran hashtag in circulation. I’ve also seen passionate analyses on the symbolism in war. Some point to the parallels in presidents using wars for reelection purposes. Others comment on the need for education; as it relates to, the commentary on imperialism, national propaganda, and xenophobic increases during war times.
With various human rights organizations around the world, we are accountable to someone — in the end. What lessons have we learned from our former predecessors on war, genocide, political upheaval, and violence? At the height of the ‘war on terrorism’, millennials were either children or young adults. The comparison of Bush’s presidency (with honorable mentions to Reagan and Clinton) clung to the analogies broadcasters used. After awhile, the clips of bombings and trampled streets blurred together. Yet, that isn’t fair – an entire population of people were affected. Those streets contained homes, shops, restaurants places of worship, and so on. Does empathy have a place in war?
Will our broadcasters show us how Iranian citizens will be affected after the United States’ decision to kill an Iranian general? Will they revisit this scene and expand our narratives on innocent bystanders in war? Here’s what I know: Contentment cannot be found in times of war; especially, for folks in the iris of the cyclone.
May we remember the importance of seeing humanity in all, and those who will (and are) marginalized in times of war (even the threats of war).
Under the green tarp apron, an entire section of vendor tables await Saturday patrons. I loved coming to the farmers market with my parents. We wandered through the converted parking lots or visited the storefront market visible from the busy road. If I had to define ‘home,’ the markets held a large quantity of it. As a child, I had lived in at least five states in the U.S. I could count on the pale yellow squash and long okra stems holding my mother’s attention. She examined the squash’s lopsidedness before listing off a series of other fruits and vegetables. Shelled peanuts, chapati flour, and international candies ended up in our cart too. My eyes stitched together a colorful feast of shapes. Wooden and plastic crates hid the folded banquet tables, and soon canvas tote bags would tuck away a rural prettiness.
The livelihood of a food market stresses the importance of from farm to table. Even more, food markets remain crucial in providing access to marginalized neighborhoods. Our cities are changing but we are still grappled on how socioeconomics determines the quality of our lives. Poorer neighborhoods are often swaddled in convenience stores and fast food options. We can depend on the former options to cater to the direct need. However, I am not entirely blaming convenience stores with premium shelf items such as ready-to-go meals or staple items (e.g. orange juice, milk, eggs, and etc). In my research, I came across some excerpts where owners stated their stores were not properly made to hold fresh fruits and vegetables. What would happen if they were?
My initial research focused on food deserts, fewer farmers of color, and the longevity of local food markets. For this post, I’ll delve into an updated response on the roles of farmers markets and the suggestions folks have far as food insecurity.
Photo by Anna Tukhfatullina Food Photographer/Stylist on Pexels.com
Slim Pickings
Although, consumers shop at Whole Foods, Aldi, and home delivery services such as Hello Fresh – there’s still a bulk of Americans who are food insecure. There are multiple parts on where and how people shop. Remember how we discussed some low-income folks may need to supplement their groceries in convenience stores.
Let’s continue – individuals may utilize convenience dollar stores, food banks, grocery outlets, and farmers markets. On the surface, we should note this highlights more than one grocery trip. Questions: Do individuals make the most out of one store and spend more? How does this affect those with limited transportation as well? Although, I am not answering those in this post – I believe these are points to consider in addition. Face it – convenience affects shopping habits. In 2017,Yes! Magazinereported their findings from the U.S. Department of Agriculture: “…at least 500 people or a third of the population live a mile from a supermarket, or large grocery store in urban areas, or more 10 miles in rural parts of the country.”
More so, analysis relays that people’s shopping behaviors may take longer than the introduction of new stores. It’s not a single prong issue. Within Allentown and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, I would argue that larger farmers markets and grocer retailers are starting to supply the sampled variety – smaller places may specialize in. It’s a tricky situation – I am content that our larger grocers are “diversifying” their products but how will this impact small business owners.
Writers Grace Bello, Amanda Kay Mannshahia, and Ashley Blackwell highlight there’s a disconnection from farm to table also. Separations occur through the following; lack of markets in affected neighborhoods, communities without agency in creating their own markets, and inclusion of nutrition-based education in kindergarten through 12th grade schools.
Some communities have started their own community co-ops. As I drive twenty minutes to Allentown, I spot the yard signs proudly speckled throughout the area. That’s great, right? However, in route to my favorite farmers market, I notice that the socioeconomics goes from lower middle class to upper middle class. Large driveways, manicured lawns, and privatized schooling greet commuters of all backgrounds who venture to Elias Farmers Market.
In an ideal model, farmers markets bring people together. Additionally, people are knowledgeable of where their food comes from, and have accessibility to foods culturally-relevant for their communities. In idyllic sense, the goals are to link lower and upper socioeconomic classes together also.
Underrepresented markets serve our country’s diverse population. With the arrival of refugees and immigrants – farmers markets are responsible for hosting a variety of cultures ethnic and/or religious.
Natasha Bowens, a grower and food justice activist, speaks more on this issue. “We have farmers markets opening in predominantly ethnic neighborhoods without farmers of color, bilingual staff, or culturally relevant foods – which does not help increase food access in these neighborhoods. (Sladek, 2016)” A handful of languages relevant to my area include: Arabic, Spanish, and Hindi. Are there languages you notice in your area?
48 million Americans (30 percent which are children) lived in households facing food insecurity in 2014.
One-fifth include Latinx households
One-fourth include African American households
15 million children lose access to daily school lunches provided through school programs, in the summer months.
Localizing the Game Plan
Below, I will discuss a few Best Practices for Creating a Sustainable and Equitable Food System in the United States penned by Ashley Blackwell.
Out of the American tradition, repurposing an existing platform and rebuilding may help. Blackwell indicates that corner stores, often located in lower economic neighborhoods, can become healthier. She references that businesses who offer unhealthy food options have a consumer-demand market. Corner stores infamously may sell essentials such as milk and eggs, but predominantly sell “junk food.”
Blackwell’s proposal addresses possible barriers, which include adequate shelf-space and lack of education in store workers with maintaining shelf produce. For example, skeptics note that items in corner stores have lengthy expiration dates due to excessive food processing. Blackwell asserts that training can equip individuals serving their communities in a revised way.
Secondly, Blackwell highlights citizen concern on the lack of healthy food for children. An initiative championed by the National Farm to School Network allows children exposure to nutrition-based curricula. Also, the network introduces the model that schools serve local foods in the cafeteria. Blackwell shares that “farmers receive a 5 percent increase selling to schools” which benefits the local economy (Blackwell, 2016).
Furthermore, a few organizations embody efforts in supporting refugees, immigrants, and indigenous communities. The Hmong American Farmers Association’s origin includes refugees resettling from Laos and Thailand. Most families fled and/or relocated due to the Vietnam War in the 1970s. The Latino Economic Development Center and Thunder Valley Community Development Corporation have created positive interactions with local farmer’s markets.
Getting Started
Do you need help getting started finding a local farmers market? Natasha Bowen’s website coloroffood.com provides a search engine for those interested in healthier food options. Under the tab ‘CoF Map,’ users can see market locations near them and learn more information on the market’s owners as well.
Perhaps, the awareness of food insecurity will allow investment in our wider circle including communities of color and low-income communities. The dream of a farmers’ market surplus frames an American dream. Yet, crispy green cabbage, glossy cherry tomatoes, and farm-raised meat are not at every dining room table. As I stand behind my mother in the checkout line, I remember the times where we made food stretch for a whole week. The amount of privilege in being able to choose what to eat is a hard thing to ignore.
Every great educator at some point will ask their students this set of questions: Who’s missing from this narrative? Whose voice have we not heard from?
With my recalibration from grade school and college, I intentionally sought out more women writers – of all genres (poetry, non-fiction, fiction, journalism, etc.). At first glance, I delved into women who mirrored my worldly perspective. I found that the was more to unpack – the varied cultural experiences and generational differences.
I am indebted to Sandra Cisneros, Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde, Phyllis Wheatley, and Amy Tan for their words on how womanhood can be spun using different threads. Their commentary and works gift many any understanding of freedom, personal volition to change, and familial kinship.
I am still scanning shelves separated with green cardstock dividers in the social sciences section of Barnes and Nobles. I am looking for more voices – ones I’ve been reaching out as a child does to a parent – my whole life. Among the writers (who also serve as activists, political commentators, and personal essayists) – I’m searching for the truth as it flexes throughout our time in history. For millennia, I find that the role of a woman writer documents emotions in subtext, history, and language as an anthropologist. However, I would not use the word ’emotion’ as a negative connotation; instead, I would rather use it as an act to annotate the present and the past.
‘Our Women On the Ground: Essays by Arab Women Reporting From The Arab World‘ weighs the magnitude of news reporting and storytelling. Arab women journalists and writers dispel the couching stereotypes about themselves and others in their regions (read: submissive). In this anthology, various writers grant readers an incandescent warmth on how they conducted interviews and what travel arrangements they used.
Although, certain countries may appear as they are coming apart and fraying at the seams due to political upheaval – that isn’t the whole story. From Syria, Beruit, Egypt, and more – the book highlights the loss of writers’ loved ones and the loss of strangers (and how that still leaves emotional distress). It encompasses the importance to share the truth that radiates in the breast cavity of many. One common theme I found was how journalists expressed gratitude for having access to a whole new host of interviewees –women. I am in sheer awe of their defiance and preservation to live as a witness to the world’s movements.
Between intimate friendship rituals like joyriding and conversations in the beauty salon, this book fills in the parts of humanity many cannot glean from a newscast highlight recap. The inclusion of specific details on family life and careers struck me. I remember one particular story on how a young graduate continued to do her community dentistry house calls – despite the bombings nearby.
The courage of average people and the ones of journalists weave in and out of this book. In the foreword, the esteemed reporter Christiane Amanpour states that many of these women are day after day doing the work. They move through the braided strands of danger and resistance to it.
With these words, I am reminded of Roxane Gay’s words in the Introduction of The Best American Short Stories (2018)anthology. She addresses how crucial words become in times of onslaught and oppression. Although, Gay references the impact on how the current American presidency has brought out the worst in America – I believe she recognizes the necessity of escapism that educates. Perhaps, we need to witness truths outside our own community and how our concerns can lend us to become closer on ‘what we can change.’
It’s a touchy tightrope to compare fiction and non-fiction but often times I find that they both complement the other. We are still grappling with pain, what defines our human nature, and whose voices rise to the ocean’s surface. In the 2018 anthology, short stories include themes of immigration centers housing people in grotesque and unethical conditions. It dives into the generational shifts and attitudes that focus on aging. At times, I find that the humanness I am looking for comes closer to me by reading.
I’ve had the pleasure this past week to connect with my coworkers in a way I hadn’t a year ago. With intention, some have relayed to me their cultural traditions, words in their language, and the mobility of their families. With this knowledge, I piece together how much I understand and how much the world influences our steps. I am thankful for their voices and their openness to speak with me.
What books or media changed you? Does it change your interactions with others and how? Please place your comments below :)!
You can purchase the books I mentioned at various major retailers and/or click the links below:
mausoleumofafricanviolets.home.blog 
