Category: Educate to Liberate

As I struggle to give voice to all the parts of me that yearn for recognition, I wonder how to become more of who I am authentically and somehow manage not to offend others, still desperately in search of themselves. Then, just as quickly as the thoughts come, to make myself palatable and creatively package all the components of me that the world might find digestible, I reject this assimilationist nonsense and conclude, I may always be “too much” for others. And what’s more is: that’s okay. Imma just sit with all this splendor and offer up my unique parts as a “take it or leave it/love me or leave me baby”, type deal. Yeah. Blackness-proud-unadulterated-unapologetic and full. Perhaps, X-Clan said it best “My science is deep. My Blackness is deep.”

A few weeks ago, I needed to find a baby picture for a virtual shower I looked forward to attending, to celebrate a friend/colleague and her partner in welcoming their baby in May. Here’s the catch: I have never really been a big fan of baby showers, especially of engaging in the seemingly endless games that accompany them. But recently, that all changed, especially considering that in the winter just before the pandemic it was my turn to host such an event for my own younger sister as she enthusiastically awaited the birth of my beloved nephew that January. Aside from the sheer challenge of hosting a traditional baby shower event – mind you my own baby shower two decades ago, was a creatively themed “MamaToto” or Afrikan-centered, mother-child celebration event, which totally matched my personality and value system in design and execution and ensured that zero games were allowed. LOL. Although they came armed with somewhat traditional gifts as opposed to engaging in gameplay, my own baby shower guests also came armed with personal stories of being (or having themselves become) mothers. As such, the real gifts of the shower, those most memorable 22 years later, were not the seemingly endless list of store bought blessings – for which they all received a personalized thank you card of heartfelt gratitude. As you can imagine, the true “gifts” were the stories of self and countless gems of wisdom as shared from women who had been where I was headed. How fortunate I was to glean from people’s unique maternal tapestry, woven together by their respective family traditions, but as eerily similar as is the Black experience.

Ours is that of a shared value system of nearly identical cultural norms – as the “inside jokes” on Black Twitter seem to prove more and more everyday. Blackness is not purely native African traditions because, well the Maafa all but ensured an erasure of that which we instinctively knew and held dear (or so they thought). And Blackness is certainly not American, because what is that? To conceive of yourself as antithetical to the myth of a white supremacist ideal, which has but a singular trait to unite the masses and enact its poisonous agenda, which is that it despises us so. No, Blackness is its own ideal and the rewards are as innately divine as is our irrevocable connection to God. It is the universal blueprint for all things creative. Because I Am, we are the progenitors of the earth. And as God’s first people forged in his/her image, our very nature is to create. Just like haters gonna hate, creators must create. And it is this enigmatic component of who and whose we are, that is impossible to annihilate. Infinitely appropriated, but alas imitation of the divine is expected and is, after all, merely a shameless attempt at flattery. Non-duplicatable. Unfuckwithable. Yeah. Blackness-proud-unadulterated-unapologetic and full.

To this day, I remain immensely grateful for those intentionally unique baby shower gifts that centered powerful traditions and cultural heirlooms, that were undoubtedly of great value to raising a uniquely well-adjusted, Black Nationalist child, in a thoroughly racist and spiritually devoid culture, which obsessively centers whiteness. Jendayi’s rich, full, innately affirming Pan-Afrikan, Nationalist upbringing was fashioned after me and my siblings own coming-of-age. What results from a full-scale immersion in your God-self and your Blackness as unadulterated by outsiders influence is and was astoundingly rich and memorable – a foundation needed to nurture greatness and to fashion an unconquerable sense of self. It is upon this solid rock foundation that I present myself and all of my parts to the world: full-circle, African Woman, possessing deep, deep Blackness. She/her/hers. but I digress . . .

It was not easy to put my hands on the baby pictures for which I sought. I am frustratingly and distressingly apart from both of my parents-who might have more easily put their hands on one of the faded, undoubtedly dated, 70s photos. An image featuring me with a knowing smile, and a contented, well nurtured-fresh from homemade peanut butter cookies look. I might have an afro, naturally reddish-brown and framing a heart shaped smiling face. Or me with two cornrows, one on either side, symmetrically feeding into afro-puffs. Perhaps photographed solo, but likely accompanied by one, or both of my brothers. Damon, with his handsome, chiseled features and huge grin. Or Stephen, with his pillowy soft skin, and rounded baby parts, grinning infectiously from ear-to-ear and being held by my gorgeous, afro-crowned, ebony faced mother and/or affectionately cradled by my handsome, bearded and reddish-brown, football playing father. Either way, my initial search turned up empty. And we, as a family, now separated by the miles and still secluded from one another as a direct impact of having lost (at least) a dozen family members, give or take a few, to this horrid pandemic…have yet to commune under the same roof. So locating baby pictures of Nikki, my affectionate childhood nickname, was admittedly pretty low on the totem pole of our collective priorities. Or so I erroneously thought.

All of a sudden, it was as if the entire universe conspired on my explicit behalf, so that I could put my hands on at least a digital copy of a childhood photo and somehow manage to show up as graciously requested, for Rachel and Jenna’s highly anticipated and ultimately intimate, lovely, and memorable animal-themed baby shower. I sort of casually mentioned to my sweet, revolutionary and fiercely family-centered, Queen Mother that I was having a bit of trouble attempting to comply with not the conventional, obligatory gift request to contribute the amount of your choosing to the Venmo group-gift pot. But in fact I was struggling to fulfill the seemingly routine request of submitting our baby pictures for a collage to be prominently displayed at this memorable, joint virtual party and baby blessing inspired event. Well unbeknownst to me, mom launched into action from her corner of the world (roughly less than 5 miles away from my own, secluded abode), and called/texted no less than 10 members of our huge extended family, to see if anyone in our collective midst, could forward a baby picture of Nikki-stat. Like whoa! 👀

Soon, pictures of me at all ages (one as young as 3; but many from my teens and early adolescence), began flooding in through text. Funniest was when my own Mama, who birthed me as the second eldest fruit of her blessed womb – sent me a beautiful photo of my own, one and done, peacefully sleeping baby girl (ha!). Meanwhile , members of our family I never imagined would be solicited on my humble, baby-picture-needing behalf, shared of their collective bounty and reasoned that most of all family pictures were likely to be in the possession of a singular, oft-time photo-hoarding Auntie in particular. But alas, an immediate call to her turned up empty. Then, there was a bit of hope when later, one of her two daughters admitted that she had once had in her own possession, many of our family pics (that she had gotten from her mama), but that they had sadly been destroyed in a flooded basement some years ago. The other daughter of my beloved, picture hoarding aunt, convincingly hinted to my mom that she would soon make a visit to her mom’s house in accordance with her frequent, pandemic style check-in’s and that she would keep her eyes on the lookout for any such baby pics of yours truly. In fact, it could be that during one such visit, my sweet , community activist baby cousin soon unearthed a long lost family photo of many of us surrounding our beloved family and extended family matriarchs, including my own maternal grandmother, famed Detroit City Council trailblazer Erma Henderson, and legendary freedom fighter, Rosa Parks. Yeah – that part! But ultimately, it was the sheer “all hands on deck” nature of the baby shower inspired, baby picture of Nikki, all-encompassing search that endlessly affirms and otherwise speaks to my indescribable yet deep well of gratitude and appreciation for the fullness of my Blackness. Non-duplicatable. Unfuckwithable. Yeah. Blackness-proud-unadulterated-unapologetic and full.

I will end this baby shower story with the proverbial happy ending that I did, in fact, show up to this animal-themed, virtual baby shower in accordance with the animal theme: gasp-I was wearing a skin-tight, cheetah printed, move something dress, with a plunging neckline (thank God that Zoom covers up a multitude of sins!). But most importantly, I was confident in reflecting both my 1970s version as juxtaposed against this inappropriately dressed 2021 version. I was admittedly relieved, proud and grateful to have sent in my earliest recovered toddler-aged picture either on, or surprisingly maybe even before, the appointed deadline. As such, my collective family project artifact was somehow unassuming and neatly situated within what turned out to be a diverse and beautiful collage of my closest educational warrior-colleagues; within which a long-legged, pajama clad and distinctly poised George literally stole the spotlight from all of our adorable pics. As his striking beauty and camera readiness is the unmistakable focal point amongst a bevy of beauties. Except that my baby picture had an entire narrative of the Black experience behind it and in its representation I was and am eternally blessed to have been in the midst. It is of little consequence that the honorees, and other shower attendees were thankfully none the wiser for the collective sacrifice my entire beloved family (and especially my mother), made to ensure that I was represented in my self-assured state of full-circle Blackness (she/her/hers).

Though it was telling that some of my adolescent and teenaged photos were only notable in that they were absent my trademark smile, from my earliest childhood depiction to my current iteration – it is me in unapologetic and full formed Blackness. And I am proud. In perhaps the most touching spirit of brotherly love, just yesterday my big brother shared an open-mouthed, gleeful photo of my younger sister and I when she was clearly a teen and I was in my early twenties. I appreciate this representation as well, because I had already morphed into the self-assured, well read, Pan-African Nationalist named and fully formed woman I am proud to have embraced. I will conclude this love letter to my family, ode to our Blackness and perhaps way too personal blog post, by sharing a representative few of the photos discovered, in our collective quest to ensure that my own, rich and deeply immersed Black experience might be shared with others. I am immensely grateful for I Am because We Are. Asé

February has, rather quickly, come and gone. March is upon us and for some, brings the familiar promise of spring while for others, NCAA Madness. But somewhere at the intersection of our rightful centering and celebration of Black History Month + Women’s History Month there is the delicate balance of beauty and power that is the Black woman. In this hallowed, Dr. Kimberlé Crenshaw coined space of Intersectionality, we respectfully pause and pay homage to the truth of the power of The Black Woman.

Ours is an inheritance of birthing all of humanity and giving divine light and love to civilization. We are at the same time God/Goddess, Mother Earth incarnate, giver and sustainer of life and from our very ample bosom flows the coveted milk and honey, from which all people derive nourishment. We are: Mother, daughter, sister, souljah, she/her/hers and in us is every woman, “Its all in ME, anything you want done baby, I do it naturally” ala Nick Ashford, Valerie Simpson, Chaka Khan AND Whitney Houston. In a word (or two, or three): I. Am. Bad.

And as my favorite poet, Nikki Giovanni so poignantly stated, “I’m so hip, that even my errors are correct”. I mean, I’m so aligned with the creator and source of life – God – that even the Black woman’s thoughts wield the divine power to grant y’all the presidency (ala Stacey Abrams), or to strip unearned power, whenever and wherever warranted. And since we have effortlessly blessed presidential eras with our anointed words, commanding inaugural podiums in unforgettable and patented, Black woman style, with inter generational, poet laureate energy – let’s just take a few moments to deconstruct the ways in which we have read your thoughts from A to Z while casting spells and mixing special brews to put fire inside of you. From adeptly weaving America’s bloody, historical past with an optimistic, hopeful nod to the future in the Clinton era with Dr. Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning”. To the impactful, spoken word science and socially conscious, sober acknowledgement of “The Hill We Climb” in Amanda Gorman’s inaugural poem . . . it is Black women’s words that have symbolized a mic drop simultaneously heard and felt around the globe.

And as further evidence of who (and whose) we are, Black women are equally poet/Goddess and conquerers in our everyday resonant context. We. Are. Bad. And every Black woman in America who survives (and ultimately thrives), does so in spite of an oppressive duality which seeks to upend our ethereal spirits and progenitor humanity. In fact not one, but both aforementioned poet laureates, equally exist as powerful testaments to our predisposition to overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds. From Dr. Maya’s transformative coming of age triumphs over so much including: her parents’ divorce/abandonment; a victim of childhood rape; one well versed to both courageously exercising and then intentionally withholding the power of her voice; to a teenaged mother whose son Bailey was the divine blessing which resulted from merely her first, consensual sexual encounter-explored as a means to willfully define her own identity, against the backdrop of adolescent bullies who erroneously asserted that she was a lesbian. It is as important to chronicle Dr. Maya Angelou’s brief stint as a sex worker and madam, to which she proclaimed “I had managed in a few tense years to become a snob on all levels, racial, culture and intellectual. I was a madam and thought myself morally superior to the whores.” -Dr. Maya Angelou, Gather Together in My Name as it is to celebrate her countless honoraria and international esteem because she authored her own narratives as inspired by her brother friend James Baldwin to both mourn the murder of her friend Dr. Martin L. King Jr. and to accomplish the huge undertaking of writing her own autobiography as literature. This self-named, intensely self aware and fiercely outspoken Black woman of Stamps, Arkansas would later emerge as one of the most prolific, highly awarded and celebrated literary giants/philosophical thinkers of our times. Asé

And little sister Amanda, gifted with a spoken word artistic flair reminiscent of an innovative and legendary hip-hop era which precedes her birth, but is her righteous inheritance as it was born of the beauty and genius which is Black people – we have one who is as transparent about grappling with a childhood diagnosed auditory processing speech impediment as she is forthright about her intentions to run for president in 2036. Righteous indeed. A native of Los Angeles who had already named the first, national youth poet laureate of the United States in 2017 (at the tender age of 19), the recent Harvard graduate notes that it was her stutter that drew her to poetry in the first place. She told the Los Angeles Times “It’s made me the performer that I am and the storyteller that I strive to be. When you have to teach yourself how to say sounds, when you have to be highly concerned about pronunciation, it gives you a certain awareness of sonics, of the auditory experience.” The naturally beautiful and stunning, 22-year old phenom recently signed a modeling contract with IMG Models. And while some erroneously proclaim that she ‘landed both a modeling and a Super Bowl gig’, Black women the world over smile and even laugh subtly, because we know that it is the divine power of the inimitable intersection of our Black womanhood that gives others the permission and privilege to elevate your brands through our very presence, endorsement and existence. You’re welcome world . . .

I Am/We. Are. Bad.

Asé

Given the overarching, national priority to return to school, as if educators have not been literally working ourselves to the bone since the onset of this global pandemic, there’s a clear public perception that if schools are not physically open that learning is not in progress . . . Well, teachers would beg to differ.

How bout you (meaning all y’all – outside education) consider that teachers’ and students safety is more valuable than the free childcare you clearly valued schools for in the first place? How bout you consider that the reality of learning differently: across a remote/virtual platform at a differentiated pace and with varying degrees of success, based primarily on social stratification and proximity to white privilege/resources/personalized learning access, does not equate to not learning at all. Honestly let’s say for the sake of argument that even if remote learning isn’t working as a model of success for most students – let’s be clear that the ONLY students for whom these results dictate your collective action do not look like me – thus, your rush to return still rings hollow for those of us for whom school was always a means to social advancement and freedom from oppression and not as merely custodial care of underaged children. You see, education has never been equivalent to childcare for oppressed people, even if it afforded the opportunity for working class people to assume employment, narrowly escape poverty and to assume our respective roles in a societal structure. Of course now that everyone is universally suffering and restaurants, brick and mortar stores, airlines and movie theaters/entertainment giants alike are suffering widespread bankruptcies, here’s a list of 67 such companies, you naively insist that schools rush to re-open. Oh really? Yeah, okay. See, it’s not lost on educators that President Biden and so many others have made re-opening schools such a priority not because everyone all of a sudden got a conscience or justifiably concluded that education is a universal salve to what ails us in the midst of white supremacist, government led coup’s and chemical/germ warfare killing hundreds of thousands of people. No, indeed. School is priority #1 because it is seemingly a sole means to ensure that Black, Brown and working-class white parents and families return to the subservient class of laborers to (once again) service your varying needs in this reprehensible model of an inequitable, capitalist society.

At some point, we must come to the inescapable conclusion that perhaps, the inequities laid bare by school in its current form as it now occurs in your living rooms, truly always existed and in many cases were only intensified in our previous, physically intimate form. So, a mere return to what was irreparably broken, unfit, insufficient and failing is no more logical than taking a collective bath, followed by an en masse fine dinner meal/movie trip (all without wearing a mask), simply because we miss it so and cannot afford to do without it. How about we don’t ever return to in-person schooling at all? How about educators not just in Chicago, but the world over simply say to clueless Mayor Lori Lightfoot and others: “no”, “not I”, “no más” and/ or “I quit” en masse? How bout y’all suggest, demand or even attempt to legislate that we do and we simply don’t, especially given the reality of working on the front lines in an apparent war against human sensibilities and the very sacrificial lives of educators, which is unlike what those outside of the profession could scarcely imagine. What’s inhumane in your asking, especially without consideration for our input you might wonder? Well, where to begin: there’s the dealbreaker in the reality that U.S. schools are overwhelmingly outdated, dilapidated buildings with air filter systems ill-equipped to halt the spread of a deadly virus. There’s the knowledge that classrooms are lifeless, soulless, institutional spaces that teachers, support staff and administrators have always somehow managed to bring alive through the combination of our own sweat equity, personally financed accoutrements and enthusiastic zeal and energy for life and for our poorly paid and yet beloved careers as educators. Mind you, none of these prior realities are conducive to our present-day nightmare so how bout showing teachers and school districts (especially urban ones) the money? How bout educators, students and their families are (scarcely) surviving a pandemic too. And many of us have heard the deafening whispers and mentions of countless colleagues, family and friends who have lost their lives to this deadly virus and we would never dream of, much less be moved by any external threats to putting our lives on the line daily, for an insufficient return to business as usual. Especially when doing so is clearly a means to merely ensure the semblance of this economy’s norms, through our free, poorly paid labor. How bout y’all have pushed us to the brink of extinction this time and teachers, support staff, administrators and countless critically thinking parents (who have now witnessed the farce known as the failing education system, up close and personal), simply say NO to the return to the norm you are now in pursuit of?!

Has anyone outside of education ever even considered the toll of your choices as imposed on our human reality and very real possibility that a return to business as usual in in-person school settings can/will never be retrofitted to meet the needs of a post-pandemic reality? Have you paused to consider that your vision of a widespread, nationwide return to in-person schooling will never happen at the pace or at the very least operate in the same underfunded and overpopulated manner in which it did in pre-pandemic form? Well, you had better start listening to teachers on public social media spaces, in our documented pleas in districts across the country as each of you (outside of our ranks) conveniently decides what uniquely works best for those of us in the rank and file. Perhaps the greatest testament to the failure of education in 2021 is that so many of these decisions are still driven by levers outside of those who matter most: the teachers, parents and students of the very institutions you are making large-scale decisions on behalf of. It would be utterly disastrous for K12 education to get to the point of an even more exacerbated state of emergency whereby certified teachers/admin, substitute teachers, students (the poorest most underserved in our midst, who you would like to see driven like lambs to the slaughter) are few and far between and/or not to be found in significant numbers at all to fill the quotas of your seats and positions and empty promises of normalcy. If we, the people, should decide that a return to business as usual is no longer feasible to US – and trust me it’s the us in educational decision making that counts – there had better be an alternative to what must happen to address the reality of post-pandemic education. Whatever schooling looks like from now to its future iterations, must of necessity include ALL stakeholders at the decision-making table and will never be legislated from outside our ranks. Otherwise, there’s a good chance that Chicago is merely the tip of an iceberg of Titanic proportions, IE: you ain’t seen nothing yet.