Emerging Analysis, Relationshit and Transformative Love

Two weeks ago Omolara Williams McCallister and I spoke at a regional UU conference at All Soul’s that was centered around Black Lives Mater and racial justice. Also speaking that day was Alonzo Smith who is a professor of Black history. I decided to turn our talks into a podcast but unfortunately have been super busy. So here is the raw audio from that talk and Q&A.

The first 20 minutes is me talking about the emerging analysis of BLM: on White Supremacy, Capitalism, Patriarchy and lovelessness and alienation. The next 20 minutes is Omolara talking about “the Wheel of Relationshit” [not a typo], a TED talk worthy presentation on organizational accountability with the movement. The last 40 minutes are Omo, Alonzo and I answering questions from the audience. Hopefully I will have time to mix and render this into several shorter, smoother podcasts but that might be a while.

 

Enjoy!

Am I A Nigger?

ASK YOURSELF!

Am I A Nigger?

               Am I A Nigger?

                                                      Am I A Nigger?

And if the answer is yes? Don’t be afraid to show it!

Cause it’s the Nigger in you that makes you BLACK!

…Once you learn to hate it…

An acoustic dialogue on respectability politics, the diversity of Black self conception and the mattering of Black Lives.

#ILoveBlackWomen Day Three: LISTEN!

Mom nad April #ILoveBlackWomen

[You can also listen to this podcast on itunes by searching “Well Examined Life” under podcasts]

It’s amazing what you can learn when you listen. I mean really listen and hear, another person. This site was founded on the believe that you can increase your own self awareness through dialogue. That means we can learn more about ourselves through hearing the lived experience of another person. The self referential aspect of this endeavor has always been slightly troubling to me. It’s always seemed problematic. Yet the more I engage in these conversations, the more I grow and the more a realize that there is as much growth in the telling as the hearing.

Similarly, once I embarked on the task of interviewing Black Women, I had to come to terms with the fact that this is my project and anything they express will necessarily be filtered through my lens which is a male lens. It seems inevitable. Unless I ask the interviewees to spend hours editing their own interviews, my editing decisions will shape how their stories are told. This is not ideal, but the alternative was to not hear these stories, to not be able to  work with them and have them challenge and enlighten me and my audience.

So, I will add this disclaimer: Above, you have an interview with my mother, who beyond being my mother and one of the kindest people ever, also has a great deal of wisdom to share. My hope is that her stories and insights will enlighten you and, for those of you not blessed to have Black Women whom you can ask to sit down and hear from, broaden your image of what a Black Women is. Yet, it must be said that no 12 minute interview can encompass the brilliance, the beauty or the complexity of my mother. I would suggest you all check out Chimamanda Adichie’s “The Danger of a Single Story” to better understand why.

So listen, enjoy and share. Hopefully, when I get a new laptop, I will be able to actually edit podcast and get a series going. It was difficult to edit this without my computer crashing so it’s not my best work. Until then, I encourage you to continue celebrating the Black Women in your life. I encourage you all to listen to their stories. To learn from their strength. To be inspired by their beauty.

Illogic

Illogic

:

This poem is called:
mixed metaphors

or

the physics of nonsense and non-compliance:
radical action in the forefront

or
meager meandering of an eager and creative soul child
or
streams of neon-neurotic non-neo-liberal consciousness
or
things mother forgot to remind me
or
things I think of in between the oppressions
or
the science of living
or

If, as they say, E=MC2
then would ODB and Jay-Z squared off
freestyling in the market place of ideas
make matter reverberate off the window you forgot to put down in the rain storm?
Would your room be flooded with the 2 cents of disaffected black youth?
Could you handle all that realness?
Would the curvature of time-space triangulate slowly if Lauryn sung the hook?
If it got loud enough would it scare the birds in the bush worth the gander with the one Black swan?
Would your investment in bird watching books be squandered?
If, as the world turned faster the days our lives got longer
until a year became the infinity between the end of your first kiss and your eyes opening
would time still equal money?
What if we all woke tomorrow and decided that it would be Sunday
every day,
would we ever get our mail?
Would the mail-man,
mail-people,
persons,
zers be forced to work on sunday?
Would the injustices of the world perpetuate themselves in our own lackadaisical heaven?
Does liberation come with Paid Sick Days?
Does the revolution take water breaks?
Will the water be our grandmother’s lead lined tap water?
What if “Alf” was just an anachronistic prophesy of Clintonian democracy?
How much wood would a wood chuck need to chuck for Chuck and Heavey D to stop the violence?
If our best educated, best prepared, best equipped refuse to fight then when does the battle start?

What if we all got into a room and talked it out?
What if only the respectable folks could hold the mic?
What if I told her I loved her?
What if we all got along, all the time, all the time and love was everywhere?
Would we have room for our beds?
Would we have to sleep,
huddled in our happiness,
peaceful in our orgies because
fucking is the opposite of war?
Maybe the world is just too much.
Maybe we just can’t handle it all?
Maybe the revolution will just turn off the lights
Maybe we will spend our lives on our backs,
staring at the stars at night,
holding hands and signing hyms
praising how simple,
how beautiful,
how lovely it all is when take the time to look at it?
Maybe heaven is a world only perceived through our eyes and ears.
Maybe it just beauty without context.
Maybe this hell is being beaten with false histories.
Maybe death is the daily monotony of work and existing with our blinders force feeding us information and life is everything else…