the same enemy, a different mask

last weekend, i participated in a workshop addressing gender violence as a point of departure for theatrical inquiries rooted in the body's memory. the group was populated largely by women. there was one male present. by the end of the introductory discussion regarding how best to move forward through the work of the day, we decided that we would open the creative circle to a more broadly defined topic - the culture of violence and its impact on the lives of women and men, transcending gender roles, assumptions, and sexual preference. i think this was an important turning point in the workshop, because in broadening the scope of our creative focus, the potential healing and learning became more inclusive. it became less about pointing fingers at men who have waged wars of violent aggression against women, and more about unpacking the lethally complex culture of violence which socializes all individuals living within its seemingly boundless cage.

if it can be proven that men are more often the agressors in acts of violence, it should also be considered that men have, at some point, been victims of this same tyranny, and that, because of the expectations and definitions born of their gendered roles in society, they have had little to no recourse against this training. they are effectively jumped into the violent culture and victimized by it. and whether they exist as victims or perpetrators, the circle of healing must include them as well.

i also believe that it is important to understand that the often secret and intimate reality of domestic violence is directly linked to violence against the stranger ... the stranger on the block, the 'other'/enemy of our minds, and the oppositional nation or cultural group ... so that there is no separation between violent aggression against a loved one and violence against a political or economic body marked as threatening.

whether mass genocide is connected to a tribal war, a fight for land or oil, an ideological difference over religion or cultural shifts, or the seemingly hidden and sanctioned violence against a lover or loved one, it is mass genocide all the same. these sustained eruptions are all violations of human rights and should be treated as such.

in order to educate people regarding our global need to shift the paradigm of our accepted use of violence as a means to order human relations, we must address this problem from every venue imaginable - from the schools to the united nations, from the theatre to the forums of our national legislative bodies.

our lives depend on it.

god's in the poetry

i wanna share this sonnet by Gwendolyn Brooks, 'cause it's been a favorite of mine for years. funny thing is that i didn't really understand it 'til now. i didn't really know why it was a favorite, why the heart of the poem spoke to me, you know? there's god in poetry ... my heart could feel god speaking to me, warning me, teaching me between the lines, though my head had no clue of what journey i would embark upon. now, i stand at the final line of the sonnet, getting it, you know? feeling it with intimate connection. and it's good to have gone there and made it out to the final line ... with a resolute truth ... hell's done, 'cause i say so.

anyway, i wanna share this wit ya' in an attempt to share my heart and where it's come back from. plus, it's just dope. and before i type the lines, i also wanna let you know that on the day Ms. Brooks died, I held a shoe in my hand at the front door of my house while bacon fried slow in a pan and my children giggled through some episode of sesame street. i was waiting for my man to place his foot inside the house. i was sober. i was clear. the shoe was meant for his dome-piece.

here it goes ...

my dream, my works, must wait till after hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To home and bread old purity could love.

-Gwendolyn Brooks

why my blog left the building (of my heart)/why it walked back in

i've been stingy with my writing lately. that's why i haven't been blogging. after months of a seeming fruitless hunt for new inspiration, beyond the usual blog rant, i've stumbled upon what was already there ... the scattered notes between journal entries and lists, the random gems found through internet searches, the writing on the wall (literally ... i riff on my wall space in washable marker. proof of my youth's transgressions: nina aka sweet nee in black marker on the bus) ... and i have finally discovered the pieces of my puzzled heart, a beautiful mess, of course, and still ... the beginnings of a world meant for the stage. and to make matters worse (or better), it's coming out in that wild experimental aesthetic i've come to love ... jazz riffs and blues songs, some ill boom bap in time straddling a praise song in a sticky southern drawl... and so, i've little to blog about. none of this love affair is meant for this space. it's too fresh ... too brazenly virginal and raunchy as a tongue licking a lover's favorite secret 'yes' spot. it's personal ... making its way to public consumption. in time.

but i will blog this ... yesterday, i waited at the crossway on 12 avenue at pier 94. i was going to see my cousin's interior design work at a showcase. and when the traffic light went red, and it was my turn to walk, i looked in my periphery as i took a step off the concrete, and some crazed, tunnel vision white chic was zooming my way ... there was this one breath between me falling through the natural step of my feet and into her death trap. less than minute's worth of breathing. and somehow, i managed to pause, and watched her fly through the red light past me. i said to no one, "that could have been my ass right there." and this chic who witnessed it but stood further back from the traffic lane agreed, "yep. it could've been. clearly someone is watching over you." and i responded, laughing, "clearly. someone more than human."

we crossed the street. and i made it to the interior design showcase ... i really loved the chandeliers constructed out of what looked like deer antlers with crystal tear drop-shaped prisms hanging from them.

and i really love this gift. life.

right in time

it's funny how time can circle back and show you the truth when you are ready to witness it. patience, solitude and reflection can get you there. i aint preaching. i am simply sharing what i've learned on this journey ... at least so far as my feet have carried me on it to date. there have been loves i've thought were lost to the frailty of human emotion only to realize that those who are meant to be in my life will be there ... in that moment when it matters, and nothing can change the strength of the initial connection ... that first love moment in time when you meet the stranger and find familiarity, home, and unconditional, time transcending recognition that somehow the two souls meeting will always be one. and separation over distances of land, water, and the linearity of the clock don't really matter.

and there are those other meetings with strangers, who though meaningful, are not supposed to last a life time. there is still a oneness, because circumstance will remind you ... you've seen that veil before, you've danced that dance, you've come to that lesson on some other leg of your journey. and in that circumstantial moment, if you are still and listen to the truth of your heart, you will know ... when and how to let go ... and if you're lucky, the pain will be less and the parting will energize you, because you will find yourself that much closer to where you are destined to be.

i have faith. i have not lost love. i am only more comfortable inside god's hands, trusting i will be delivered just in time.

'This is the urgency: Live!
and have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.'

*

'All about are the cold places,
all about are the pushermen and jeopardy, theft -
all about are the stormers and scramblers but
what must our Season be, which starts from Fear?
Live and go out.
Define and
medicate the whirlwind.'

-from Gwendolyn Brooks, "THE SECOND SERMON ON THE WARPLAND"

magic made simple (or maybe a little less scary?)

at the expense of making the mysterious and scary ordinary, i want to explore the methodology of what some might call ritualized magic or sorcery. as a yayi (female priest of the palo mayombe religion) and aleyo (uninitiated yoruba practitioner), i have experienced the painful fall-out of fear and ignorance from those who cannot fathom why one would choose to practice a religion rooted in traditions born across the atlantic in africa. i have felt the sting of would be friends and kin folk, who often shudder upon seeing the effects of my spiritual practice - the iron pots, the glasses of water, the life-sized dolls, and ornate pots holding secrets passed down through the ages to a chosen and courageous few of growing numbers but still smaller than the more popular christian/muslim/jewish lot.

though the salem witch trials are over and jimi hendrix immortalized the proverbial 'voodoo child," our world's history of silencing, colonizing, and murdering the ancient traditions of colored folk wreaks havoc on the minds and hearts of many, policing our spirits so that what was once as common as the morning ritual of cleansing the body with water, feeding the body with life-sustaining food, and telling our love stories of kinship and community, have become shadowy, feared and misunderstood ways of being we'd rather hush up and hide under a rug.

but i will not hide.

it took a simple conversation with a life time friend to fuel this particular turn in my attention: over the weekend, i visited my home town. i spent some time with a dear friend who often laughs when i mention a yoruba word. egun, which means ancestors, makes him giddy with giggles. orisha is 'um-sha-sha' and a shoulder shake dance taking one from d.c. to harlem. the water and food i leave as an offering of celebration and thanks for egun is an invitation for mice, 'why you feeding the mouses, shawty? is that for eguny and dem?' and the sacred pots housing the secrets and ase of orisha become cause for an impromptu palm reading . . . never mind the rites of palo mayombe . . . we haven't gotten there yet. the water at my boveda, a space of meditation and prayer, have been used for comical face cleanings and benign threats to drink it all on a hot day.

and i laugh ... i've long been one who sees the comedy in the sacred, the why and what for in human doing and being ... life is simply profoundly amusing, and laughter can open us up for dialogue. but on this particular visit, i mentioned my frequent ebos (or eboses en espanol) and took the time to explain, again, after chuckling over 'ashy elbows' and getting 'bow'd' at the club, 'cause it be so crowded.

ebo is a prescribed work done for the protection of a particular orisha (yoruba spirit/energy) or nkisi (palo energy or spirit) as related to a personal need. for example, if one is under-going intense stress of the head, one may be required to do ebo by having a rogation in front of obatala (an orisha/spirit energy of the yoruba faith). a rogation is simlpy an offering of cooling ingredients to the head (placed on top of it) while sitting in front of the spiritual energy which owns that coolness needed (perhaps housed in a pot . . . and definitely at a priest's shrine). it is much like a meditation and a nurturing of the head so that the individual can move forward peacefully, calmly, and with focus.

but before it got that complicated, my friend listened to the beginnings of my explanation and asked, 'is an ebo like a prayer.' and i thought about it for awhile, looked out the passenger-side window of his truck, and i said, 'yes, boo. that's exactly it.'

for those who are puzzled by the seemingly mysterious inner workings of the yoruba and palo traditions, come back to what is common in all of our spiritual quests - prayer. in every action of the witchy, voodoo children of this world, we are simply giving praise and performing prayer as we work. when we receive pots and dolls, when we make ebo and gris gris, we are simply putting bodily effort into that prayer, strengthening it, and marking it with our own special signature as a loving gift to the one force ...GOD - evidence of our reciprocity in this dance. what is prayer without acts? if our ritualized 'magic' makes you nervous, think of the holy communion or the prayers spoken with rosary beads in hand, think of the daily prayers toward the east, and the mixing of the sauce for the spaghetti - just the right mix of basil, oregano, sugar, and salt, bay leaves, and thyme; and don't forget to let it brew.

musings on obama as prez

i knew the comparison would come to matter. obama and kennedy. it was already written in his youth and demeanor, his campaign slogan, "change," the cadence of his speech, the political climate at home and abroad, his semi suave style in the sea of uptight, greying, stone faced usual suspects . . . his status as a democrat, his marked difference and lib platform. i could feel it coming. and then, the american press did the inevitable - he danced beside ellen and took a fun ride in a bumper car with his daughter - and the press jumped on it. the photo made its way online . . . and bam . . . first caroline voices the thing we could all see rounding the corner. then ted denies hillary his support. a crowned prince is born to become king. . . almost. and a black man at that.

what interests me most about this is the need for the familiar in campaigns. the public has got to be able to find a nostalgic and comforting space of acceptance for that which could be marked terrifying . . . change.

and what will the change be, if obama is elected? who knows . . . there is the readily apparent: a black male will be president of these somewhat united states. that'd be a nice merge between popular culture and political reality. for once, our consumer buying trends in music and sports will be reflected in our country's leadership . . . it seems that, perhaps, we have come to a point in time where we will actively consider putting our votes where our money has been. we will have knocked upon the door of truth and answered - not only do we love the culture of this particular people, but we trust our nation in the hands of one of its own . . . we believe in the intelligence and ability of an african american male. and perhaps this will begin to right the institutionalized wrongs of a nation still seething with the bodies of countless men and women of color behind prison bars. perhaps. his platform and promises do not strike me as much different from most dems on the blazing trail to glory. and like clinton (bill, i mean) he will have to prove his value to the masses of people in this country (colored and less so) through practice. i only hope that he is more successful at advocating for black and brown folk, folk much different to the status quo, than ol' bill . . . i am still moved to furrow my eyebrows more than a lil bit when i think of the comparison of bill to a black man, though toni morrison is a favorite author of mine. a pug nose and mediocre saxophone ability (and/or a seeming insatiable sex drive for young women) does not a black man make. 'cause though he appointed more af am federal judges than any president before him, his take on drug laws and the criminal justice system, and the fact that neither the standard of living nor education for masses of colored folk in this country (beyond the upper middle class) got better during his tenure as prez, leads me to believe that if he was the first "black" man to hold that office, he aint one i'd claim . . . ummm . . . he must have been passing.

at any rate, if obama is so blessed, he'll have to prove his worth. there is no litmus test but the being and the doing. i'd take the risk on him. why not? i voted for bill. and besides, i want to be proactive in this possible revolutionary moment . . . my vote could help shake this country up a bit . . . turn it on its side and set it to roll.