Michele's Journal

The Book Bridge Project and "The House at Sugar Beach"

2010-06-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

Two years ago I inherited a project at the college where I teach. The brainchild of my former colleague, Mary Brown, the project is a precursor to many state, county, city, and library programs that attempt to bridge the literacy gap in the community by selecting a book for an entire community to read. The project at my college is "The Book Bridge Project."

This academic year we will be reading The House at Sugar Beach by Helene Cooper. This is an intriguing story that connects those Africans who left the United States for Liberia with their most recent trials and tribulations during and following the last coup in Liberia. Cooper's memoir is of a girl and woman of the privileged class; however, it will help some U.S. Africans understand the tensions inherent between former enslaved and free U.S. Africans returning to the continent and indigenous Africans.

Tune in to this blog or go to Book Bridge Book Bridge on Facebook for a list of events this fall.

Laurence Fishburne in "Thurgood" and Late Spring and Reprieve

2010-06-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

The taste of late spring on the skin is better than homemade, hand churned ice cream or a cupcake from Buzz Bakery in Alexandria, Virginia. Spring is delicious this year, even when the air becomes heavy with pollution and the weathermen remind us that it is code orange, which is a euphemism for if you are a breathing human, don't go outside without grave consequences to your respiratory system. Although the weathermen only warn the young, elderly, and persons already suffering from respiratory ailments to avoid prolonged exposure to the air outside, code orange days can affect anyone. So tell me why do I see folks jogging on these days in the middle of the afternoon with the heat index at 95 degrees or higher?

Who ever thought that we, supposedly as the most advanced and intelligent species on Earth, would create hazardous conditions where we live. Even primitive woman, I believe, knew better than to defecate near her food source. Yet, we continue to defile the Earth, defecate in our own home, and pray that somehow the Earth will heal itself.

As my poet friend reminds me, this is a nutty place, like "Blade Runner" revisited. It is a nutty place, but I don't recall a time in my life when it wasn't: from the paint factory that blew up near my home when I was four or five sending my baby sister sailing off the dining room table to the floor (I think she was perched on the table because either my father or mother was tying her shoes) to the film of black soot that used to settle on the car whenever I ventured to southwest Detroit, a neighborhood that was a toxic wasteland when I was a child.

Environmental racism, pollution, defilement of the Earth--humans, being all too human. But we defile our bodies too with all kinds of toxic substances, thus can we really expect humans to honor the Earth when we will not honor our bodies? Hum!

Anyway it is a lovely late spring night in metro DC. The air is crisp and cool, the slugs are as thick and long as my middle finger, and the sunflowers on my dining room table are wondering why someone cut them from their stalks to be sold in the local grocery store.

Laurence Fishburne is phenomenal in "Thurgood" at the Kennedy Center. While the script could have been more engaging, Fishburne's ability to stay in character for 90 minutes reminds me why I have always regarded him as an incredible stage actor, remembering the times when I saw him perform in Atlanta when the town sported one or two repertory theaters. Check out Juan Williams book on Marshall.

Just received my brochure for the 2010-2011 lineup at the Arena Stage in DC. Of interest to me, and perhaps to some of you, are the stagings of "Every Tongue Confess" by Marcus Gardley and directed by Kenny Leon, "Let Me Down Easy" by Anna Deavere Smith, and "Ruined" by Lynn Nottage. Check out the complete season line up at http://www.arenastage.org/about/news/1011-season.shtml

See you at the theater next season.

Facebook Dissed Me, Censored My Speech

2010-03-31T06:47:00.000-07:00

I normally do not engage in political discussions on the Internet, and I often reserve these conversations for having with only close friends and family.

See here is the deal. I was censored at a very young age to keep my thoughts about politics, but not religion, to myself. My mother used to tell me stories about her cousin who was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee when this cousin was a professor at Temple University. While I have not attempted to verify the veracity of my mother's statements (simply because everything that I have verified that she has told me thus far has been true), her cautionary tale kept me in check.

When I enrolled in undergrad at Wayne State University and came home with one of the leftist, if not Marxist, publications, my mother again gave me a cautionary tale about how my activity in any leftist ---particularly Marxist, Communist, or Socialist--organization could jeopardize my father's security clearance.

When I finally transferred and completed my undergraduate degree at Georgia State University and had to sign an oath as a student that I would not engage in treasons acts against the U.S. government (remember Georgia seceded from the nation), I better understood my mother's concerns.

But the benefits of my entrenched habit of keeping a lid on political activity and discourse that revealed my streak of radical thought became crystal clear while on an interview with the U.S. State department when an official asked me, "have you ever published anything that advocated an overthrow of the U.S. government?; have you ever published anything that was critical of the U.S. government?; have you ever participated in any activity that advocated overthrowing the U.S. government?" I proudly answered NO to all inquiries about being critical of the U.S. government in any public forum.

So guess how surprised I was when Facebook warned me that my language in a private chat with a high school buddy could be abusive or harassing to others. What were we talking about? Well, my high school buddy innocently said, "I'm watching Fox News. They are too much." Or something to that effect. In response to his comment, I replied that "whites are going to be a political minority, and the 2010 census will reveal that they are a racial minority too. It will be nice for blacks to be part of a majority culture. Perhaps we can become a political majority too." Or something to this effect.

I thought the conversation was pretty benign. This is one of those friends who is like family, so he has sat at my mother's dining room table and engaged in those heated political debates that were part of the discourse in our household, with jazz playing in the background and usually good food on the table. Thus, he knows how intense the conversation can get, which is why an exchange like the one above is extremely benign for us.

Hum, Facebook censors speech. Now I am curious about how many right wing, gun toting, militia, anti-govenment groups have Facebook pages and are actively engaged in posting news feeds and other information on Facebook. If you know of any, do send me their names because it is time to compose a letter to Facebook.

I hate to shut down my Facebook page because it is my main source of contact with my younger cousins, nieces, and nephews: those generation X, Y, and Z folks (are we at Z yet?). Not engaging in Facebook will cut me off from these relatives. I know you are asking: why don't you just call or write them? Well, they don't call or write, they text and interact on Facebook. Also, my students are more likely to "hit me up" on Facebook to ask a question about a course than they are to come to office hours.

Facebook has a right to protect members against harassing and abusive speech. But I also have the right to cease communicating with someone in a private chat who is verbally harassing or abusing me. I wonder if this is a First Amendment issue. I wonder which words are programmed into Facebook's software that spawn that pink warning sign about abusive and harassing language. I wonder if I hurtle anti-black and racial epithets and invectives will Facebook display that pink warning sign. I wonder if Facebook is using the color pink because they think pink is a less offensive color.

Well, I wonder. But I do know that there is something wrong about the pink warning sign that subsequently warned me that my chat would be shut down for five minutes. It also caused me to wonder where is the line between critical inquiry and abusive speech. Perhaps I will walk to this line again and step over it just to see how quickly my speech is censored. The problem is, I am unsure where the line is drawn.

Certainly, I have been quiet long enough and have not had any reason to be sanctioned or censored because of my speech. But perhaps this is the problem. Perhaps it is time for me to speak up. But as I recall, I was always getting in trouble with my English teachers and professors about something I read or said, and I thought that what I was saying or was reading was benign too. I suppose it is all about perspective. If you are reading Franz Fanon in a public school in the 10th grade, this could be a problem to some folks.

Okay, if you know of any right wing, militia, racist, anti-government groups on Facebook, please forward their names to me at michelelsimms@yahoo.com. Let the research and protest begin!

Essay on Book "Deans and Truants" by Gene Andrew Jarrett

2010-02-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

Deans and Truants: Race and Realism in African American Literature by Gene Andrew Jarrett. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007. ISBN: 13: 978-0-8122-3973-7; ISBN: 10:0-8122-3973-3

It is Not Black Enough: Anomalous Texts and U.S. African Writers

In an era when some literary critics and scholars are calling for the end of race as we know it, and arguing that the election of Barack Obama as the first black president of the United States signals a post-racial milieu, Jarrett’s book seems not only timely but also in conversation with an ever-increasing perception of a certain kind of black racial hegemony that marginalizes black artists, critics, and intellectuals who espouse centrist politics that ignore or minimize the impact of race on U.S. Africans. In short, Jarrett’s argument in Deans and Truants: Race and Realism in African American Literature (2007) rests upon the sole premise that from the late nineteenth century to the 1980s, certain male writers and critics defined the aesthetic terrain upon which African American writers could create imaginative texts. Jarrett regards these critics as the deans of the African American literary aesthetics, while U.S. African writers who did not toe the aesthetic line are considered truants. Such writers, according to Jarrett, “break the chains of reality by writing anomalous fiction that resisted and sometimes critiqued the conventional restrictions of authentic African American literature to racial realism” [author’s emphasis] (1). Jarrett identifies William Dean Howells, Alain Locke, Richard Wright, and Amiri Baraka as the deans. In contrast, he cites that Paul Lawrence Dunbar, the artist Henry Ossawa Turner, George Schuyler, Frank Yerby, and Toni Morrison produce works that classify their texts and themselves as truants. Although Jarrett’s premise appears to be tantalizing, serious fallacies challenge the credulity of his argument that I will examine below.

Early in his treatise Jarrett cites Ward Connerly, who contends that black writers are “racially profiled” (2-3) in the publishing industry and bookstores. Likewise, Jarrett also questions the efficacy of having sections of bookstores exclusively devoted to African American literature. Both statements challenge how the publishing and bookselling industries package as well as market and at times exploit U.S. African writers. This is not a new issue and is not adequately dealt with in Jarrett’s examination of the relations between publishers and U.S. African writers. Nonetheless, Jarrett framing his work with a quote from and reference to Ward Connerly lays the foundation for a project that unjustly accuses certain writers as black ideologues and perpetuates whites as being devoid of race, more human than Africans, and universal, thereby ignoring the realities of the market and the lack of power that U.S. Africans have both inside and outside the publishing industry. Marginalization or “racial profiling” of U.S. African writers by the publishing industry has been grappled with by many writers since the beginning of the African American literary canon. One only has to recall the circumstances of production, the degree to which Phillis Wheatley was interrogated by a court of prominent whites, and the themes and imagery of many poems by Wheatley to recall that African writers, since the nascency of producing texts in the colonies to the present day, have neither dealt exclusively with what Jarrett terms “racial realism” nor have they necessarily maintained control over the aesthetic timbre of their works.

While these insights that initiate Jarrett’s text are controversial and establish the possibilities for an engaged analysis of some of the issues that beset U.S. African writers, he elides these issues by not thoroughly interrogating the power and role of the publishing industry in defining and dictating the production and distribution of texts by U.S. African writers in a capitalist economy. That there has always been a paucity of publishing houses owned and operated by U.S. Africans complicates issues regarding production and distribution, but more importantly this lack also limits the aesthetic possibilities for U.S. African writers also remains undisputed by many U.S. African scholars, critics, book reviewers, and the writers themselves. But this issue is somewhat ignored, or unsatisfactorily dealt with, in Jarrett’s analysis. Further, Jarrett ultimately excludes novels by U.S. African women writers from major concern and examination in his study of racial realism who, I argue, have always constructed subversive and anomalous texts because of their lack of power within the publishing industry and as well as their marginalization within U.S. society. Jarrett dedicates his book to Claudia Tate, a feminist and advocate of recovering and critically assessing the place of black women’s literature within the African American canon, and whose work Jarrett appears to be heavily reliant upon. However, the over-representation of U.S. African male writers in general in Jarrett’s study speaks loudly to the selective nature of his work rather than to the historical accuracy of the literature; or to Jarrett’s desire to trump Tate’s stupendous work.

Jarrett begins his study by examining the historical record and evoking Tate’s study Psychoanalysis and Black Novels (1998). He initiates the historical analysis of African American literature by privileging William Dean Howells as the dean of realism and the person who ultimately determined the parameters within which U.S. Africans writers would aesthetically abide, beginning with Paul Laurence Dunbar, so Jarrett asserts. Jarrett contends that because of Howells, characterology and an author’s phenotype have over-determined whether or not the text is considered black or African American. He evokes Tate’s Psychoanalyis and argues that Tate’s theoretical foundation for her interrogation of anomalous texts by African American writers is unstable because it is based on the readers’ “vague feelings of emotional discomfort” (qtd. in Jarrett 13). In addition to these “vague feelings,” Tate further asserts that her project examines those texts that “do not abide by traditional rules of racial representation and therefore do not make racial politics their centermost concern” (7). Jarrett’s choice to reduce Tate’s precise and complex thesis to one statement suggests his duplicitous and selective reading of her work.

Nonetheless, Jarrett argues that he hopes to accomplish what he claims that Tate does not do in Psychoanalysis by examining the “protocols of race” (here he appropriates Tate’s language) and how the aforementioned deans of African American literature demanded adherence to such protocols by African American writers, thereby marginalizing those texts that did not adhere to such racial protocols. According to Jarrett: "[b]oth traditional and revisionist anthologies of African American literature, however, have kept in place something that continues to authenticate black-authored literature. By clinging to it, they have ignored the history of many black authors, some indeed canonical, who have tried to transcend or write beyond it. That thing is racial realism" (6- 7). Jarrett’s interrogation of what he terms racial realism and anomalous texts by African American writers initiates with examining how Paul Lawrence Dunbar’s photo on the front of his second collection of published poetry Majors and Minors (1895) helped to characterize Dunbar as a true African, unlike Charles Chesnutt, whose phenotype according to Howells, allowed him to be mistaken as something other than an African. Jarrett argues that the purported dean of realism, William Dean Howell’s, seeing Dunbar’s photograph, grasped hold of Dunbar’s allegedly African legitimacy, and perpetuated making phenotype, signifying Africanness, the requisite for experiencing and writing the authentic U.S. African experience. Hence, Howells becomes the arbiter of black literature and Jarrett fails sufficiently to analyze these power dynamics inherent in a U.S. European establishing who is a true African and what the aesthetics for Africanness will be in the black literary imagination. A U.S. European, rather than a U.S. African, incarcerates the literary imagination of a U.S. African as well as the continuous captivity of his humanity. According to Jarrett, in an effort to escape the strictures of racial realism into which Dunbar perceived himself being pigeon-holed by Howells and ostensibly the U.S. European publishing industry, Dunbar wrote and published his first novel, The Uncalled (1898). Jarrett contends that The Uncalled challenges and escapes racial realism in its portrayal of all white major characters, as well as Dunbar’s concentration on regional, rather than racial, culture for the use of dialect. Jarrett argues that Dunbar’s decision to write outside of racial realism has marginalized this novel and prevented literary critics, unconsciously steeped in the discourse of racial realism, from seriously considering the merit of The Uncalled, thereby leaving Dunbar’s first published novel beyond the pale of canonical African American literature. However, what seriously needs to be addressed is not whether Dunbar’s novel is marginalized by contemporary arbiters of the African American literary canon because it reaches beyond the boundaries of racial realism, but whether the novel is a good piece of literature. While the criteria may be subjective, there are basic elements of good literature that remain undisputed. Of course, some of these elements are: does the writer tell a good story? Are the major characters developed? Is the narrative compelling? And does the novel hold readers’ interest? Jarrett argues that early reviews of The Uncalled were mostly positive; therefore, the ongoing marginalization of The Uncalled must be solely attributable to critics’ and scholars’ inability to read and analyze beyond the strictures of racial realism. But Dunbar’s novel has not withstood the test of time, not because it is an anomalous text as Jarrett argues, but rather because it is not representative of being one of Dunbar’s best novels. In fact, Dunbar does not reach his peak in terms of his ability to write a good novel until The Sport of the Gods (1902). Although this novel will qualify as adhering to Jarrett’s conception of racial realism, it is undisputedly a better novel than The Uncalled. For this reason more so than its adherence to racial realism, The Sport of the Gods is canonized.

While Dunbar may have written beyond racial realism in The Uncalled and examined dialect as a product of regional culture, Alain Locke, the alleged dean of the New Negro modernism according to Jarrett, in fact embraced dialect as not only authenticating the language of the black folk, but also as a way to imbue modernism with U.S. African realism. Under Locke, the strictures of racial realism begin to narrow, and visual art becomes subjected to its purview. Initially Jarrett’s position about Locke seems quite plausible given Locke’s primacy in allegedly ushering in the New Negro and Harlem Renaissance. However, one wonders how much more influence did Locke have than W.E.B. Du Bois. Du Bois not only penned “Criteria of Negro Art” (1926), but along with Jessie Fauset he often controlled black writers’ and artists’ access to publication and income as editor of The Crisis magazine. Nonetheless, Jarrett examines Locke’s response to and dismissal of the work of the U.S. African artist Henry Ossawa Tanner because Tanner’s paintings did not support racial realism. Jarrett claims that Locke disregarded U.S. African artists and writers engaging in metropolitanism. Locke classified Tanner as such an artist. Tanner’s images of Europeans and landscape in his paintings as well as his “attraction to American ‘genre’ realism in the early to mid-1890s” in The Bagpipe Lesson (1892-93), The Banjo Lesson (1893), and The Thankful Poor (1894), according to Jarrett, did not merit Locke’s wholesale dismissal of Tanner as a U.S. African painter of merit (Jarrett 83) . Jarrett writes: “Locke’s dismissal of these painting as shallow, if not also stereotypical, neglected their significant racial-political context and themes” (Jarrett 83). Jarrett argues that although Tanner engages in genre painting, he is working against the depiction of the U.S. African as minstrel, therefore adding both dignity and humanity to the image of the African in the late nineteenth century. Yet, an overwhelming majority of the paintings in Tanner’s oeuvre consists of biblical themes portraying Europeans rather than Africans. Jarrett contends that this seems to be one of the major reasons that Locke dismisses Tanner’s contribution to African American art of the period as well as Tanner’s objective to escape ghettoization in order to gain artistic freedom. Jarrett writes: “These paintings ostensibly avoid explicit representations of blacks in order to tell more universal stories of humanity” (86). Here Jarrett posits images of Europeans, rather than of Africans, as “more universal stories of humanity,” thus privileging paradigms that Locke sought to deconstruct and that Jarrett himself seems to be advocating. Or, he is suggesting that it was more politically astute and tactful for U.S. African artists, like Tanner, to cling to a European aesthetic and imagery to garner both critical acclaim and financial reward. Jarrett’s argument regarding Tanner is unconvincing and irrelevant in a critical study about literature. Eventually Jarrett contrasts Locke and Tanner as a way to buttress his argument regarding Locke’s adherence to racial realism despite the fact that it is a matter of historical record that Locke was also charged by Zora Neale Hurston to “knowing nothing about Negroes.”

Yet, if there is a writer from this period whom Jarrett argues takes Locke, and others like Charles Johnson and James Weldon Johnson, to task for their demand of and adherence to racial realism, it is the satirist George Schuyler. Jarrett claims that Schuyler “began an iconoclastic campaign” against Locke and his “ambassadorial status” (93). From his dispersion of calling blacks “lamp-black Anglo Saxons” to his promulgation of cultural monism in the United States, Schuyler’s belief that “color is incidental” (Jarrett 104) is underscored in his essay “The Negro-Art Hokum” (1926), to which Langston Hughes responds in his essay “Negro Art and the Racial Mountain” (1926). Obviously, Schuyler is one of those canonical writers, like Dunbar, whom Jarrett contends has been marginalized because of his attempts to skate the doctrines of racial realism. While Schuyler’s essay “The Negro-Art Hokum” appears in both the 1st and 2nd editions of The Norton Anthology of African American Literature edited by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and the late Nellie Y. McKay, Jarrett is correct that no excerpt from Schuyler’s novel Black No More; Being an Account of the Strange and Wonderful Workings of Science in the Land of the Free (1931) appears in either edition of the Norton Anthology. Finally, Jarrett contends that for Schuyler only class and regionalism demarcate “Negro” culture or American culture, and not race. But race is inextricably and overwhelmingly linked to both class and culture, at least in the United States; and too many U.S. Africans existed within a caste system well into the late twentieth century. Schuyler’s satire of race in Black No More culminates his position about the transience of race, a transience that he detaches from historical, social, and economic realities and one in which only a person of relative privilege could imagine and write. Schuyler’s marriage to a U.S. European woman suggests the unspoken challenges he had with negotiating both the racial realism of his existence as a U.S. African and in his imaginative texts during the 1920s and 1930s in a social climate that made it difficult for interracial marriages to exist without considerable public disapproval. When the critic Dorothy Van Doren negatively reviews Schuyler’s Black No More because “the novel tries to debunk the values that she and other traditionalists of Negro art held so dear,” it is Josephine Schuyler, the wife of George Schuyler, who responds to such criticism arguing that the novel is “an allegory of how the African American novel could cross the taxonomic color line from ‘racial literature’ to ‘national or sectional literature’” (qtd. in Jarrett 108). Hence, it is Schuyler’s U.S. European wife who ultimately voices the place, role, and possibilities for racial, that is, African American literature.

If any of the deans attempts to deconstruct the relations among class, race and culture, no one does this better than Richard Wright, while he simultaneously, according to Jarrett, erects strict boundaries that made it nearly impossible for African American writers who were his contemporaries to breach the tenets of racial realism, although undoubtedly, some did. Jarrett contends that as a result of Wright’s prescriptive in “Blueprint for Negro Writing” (1937) and the subsequent commercial success of Wright’s novel Native Son (1940), two aesthetic camps evolved. These camps consisted of those writers who considered racial realism a handicap towards Americanizing Afro-American literature and those who promulgated the universal possibilities of Wright’s work, especially through his character, Bigger Thomas, who becomes emblematic of all oppressed people. Jarrett argues that Frank Yerby, whom he considers the truant in Wright’s generation of writers, joins the former group. After unsuccessful attempts to enter into the school as a racial realist and embrace the ideologies ostensibly promulgated by Wright, Yerby insists in a letter written to Michel Fabre regarding Yerby’s relationship with Wright “the race problem was not a theme for me” (qtd. in Jarrett 143). “[Yerby’s] first published novel, The Foxes of Harrow, signifies a philosophical turn toward an anomalous aesthetic and away from the racial realism of the period” [author’s emphasis] (Jarrett 144).

Yerby’s insistence on writing anomalous novels that do not examine Africans or persons of African descent as central characters substantiates, argues Jarrett, not only Yerby being excised from the African American literary canon, but also the inattention that critics have paid to his oeuvre. While Jarrett’s claims might have merit, one only has to consider that rarely does popular literature, particularly “costume novels of historical romance” (Jarrett 145), become the fodder of academic canons contemporaneously. Perhaps the jury is still out on Yerby’s oeuvre since Jarrett does not consider broader cultural or political conventions that also transcend race; for instance, a writer’s desire to be economically self sufficient and writing to the market that has historically been perceived as white and middle class. For example, Jarrett fails to consider how Wright’s own aesthetics about racial realism were radically altered throughout his career and is evidenced in his novel Savage Holiday (1954). Not only does Jarrett not address this novel at all, but he ignores the work that Tate does in Psychoanalysis in her analysis of Wright’s anomalous novel and how the novel like Wright’s The Long Dream (1958) “accentuates [Wright’s] personal and unsocialized desire” (Tate 9) . Thus Jarrett’s positioning of Wright as a dean, yet ignoring Wright’s own desire to break out of the tenets of racial realism, makes Jarrett’s argument about Yerby tenuous at best.

Moving from Wright and Yerby’s relationship, the last dean and truant relationship that Jarrett examines is the one purportedly to be between Amiri Baraka and Toni Morrison during the 1980s. Jarrett casts Baraka as the omnipotent voice of the Black Arts Movement: an editor, critic, poet, dramatist, and essayist who—along with Addison Gayle, Larry Neal, and Hoyt Fuller— levied a prescriptive for U.S. African art and a Black Aesthetic that not only re-inscribed racial realism, he argues, but also ups the ante. Much ink has been spilled by critics regarding the limitations of the black aesthetics of the Black Arts Movement, as well as the
movement’s and Baraka’s discourses of misogyny, bigotry, and homophobia. That Jarrett would continue to argue the impact of these aesthetics of the late 1960s and 1970s on Toni Morrison’s short story “Recitatif,” published in 1983 in Confirmation: An Anthology of AfricanAmerican, co- edited by Baraka and his wife, Amina Baraka, either pronounces Jarrett’s misperception of Baraka’s sphere of influence or Jarrett’s inability to examine, or his ability to ignore, how Baraka himself, by 1983, had begun to repudiate his earlier discourse of racial realism and anti-feminism. In “Recitatif,” Morrison successfully problematizes the use of language that enables readers easily to identify which race the characters are. However, “Recitatif” is neither Morrison’s first nor last engagement with expanding language and images beyond their racial strictures. She also attempts to do this in one of her least critically successful novels, Tar Baby (1981), as Morrison examines class hierarchy within U.S. and Caribbean African communities. Far too many critics ignore the intraracial class antagonisms that exist between the protagonist Jadine and Son, the anti-hero, as if class is not an inherent element in U.S. African literature. That Morrison would expand the Jadine characterology one step further by writing “Recitatif,” which is devoid of language and images that will ensure the main characters’ racial origins for the reader, speaks more to Morrison’s own quest to deconstruct language than it does to her conscious desire to write outside of racial realism, as Jarrett suggests. For by 1983, is it not appropriate to at least entertain the idea that non-Africans are raced, too? Thus to write beyond racial realism in 1983 is to deconstruct race completely and acknowledge the way that race, itself, is not just non-Europeans, but is also a social construct. This seems to be the main impetus of Morrison’s short story rather than her writing beyond racial realism, which only seems to apply to U.S. African writers, black racial characterology, and protocols widely accepted by readers as signifiers of black reality. Although Jarrett employs a very canonical approach in examining the aesthetic power that Baraka wielded during the 1960s and 1970s, to establish Baraka as a dean is also to ignore Baraka’s own delving into writing beyond racial realism during his beat period when he was” heavily influenced by the white avant-garde” (xviii) poets, according to William J. Harris, editor of The LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka Reader (1991).

Ultimately, Jarrett’s study is about culture. It is also about who exercised influence over, and representation and dissemination of, U.S. African visual art and literature from the late-nineteenth century to the 1980s. Jarrett’s disingenuousness study begins with the emblazoning of the frontispiece of his book with Claudia Tate’s name, to the errors in the endnotes of chapter as well as the incorrect date for Wright’s expatriation from the United States to Paris.1 Jarrett capitalizes on Tate’s premise about the protocols of race, that he dubs “racial realism,” which is so well constructed by Tate, but without the tenacity and perseverance, fine acuity for detail, and superb research that Tate was known for throughout her career. As Tate argues so pointedly:
that the broadly held critical consensus about Negro literature during Wright’s lifetime [are]: race and Negro are mutually signifying; race is the central preoccupation of the black imagination; a nonracial novel is one with white characters; and presumably, only nonracial novels address so-called universal themes” (87) suggests the challenge that U.S. African writers had with negotiating both the breadth of their imaginations and garnering financial recompense, since all of the male writers that Jarrett studies sought to support themselves solely by their pens. What continues to be problematic is the inability to interrogate the impact of economics on the aesthetic choices that Dunbar, Tanner, Schuyler, and Yerby made. I exclude Morrison because she worked full time as an editor for Random House in 1983. And even after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993 hercareer as a professor suggests that financial security had not compelled her to remove herself from the everyday world of work in the same way that the aforementioned male writers and artist desired to do. While it is unnecessarily within the purview of scholarship to honor one’s elders, particularly one whom Jarrett purports to have compelled his awareness into how to approach the “anomalous” works of fiction that his study addresses, Jarrett dismisses Tate’s insightful analysis as easily as he ignores the works of Chester Himes (Yerby’s and Wright’s contemporary), as well as women writers like Ann Petry, Zora Neale Hurston, Andrea Lee, and Ntozake Shange who have published anomalous texts, or have iconoclastic approaches to their writings, that continue to beg critical attention. After all, as Houston Baker so succinctly stated nearly three decades ago in The Journey Back: Issues in Black Literature (1980) in his analysis of not only black literature but what he terms the “anthropology of art,” that, “[…] art must be studied with an attention to the methods and findings of discipline which enable one to address such concerns as the status of the artistic object, the relationship of art to other cultural systems, and the nature and function of artistic creation and perception in a given society” (xvi). Jarrett’s project fails to satisfy these minimalist criteria. Finally, it is unfortunate that Tate’s death prevents her from responding to Jarrett’s work; however, I am certain that her response would not have been a positive one.

Footnote
1. Jarrett contends that Wright permanently leaves New York City for Paris in 1946. But according to Wright’s biographer, Michel Fabre, Wright only visits Paris in 1946, and it is in 1947 when he permanently expatriates to Paris with his wife, Ellen and daughter, Julia. See Fabre 313-24.

Works Cited

Baker, Jr. Houston A. The Journey Back: Issues in Black Literature and Criticism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980.

Fabre, Michel. The Unfinished Quest of Richard Wright. Translated from the French by Isabel Barzum. New York: William Morrow & Company, Inc., 1973.

Harris, William J., ed. The LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka Reader. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1991.

Jarrett, Gene Andrew. Deans and Truants: Race and Realism in African American Literature. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007.

Tate, Claudia. Psychoanalysis and Black Novels: Desire and the Protocols of Race. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.

Hopes for a Better Year in 2010

2010-01-07T11:51:00.000-08:00

For some of us, 2009 was a horrendous year. Most of my friends are making it, but a few have lost their jobs and their sources of income. We help each other out with coffee cards, meals, and get togethers. This sort of help, while not major, lends in maintaining some degree of continuity and hope, I suppose. I recall that in 2004 when I was laid off from the University of Michigan, my greatest pleasure was my morning coffee at the Starbucks on Washtenaw. While this pleasure might have seemed like an indulgence I could ill afford, it did provide me with the reserve needed to continue seeking employment, rearing my child, and remaining hopeful. More important, though, maintaining my routine of my morning coffee helped me to remain in touch with friends and acquaintances who were always willing to help me out. Steve Carpman helped me move my 2,000 or so books out my office and stored them in his barn (heated, cooled, and ventilated--what a barn); Ramsey Jiddou provided me with an opportunity to learn mortgage brokering and with someplace to go in the mornings after I drank my coffee; and Nicole and her four kids gave me all the laughter I needed to mitigate what seemed to be an overwhelming experience. I had been unemployed before, but never with a child to support. Needless to say, I was scared shitless, and I was doubly afraid that my unemployment would prompt my son's father to seek custody. So no matter what, I had to appear to be stable even if I had only child support and unemployment to carry me until I found a job.

I weathered that storm as I see my friends weathering their storms. The most positive aspect of being in metro DC is that work is always available. Unlike in Michigan, you do not have to be chronically unemployed in metro DC, although you can find yourself underemployed and working two or three jobs to meet your living expenses. This is what I have taken to doing to meet the cost of living and pay my child's tuition. I feel that I am lucky though because I could still be in Michigan and the situation could be a lot graver. My goal is that my attitude towards work and my situation will shift. While I cannot control the economy, I can control how I respond to life's challenges. I tell my son this all the time, as my parents told me; so now I have to embrace what I already know. But sometimes it is very hard.

My son and I talked about how the older generation views his generation. He mentioned that far too many of the elders always remind his generation how they are not amounting to anything, yet these same elders do not offer any support or help to the people in his generation. He says that he and his friends discuss this all the time. I must mention that he and his cadre of African American male friends are either at the university or working full time. None of them are slackers, and I marvel at their commitment to their education and work, a level of commitment that I know I did not possess at their age. My son and I discussed possible remedies. He stated that he would like to see more of the elders mentoring young men in his generation and overall lending a helping hand. We also discussed the lack of presence of Howard alumni in the lives of students as a perfect example of the failure to give back to the community. We know that some alumni do give back, but my son concluded that far too many Howard students are left on their own to fend for themselves. That given the historical relevancy of Howard University and the success of so many Howard alumni, he concluded that alumni need to be more assertive in their assistance to and mentoring of Howard students. I suggested that he draft a letter to the board of trustees and alumni association expressing his concerns.

The semester begins on Monday for my son and I: he as a student, me as a professor. For some reason this year, we are both dreading returning to the university. Perhaps it was the snow storm. Perhaps the break was too short. Either way, I am feeling worn out and so is my son. We both want 2010 to be a better year, not because we are wedded to the idea of progress, but we both had our own challenges in 2009 and do not want a repeat performance. Only time will tell as we focus and make our way through another year.

Back from Summer Break and Ghana

2009-08-30T11:29:00.000-07:00

I have been quiet all summer, not because I have not been writing, but because I have been teaching so much that my writing has become particularly cryptic, and comprehensible only to me. Now that fall has come, the teaching is still with me, but there is something oppressive, for me, about teaching a full course load in the summer. I will never, ever again teach more than one course in the summer; I do not care who asks me to do it.

Ghana. I chaired a session at the 5th Biennial Conference for the Association of the Study of the Worldwide Diaspora (ASWAD) in Accra, Ghana, this summer. Twelve days before I departed, I herniated two discs in my cervical spine and was highly recommended to have "spinal surgery" immediately. My philosophy about surgery is that if there is minimal function in the injured body part, I will avoid any invasive procedures. Thus far, this philosophy has kept me relatively healthy, alive, mobile, and free of pain. But the pain from having two herniated cervical discs was nearly unbearable. Yet I went to Ghana anyway with topical lotions from my massage therapists, heat pads from the drugstore, and lots of prayers from friends, family, and neighbors.

The roads in Ghana, chock full of potholes, did not help my spine at all; however, I distracted myself with examining the hawkers: some old; but, most were young, school aged children. Making eye contact with a hawker guaranteed your obligation to buy, well at least for a Westerner like me who had not developed the thick skin and quick tongue that was needed to "shoo" away the hawkers. "Roll up the window," the van driver warned me as we stopped at a red light near Nkrumah Circle and the hawkers immediately descend on us, pressing their hands through the windows with plastic sacks of "purified water," certified by the government of Ghana, fried plantain chips, and other delicacies that I could not properly investigate with my eyes because this signaled my tacit agreement to purchase the goods. Changing U.S. dollars on the black market, courtesy of the conference van driver who guaranteed that finding an exchange bureau would be impossible, seemed to be the best way to get Ghanaian cedis; further, the banks would not change my money unless I had an account. Needless to say, my experience was that the van driver was correct because I could never find an exchange bureau despite being directed to one in the Osu district and the prospect of giving my money to the hotel front desk clerk so that she could bring me cedis the next morning went against my U.S. cultural mode of money exchange and capitalism. Besides, the hotel clerk, too, would go to the black market to exchange my money, but quoted me an exchange rate that was insulting, to say the least.

A herd of cattle in the middle of the city, chickens pecking underfoot and in the rain gutters, and goats bleating challenged my perception of what is proper in a city landscape. The acrid, choking smell of burning rubbish each night filled the nostrils until, after the second night in Accra, I looked forward to stepping outside the hotel and sucking in the night air for the smell reminded me of fall in the midwest when we would burn the leaves at the curb after having raked the lawns.

I heard the Moslem "Call to Prayer" at 4:30 a.m. Not cow or bull horns being blown, just a chant rising like the incoming tide and the blossoming morning sky. At first, I mistakenly thought the sonorous singing came from the women, men, and children setting up their makeshift markets along the roads (all of Accra seems to be one endless market), but a British couple standing outside the hotel waiting for a taxi informed me that a mosque was a few blocks away, and I was hearing the call to prayer.

My visit was punctuated not by the presentations at the conference, but by two day trips I took with other participants at the conference: one to the slave dungeons at Elmina and Cape Coast and the other to the Village of Aburi. The commercialization of these two dungeons, which are Unesco sites; my own connection to the transatlantic slave trade as one whose family survived this inhumane trafficking in humans; and the dire poverty around both sites all coalesced not only to leave me in a state of pain and confusion but also cognizant enough to thank my ancestors for having the tenacity to survive, for without their survival there would have been no ME.

The conference participants were warmly received by the chief and his court in the Village of Aburi. We were properly entertained and fed, and I was very appreciative of the hospitality the chief and his court extended to us. But my eyes and heart kept looking at the villagers, the commoners, who surrounded us and were disallowed from participating in any of the events. Yet, as soon as the events ended, the villagers descended on us, and I found myself attempting to negotiate the various requests for U.S. dollars, to purchase goods, or for my e-mail address or telephone number because the person really wanted to come to the States. How to discern who is genuine when so many appear to be in need?

I received five marriage proposals and one indecent proposal from a man from Burkina Faso. One 22 year old Ghanaian, in particular, confessed to me that it was "love at first sight." I was not flattered, and mildly suggested that he would be better off asking me for sponsorship for his education particularly since I had a 19 year old son in the States. Imagine this 22 year old attempting to be a stepfather to my 19 year old son. What a hoot! This young Ghanaian did not know the kind of trouble he was asking for :)

Home. I hailed a taxi at Reagan National Airport with the help of a Ghanaian. "I just returned from your country, Ghana," I told the porter. He laughed and asked, "How do you know I am from Ghana?" "Your tribal mark," I responded. We talked about my experience as I waited for the taxi. My taxi driver was a middle-aged gentleman from Pakistan. I told him about my experience of hearing the morning call for prayer for the first time. He agreed that it is a pleasant sound to hear at dawn break. Then I said to him, "this is a very rich country, isn't it?" "Yes, it is," he said, as he expertly guided the four door, Ford sedan south on I-395 on smooth asphalt that made me feel luxurious for one of the few times in my life.

Sunmer and Fun

2009-06-02T12:04:00.000-07:00

I've been quiet for awhile. The end of the semester has its own set of challenges: fielding student e-mail messages and convincing them that yes, the grade that they received is the grade that they earned and the one I calculated; there is no gray area. I do not subjectively grade. I have grading rubrics for every assignment (something that none of my professors used when I was in undergrad); use a formula to calculate their final grades; and only round up grades according to how my many math teachers taught me. This way, I can eliminate as much bias as possible when I am assigning student's grades. Three weeks after the semester has ended, I think that I can stop checking my e-mail for student messages about grades for the summer.

My son is HOME!!!!!!! Yes, I am screaming. He's such a delightful young man, and he has had a very successful freshman year. He is far more disciplined than I was at his age, so I am very, very proud of him. He still hasn't found a summer job; so if any of you out there know of any summer positions any place in the U.S. please let me know. I've had to drag my son out of the house for fear that he wasn't getting enough vitamin D. He admitted to me that he was a bit depressed about not finding summer employment. I've given him a few strategies: like going door-to-door and inquiring about employment at all of the businesses in the neighborhood. We live between a strip mall and a town center. There must be no less than 50 businesses between the two venues; he should be able to secure some type of employment.

Yoga and hiking are going well. A good friend gave me a retro bicycle recently. So I'll be adding cycling to my exercise program as soon as a buy a helmet so that the Fairfax County police won't ticket me. Will start kayaking soon. The Sierra Club offers free kayaking and canoeing lessons every Thursday evening at 6:30 p.m. I'm trying to make myself drive into the District soon because tonight is the first night for free canoeing and kayaking this season. I'm just waiting another hour or so to see what the weather holds for us. Thunderstorms are being forecasted, and we won't be in the water if a storm arises.

Went to my nephew's high school graduation; he graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and did not even say anything; and did not stand up when the "Beta" club members were called. This sort of keen ability not to honor one's accomplishments runs in the family. I'm trying to get the younger generation not to be this way. For example, when my father retired, there was an acknowledgment/retirement luncheon that I did not know about. Perhaps this event still would not be part of my knowledge if I had not spied a U.S. flag some weeks later in my father's study. When I inquired about it, he told me with a great degree of reservation that it was the flag flown over the U.S. Capitol on the day he retired, and was given to him to honor his many years of service to the U.S. government. Okay, I felt really humble. I also wished that on some level he would have shared his accomplishments with his children (I don't doubt that he discussed them with my mom). But my dad raised us to understand that you always give your best effort, for doing so is about your integrity and has nothing to do with being acknowledged or receiving awards. So I suppose that my siblings, nieces and nephews, and I are the same as my dad. Therefore, I should not be surprised when my nephew does not stand to acknowledge that he is Phi Beta Kappa, or when a local fraternity acknowledges my son's high academic achievement and he refuses to attend the award ceremony, or when I have to be convinced to attend my own hooding ceremony. It is in our blood. Ultimately, the only one to judge my accomplishments is me, and I am, as my friend told me yesterday, hard on myself.

My nephew wants to be a stockbroker. My son just wants to finish undergrad; although he recently asked me questions about graduate school. I'm going back to U Mass-Boston to train as an instructional designer. I'm tired of online courses being 90% text based; there is too much technology available for these universities and colleges to upload only text and call it an "online course." It's a travesty and only addresses the needs of the most astute visual learners. If you are an aural learner, please avoid online classes. My goal is to mitigate this by learning not only to design but the psychology behind learning. Wish me luck. Wish my nephew and son success. They have so much energy and enthusiasm. And they are two very focused individuals!

Sun, Domesticity, and Love

2009-04-18T17:06:00.000-07:00

Well the sun brings out the best in some folks, and I'm one of those folks. No matter what is happening, somehow my mood and outlook remain positive and optimistic when my face is kissed by the sun. Left the Fairfax County Courthouse on Friday in good spirits despite losing my hearing (yes, I'm was in contempt of court for not ponying up the equivalent of one-half the cost of tuition, room and board at University of Virginia for my lovely son attending Howard University, but that's another story that I probably shouldn't blog about less I get sued by my former husband, oh well).

I once read by some famous writer that if you write long enough, you are bound to anger some folks. I have had my share of angering folks: from my 5th grade student teacher in history who accused me of plagiarism to lawyers who think that if they send me a demand letter, I'm going to crawl in a corner and let them do with me as I please. Oh, well, having worked 10 years of my life for a circuit court judge, large defense firm, and bond attorneys, I'm not easily scared when lawyers send letters to me; which is why when I go in court I often win, but I often piss folks off. But it's all in the writing, which is why I tell my students, if you have good writing skills, they will take you far beyond the classroom. In fact, good writing skills are essential to surviving in this complex U.S. culture. But as for the outdoors and my life beyond legalities: hiking is my anecdote to boredom.

Still hiking. I've slowed down a bit this week. I need to let two blisters heal. So I'll meet my hiking club on the Mall in DC and look at the monuments. This is not really a hike, but a way to meet, look at the monuments, and stop for coffee. Walking the Mall will give my feet a break, but next weekend these old dogs are going to get a workout in the Shenandoah National Park. I can't wait to try out my new trekking poles in the mountains.

Loving domesticity! Anticipating my son's arrival home for the summer, I've opened up the kitchen again. My good friend Ricci has been allowing me to experiment on him with some new dishes. Since Ricci is a "food machine," he rarely turns down my dishes. I have found that since my son departed for the university, I am rusty in the kitchen. I rarely prepare a meal unless someone else is around to eat. So Ricci's presence helps me get back into the swing of things.

Glad the sun is back. Happy to be enjoying my living space. Hum, and Ghana is calling me for a summer excursion and conference!

Furloughs, Hiking, and Rainy Weather

2009-04-06T09:36:00.001-07:00

What a wonderful weekend. It was nearly 70 degrees all weekend in metro DC, so I had an opportunity to hike through parts of Bethesda, Maryland and look at the Cherry Blossoms in the Kenwood neighborhood. Sunday I spent the day in Annapolis just soaking in the bay air coming off the water and remembering how much I love being near the water. Having grown up in Michigan, a peninsula (I have to often remind my friends of this), I grew accustomed to seeing water, lots of water since my parents were good about making sure that we spent a lot of time on the Great Lakes as children. When I go to Annapolis and stare out at the Chesapeake Bay, I feel as calm and confident as I do when I am on the ocean. Annapolis is by far my favorite city in metro DC: its sailboats (it is sailing capital of the U.S.), the 17^th century architecture, and the cobblestone streets truly engage my senses. Yes, slavery existed in this town, but there is something about those native Black folks from Annapolis (the ones who know that they are direct descendants of African slaves and trace their original landing in the New World to Annapolis, MD) that despite all of the discrimination and the ever-pervasive color line, that continues to define their lives in the most insidious ways, that gives me some degree of solace, for they are so defiant, so sure of who they are and where they are from. I tease my friends from there, and tell them that they must have descended from the Fulani group because they will not bend, they do not yield. Recently, the city officials erected a sign designating the corner of West and Calvert streets as the Harlem of Annapolis. While this is a tribute to the artistic and intellectual endeavors and accomplishments emerging from this neighborhood, had anyone consult me, I would have reminded them that the U.S. African population in this area predates the movement of U.S. Africans into Harlem. But, hey, no one asked me. If you are ever in Annapolis, on the wall of the Stanton Center is a mural depicting some of the notable U.S. African residents of the Clay street community. Check it out for it is slowly being gentrified as a generation of elders born in the first decades of the twentieth century are passing and leaving their homes to their grown children who often see no value in keeping the property or returning to the neighborhood.

Hiking is going well. I am looking forward to my next strenuous hikes. I have my warm weather gear that friends recommended I buy. Everyone is swearing by Under Armour, so I purchased my first three pieces this past weekend. I still need to get some lightweight rain gear and trekking poles. In this past Sunday's Washington Post, there was an article about hiking the Appalachian Trail. I will be hiking a portion of the trail in a few weeks. The writer of the Post article suggested that you have trekking poles. So it is confirmed, I will shell out the bucks for trekking poles; besides, I must protect these knees on the descents. And thus far, I have been lucky: I still have good balance so I haven't fallen into any streams. But it is only a matter of time before I lose traction on a wet rock and crash into a stream. I have waterproof boots, but if the water is deep enough, my feet will be waterlogged, and since I almost always forget to carry an extra pair of socks, the rest of my trek will be very uncomfortable. Trekking poles will help me to maintain stability and balance!

Received notice a few weeks ago that I will be furloughed from Howard for two days; and, at the top of the agenda for the Budget Committee at the community college where I teach is furlough. I have to tighten the belt, bite the bullet, and continue preparing myself for this worsening economy. The recession is finally hitting metro DC. I am teaching far too many classes for any one person, which is why I have been so quiet on this blog. But I must do what I have to do in order to insulate myself from an economy that our president predicts will worsen before it improves. I believe him.

Read Paule Marshall's latest publication, Triangular Road: A Memoir (2009). It is a thin book that opens with a tribute to Langston Hughes for the support that he gave Marshall in the early part of her career. While the book allows a glimpse into Marshall's life, it is still too scant on the details and how she accomplished writing and rearing her son as a single parent. Perhaps this is one memoir in a sequel, and there is more to come from Marshall. Hopefully so, for I believe that Marshall is one of our under-celebrated U.S. African women writers.

I'm signing off: I have to teach this afternoon, and I have spent the last three hours in Starbucks grading essays and conferences. Spring will come and stay soon. I'm tired of the rain outside!

Arabesque at the Kennedy Center

2009-03-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

Wow, I hope your weather was as warm, inviting, and calming as ours was in metro DC. It was a weekend for being out and about. Although I had planned to spend the entire weekend held up inside the Kennedy Center at Arabesque, a festival of Arab culture, I hit the Capital Crescent trail on Saturday afternoon, hiking from Bethesda to Rosslyn, before heading over to the Kennedy Center to hear Suheir Hammad on Saturday night.

I took the time to tidy up a bit before heading to the Millennium Stage to hear Suheir Hammad read and perform poems, including some from Breaking Poems. Her performance was wonderful: a mixture of spoken word and "traditional" poetry; some performances from memorization and other poems read. Her father introduced her, and he was so fatherly: enthusiastic, louder than he probably knew he was, and proud of his daughter. Hammad read a poem in tribute to her father, and it brought tears to my eyes so touching were the images, so sonorous the rhythm, and so emotional her delivery.

Hammad blew me away when she opened Breaking Poems to a page bearing lines about Detroit, and looked up at me and said, "you're from Detroit." Serendipity? I don't think so. This caused me to reflect on my own upbringing and my relations with Arab Americans in Detroit during the 1970s and 1980s. While I knew only a handful of Arab American kids growing up, most of them were immigrants and had been segregated into Black communities, my relations with the Arab American community became more engaging when I returned to metro Detroit from 2001 to 2005. As an adult actively communicating with adult Arab Americans, my maturity enabled me to pose questions and receive responses for which I had always wanted an explanation. But the hysteria of post 9/11 tempered and informed a lot of our conversations. I was still an outsider. And there was reason for my Arab American friends to be suspicious of everyone, including me.

The special police and K-9 dogs were out in full force from Thursday to Sunday, respectively. Security was obviously beefed up. And I was concerned that attending Arabesque was perhaps an endangerment to my safety. I do not need to see a lot of special police to make me feel secure. In fact, I feel less secure when they are around. After seeing far too many K-9 dogs on Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon, and unmarked Fords all day Sunday around the Kennedy Center, I became very uncomfortable and suspicious. When a crowd of pretentiously heeled, mostly non-colored people, began to flood the Hall of Nations and Hall of States, it was apparent that something important was occurring. Perhaps not as important as Arabesque was to me, but something important enough to call out the "militia" in full force. One of the guards told me, "It's a celebration for Senator Kennedy's birthday, and the president is attending." Well, this made me feel a bit better, for I was contemplating what threat could a hall full of Arabs present in a cultural space like the Kennedy Center. But even the poet Suheir Hammad joked on Saturday night, "have you ever seen this many Arabs in one place besides a jail?" With K-9s roaming the premises, who of Arab descent was going to laugh at that question?

It was tempting to sit around and get a glimpse of the president, but I stopped being a cheerleader in the 12th grade; and I no longer crash parties. I left just when the president entered. The SUVs were nine deep in front of the Kennedy Center, and the police and secret service presence was so concentrated that it placed a damper on the atmosphere. It was time to go home. I boarded the shuttle to the metro station and made my way to northern Virginia.

It's Been a Long Time

2009-03-02T17:32:00.000-08:00

Oh, I've been hiding out on Facebook, reading, going to pilates allegro classes, and hiking. I've also been writing: a book review, a critical essay, and an abstract for another critical essay. We are snowed in in metro DC. Although our president was right about what whimps we are to shut everything down when it snows, I was happy to have a day off without guilt. I finished reading Zadie Smith's novel, On Beauty, today. It is quite good. I haven't digested it yet because I turned the last page less than an hour ago, and I am committed not to write another critical essay until I write some fiction or creative nonfiction.

Hiking is going well. I finished my first strenuous hike this past weekend. It was eight miles in the Shenandoah National Park. Now, eight miles is not far at all for me to hike. But eight miles up to a 2,500 foot elevation was a bit much. See here it is. It's not my age that challenged my physical ability; but my greatest fear: heights. Coupled with my ongoing fight with anemia, I was winded and had to focus on not looking down to the precipice below in order to complete the hike. I know that if I was with a familiar friend, a lover, or family member, I probably would have stopped hiking and someone would have had to rescue me. But because I was raised not to be a burden to strangers, I kept trekking along even though I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears, and I had to periodically stop and bend over to catch my breath. All I can say is that I made it, and I'm making an appointment with my physician to have my red blood count checked. When you are anemic, you don't have enough red blood cells carrying much needed oxygen to your organs. The gentleman hiking in front of me told me that I was panting like a smoker. So I know it's time to go to the doctor. As for the heights, I can't do anything about this. I have tried for years to overcome this fear, even going parasailing over the Atlantic Ocean. It is what it is, and nothing is going to change this. I just have to grin and bear it.

My legs still ache from the hike on Saturday. Nonetheless, I pushed myself out the bed and walked in the snow around the perimeter of the shopping center (the long way) to the Starbucks this morning. I needed another good cardio workout. Trying to get this heart in shape despite the anemia.

All is quiet on the eastern front. The market is continuing to crash. The moneyed folks really don't like our president's plan for a "redistribution of the wealth." But none of them commented on the upward distribution of wealth that has occurred for the past eight years. Oh, well, it's business as usual in the good U.S. of A.

Class and Black Women’s Literature

2009-02-12T10:02:00.001-08:00

Performing Class: U.S. Africans Strutting Their Stuff

I think that it is apropo that I am sharing the panel with scholars whose papers examine the links amongst race, class and gender, and film and representation. For while my primary interests are in literary studies, my examination of how class is manifested in narratives by twentieth-century Black women writers inevitably leads me to turn my eye both to the text and to the extra-textual world that highly informs the printed text. Of course, in the extra-textual world, a text in and of itself, is performance. And the links between performance on the world stage and how that performance gets replicated (no matter how imaginatively) in printed texts by U.S. Black women writers concern me. I view creative writers as artists whose works often give voice to changing trends, social ills, and human desire before the masses, and even sometimes before the scholars, find the language to articulate eruptions in the culture. For, after all, creative writers only have the tool of language to convey their narratives. And is it not language that ultimately constructs our personhood, with or without agency? In my examination of twentieth- century fiction by U.S. Black women writers, I am struck by the preoccupation, if you will, of the complex negotiations that their black heroines undergo in attaining, maintaining, and oftentimes, negating class status. My work is concerned mostly with Pauline Hopkins, Zora Neale Hurston, Ntozake Shange, Andrea Lee, and Toni Morrison. In each of these twentieth century Black women's fiction, the heroines struggle to come to terms with dual allegiances to race and class. Their concerns with gender are critical to their allegiances with race and class. However, it is the race/class dance, the performance anxieties of both, that take prominence in these heroines' lives. Hopkins, Hurston, Shange, Lee and Morrison create these tensions to interrogate how one performs blackness and femaleness, blackness and class, and blackness and upward mobility.

Although these fiction writers have invested their novels with tensions around the anxieties of class and race, the same degree of attention by scholars of literary studies has been lacking. It seems that scholars of literary studies have left the interrogation of class and race to the sociologists. However, while scholars of literary studies have aptly examined the way that identities are constructed, particularly in regards to race, gender, and sexuality, less attention has been given to the way that Africans in the diaspora construct class. My project is two fold: one, I examine the history of differentiated class status amongst Africans of the disapora in the United States, and two, I am especially interested in the ways that twentieth-century U.S. Black women writers construct, portray, and give voice to black class status in their heroines in fiction. I believe that like other components of people's identities—for example race, gender, and sexuality—people learn to perform class. Often such performances are tangentially related to economics, yet they are not wholly determined by economics either. Class is a performative act that embodies complicated intersections of race, gender and identity, and is equally determined by historicity. Class for the African of the disapora in the U.S. must be interrogated not only in consideration of the history of slavery but also with an acknowledgement of the insidious and perpetual dis-integration of these Africans due to racism. Both the history of slavery and the culturally embedded practice of U.S. racism so over-determine the economic and social statuses of Africans of the disapora in the U.S. that these elements cohere to create at times an impermeable caste system wherein the fiction of race often eclipses other signifiers, and operates as the primary signifier in which both the dominant culture and other Africans read the place of Africans of the disapora in the United States.

Yet my attempts at examining, interrogating, and drawing conclusions about black class as performance are grounded in the history of black racial slavery in the colonies of the New World, and what later became the United States, in particular. Despite this history of black racial slavery that subsumed black lives within a pervasive caste system, those persons of African ancestry who managed to break free of the constraints imposed by slavery, nonetheless found themselves still hemmed in by the restrictions that caste imposed on them. Yet this engendered its own sort of duplicity, for it stratified persons of African ancestry into an intraracial hierarchical society that included bondsperson and free person, non-propertied and propertied, unlettered and lettered, and immobile and mobile—thus intraracial difference evolved among the population of persons of African ancestry in the New World colonies of North America, and I believe therein lies the birth of the performance of class.

Untying the creation and history of a black caste system is as complicated as black racial slavery itself, since both are predicated on visually identifying a population of people whose skin color, hair texture, and physiognomy differed from the dominant population. Historian David Brion Davis argues in Inhuman Bondage: The Rise and Fall of Slavery in the New World (2006):

In the Chesapeake (a region that includes Maryland and Virginia), all people of African ancestry were increasingly seen and defined as 'Negro.' This arbitrary racial classification gradually became the norm for most of the United States. And this basic dualism or division between whites and Negroes, between the free and the slave, leads to the argument of the historian Edmund S. Morgan that Virginia's slavery and racism became, paradoxically, the social and ideological basis for America's dedication to freedom and equality" (135).

So while some persons of African ancestry were able to attain social and economic statuses that elevated them above the lowest rung of the black caste system, their African ancestry—which later became a racial identity perpetuated by colonial legislatures to ensure white domination and control— made it impossible for them to escape the black caste system regardless, of class status. But as Morgan points out, the very nature of slavery and racism becomes not only the basis for the freedom and equality sought by non-propertied white males, but most importantly for those persons of African ancestry denied access into and a voice within the body politic.

The body politic—which denied, subjugated, and ignored the teeming population of persons of African ancestry—formed its identity vís a vìs this encroaching African presence while it simultaneously pretended that the presence of the African was inconsequential to the ideological foundation of a new nation. The manner in which the African's presence was trapped within the interstices of the fabric of the new nation and likewise ripped from its moorings perhaps unveils how it was possible for communities of Africans to live both within the caste of blackness and outside of it as well. For I am not denying the reality of the black caste system and slavery, however, what I am suggesting is as Africans sold into the Atlantic slave trade learned to "perform" slavery, they likewise learned how to "perform" both caste and class. Gates, Foucault, Althusser, Tate, Foster, and a host of other scholars' work in challenging the idea of master narratives, particularly for subalterns, reminds us that for every African who yielded to slavery, there was (an)other who did not bear her back to the whip. For every African who felt subsumed and broken by black caste, there was (an)other who, despite caste, struggled to obtain land, maintain freedom, and retain some modicum of dignity. For every African who deemed herself outside of the dominant society, there was (an)other who regarded herself as integral to building of the nation. And feeling that one was integral to the building of a nation was as much about performance, even if the performance meant mocking, aping, or emulating the mores of the dominant culture. But may I also suggest that black class performance is not wholly determined by the dominant culture, that in fact, alienated from the dominant culture, standing "outside" of culture, and living in the margins allowed for a performative space that redefined black class. These performative spaces for Black women, in particular, and as manifested in Black women's fiction are domestic spaces, as Claudia Tate so aptly reminds us. Tate argues: "Black women's post-Reconstruction domestic novels used bourgeois gender conventions as an emancipatory text. The novels mediated the changing constructions of femininity at the turn of the century to define woman as exemplary citizen" (97). And these novels almost always used the domestic space as the primary locale for acting out bourgeois desire, exemplary citizenship, and redefining black women's femininity. The impact of the heroines in nineteenth century Black women's fiction as well as nineteenth century Black women themselves who pushed back against racialized and sexualized discourses that sought to subjugate them is attested to in the past and present not only by their accomplishments but also by the number of successful Black men who pay tribute to their mothers who were instrumental in their success.

But I have gone off on a tangent, and let me try to get back to historicizing this issue of performing class. Just when democracy in the U.S. was purported to level the playing field for white males in particular and gave way to the promise that with hard work, regardless of previous class status, any white male could rise to the level of prosperity, both Black men and Black women capitalized on opportunities that were not constructed for them to take advantage of, despite the divisions of the color line. They crossed the color line, picketed at the color line, and erased the color line. They sought inclusion based on meritocracy and hard work, which lay at the very ideological foundation of the nation. Striving for upward mobility is as much a part of the Africans' presence in the United States as is slavery. Yet, Euroamericans worked overtime to erect and maintain barriers to separate whites from blacks. W. E. B. Du Bois points out in his essay "The Evolution of the Race Problem" (1909) that while European nations were eliminating barriers that maintained rigid class status, the U.S., in fact was engaging in the precarious erecting of racial barriers that would ultimately make permanent a racialized caste system. Du Bois writes:

We are in fact to-day repeating in our intercourse between races all the former evils of class injustice, unequal taxation and rigid caste. Individual nations outgrew these fatal things by breaking down the horizontal barriers between classes. We are bringing them back by seeking to erect vertical barriers between races. Men were told that abolition of compulsory class distinction meant leveling down, degradation, disappearance of culture and genius, and the triumph of the mob. As a matter of fact, it has been the salvation of European civilization. Some deterioration and leveling there was, but it was more balanced by the discovery of new reservoirs of ability and strength. (qtd. in Brotz 546-47)

While Du Bois is referring to the "discovery of new reservoirs of ability and strength" in European civilization, the very erection of racialized barriers in the U.S. also gave way to new reservoirs of ability and strength within communities of Africans in the U.S. This ability and strength manifested itself in performance. This performance was, and continues to be about redefining the terrain, rewriting the script, and accomplishing the impossible.

As you can gather, my project is not about re-inscribing the history of the African in the U.S. as a history wrought with condemnation, unrealized struggles, and losses. These elements are part and parcel of any group's history, particularly groups that have been subjugated by a dominant group. Rather my project is aimed at unveiling, revealing and giving voice to the way that the African of the Diaspora in the U.S., despite its history, performed class as a means of survival. Whether that class performance was one of the bondsman, the black caste man or woman, the eighteenth century free black man who owned black slaves, or the twentieth century hip hop artist from a middle-class family who is pretending to be down with the folk and then realizes that she really is down with the folks, class performance, I argue, is imperative to survival. In the five texts that I look at in my forthcoming book, Narratives of Black Bourgeois Desire: Examining the Class Line in Twentieth Century U.S. Black Women's Fiction, I am concerned with what Foucault refers to as "subjugated knowledges." Foucault writes, "Subjugated knowledges are . . . blocks of historical knowledges that were present in the functional and systematic ensembles, but which were masked, and the critique was able to reveal their existence by using, obviously enough, the tools of scholarship" (7). When you read nonfiction and fiction by Black writers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, their literature not only examines Black slavery, but the texts also give voice to the desire for change: the physical, economic, and social emancipation that remain the primary impetus for the creation of these works. These precursor texts provide the foundation for the twentieth century texts that turn an open eye to the overt performances of freedom, and inextricably linked to these performances of freedom are also the performances of class. How to negotiate the complex American terrain that attempts to control the steps, attempts to rewrite the script, and attempts to direct the performance? These women's novels provide insight into how their heroines overcome insurmountable odds to give stellar performances. Whether it is in fiction or reality, life is about performance, race is about performance, gender is about performance, and class is equally about performance. All these elements cohere to create identity, which is, after all, about performance.

Works Cited

Brotz, Howard, ed. African-American Social and Political Thought 1850-1920. 1966. Intro. Howard Brotz and Foreword B. William Austin. New Brunswick, New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 1992.

Davis, David Brion. Inhuman Bondage: The Rise and Fall of Slavery in the New World. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006.

Du Bois, W. E. B. "The Evolution of the Race Problem." Ed. Brotz 539-49.

Foucault, Michel. "Society Must Be Defended," Lectures at the Collège De France 1975-1976. 1997. Ed. Mauro Bertani and Alessandro Fontana. Trans. David Macey. New York: Picador, 2003.

Tate, Claudia. Domestic Allegories of Political Desire: The Black Heroine's Text at the Turn of the Century. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992.

Cold, Change, When Will Spring Arrive

2009-02-06T03:14:00.000-08:00

I have been really busy. Zipping from one campus to the other, up and down I-95 and MD-50 and finally saddled with the flu, a cold, I don't know. But the symptoms were intense enough to make me sit down and climb into the bed for one week. Luckily I was saved by two snow days, so I didn't miss too much class time.

My son's birthday was at the end of the month, but I was too sick to see him. When I finally got well, I met him on campus. He has a new saunter: it's self assured, a bit cocky, and playful. It's all good, as my students tell me. But as I checked out how long his legs have gotten, my gaze traveled up to his face, and beaming from his two earlobes were two cubic zirconias. I got out the car, doubled over in laughter, and chanted: "No you didn't. No you didn't." He grabbed me up in a bear hug and laughed with me.

I couldn't be mad at the boy. I just told him that our bodies react to silver, so if that was silver in his ears, as soon as the holes healed he needed to purchase some gold earrings and put them in his lobes. He immediately told me how he has been cleaning his earlobes carefully and he's taking care of them. Then he told me that my dear father was the one who gave him the idea to pierce his ears. Yeah, blame it on his grandfather.

I'm still smiling as I write this. I don't think he should have pierced his ears. He's in the doggone business school. But, hey, he reminded me that he had a 3.0 g.p.a his first semester, freshman year, and he's certain that he will pull a 4.0 g.p.a. this semester, now that he has adjusted to being in the university. This will put him in the running for a scholarship, he assured me. Yeah, the boy is already a business person, letting me know how much money I can save as a lure for accepting his pierced earlobes. Hey, what can I say? The boy has never given me any problems, so if he pierces his ears, I can live with it. Besides, this act of self definition reminded me so much of the time when I put a second hole in my right earlobe the summer when I was 18 years old while visiting my cousin, Robin, upstate New York. I recall my father admonishing me. He had reason to be concerned, I was not as focused and on track as my son currently is.

It has been too cold, even too cold to go hiking. But we are going to have Spring-like weather this weekend, I'll be out on the trails on Saturday. Jabari Asim's book party is on Sunday; hope that those of you in metro DC can join us. Go to his Facebook page for the location and time. Make sure you rsvp.

For my family and friends in Michigan, hang in there. It's cold. The recession has been very real in Michigan since 2001. The country is always slow to respond to the economic downturn in Michigan even though it is the barometer for what is going to happen to the rest of the country economically. Our dear president sounded frustrated on the Air Force One and at the event in Williamsburg admonishing Congress for messing around and not immediately passing the Stimulus Bill. Oh, well... things are getting interesting.

20 Things My Parents Taught Me

2009-01-14T18:52:00.000-08:00

Everything that I needed to learn to survive, I did not learn in an educational institution. In fact, if my education had been left up to the teachers, professors and schools I attended, I'd be woefully dumb. While I may have had a few bright teachers and professors, I must admit that my parents were the major influences on my intellectual development. But they also taught me a few other things. I will list them below.

From my father I learned:

1. The difference between a debit and a credit
2. How to file articles of incorporation (this was a family project when I was in high school)
3. How to check my oil, check the tire pressure, listen to the engine for problems, diagnose the problem, and how not to allow the service person or mechanic to treat me like I'm a dumb chick when I take my car in.
4. How to negotiate terrains of power
5. Never to tell a guy what will happen if he's late for a date
6. How to post accounts (he had me doing this for small businesses before I was in high school)
7. How to do problems in trigonometry, pre-calculus, and calculus (my father was a great mathematician when I was a kid)
8. How to write a coherent essay on the first draft (in elementary school my siblings and I were not allowed to erase our mistakes, my father made us rewrite the entire essay no matter how long it took us)
9. How to be a caring and loving daughter (I'm still learning this)
10. How to be daughter #1.

From my mom, I learned:

1. Never to act dumb no matter how much pressure was placed on me to pretend like I didn't know something
2. To read like my very life depended on it
3. To stir spaghetti sauce while simultaneously reading a book
4. To pay my overdue fines at the library (often my mother would load up the trunk of the car to return mine and my siblings overdue books with her check book in hand; I think my mom was solely responsible for Detroit Public library placing a cap on overdue fees on children's books)
5. How to enjoy poetry
6. How to play the piano
7. How to write fiction, poetry, and plays
8. To read literature within a particular context and to deconstruct it
9. To enjoy all types of literature
10. To develop my mind, develop my mind, develop my mind.

Hiking and Reading

2009-01-13T19:00:00.001-08:00

I had an intense week teaching a one-week, all day seminar in African American literature. Pedagogically, this doesn't work because the students don't have enough time to retain any information. If this were a graduate-level seminar it would work because graduate students bring so much knowledge to the classroom, but for an undergraduate class where this might be a student's first introduction to African American literature, the course is very challenging even for the best students. But the students and I made it through, I posted grades tonight, and I get a slight break before the Spring semester begins at the college.

I've been hiking and reading, if you are interested! I'm reading "White Cargo: The Forgotten History of Britain's White Slaves in America" wherein the authors, Don Jordan and Michael Walsh, argue that although the word "slave" was rarely used to define the legal and social status of the European indentured servants who were forced into or volunteered their labor in the Americas, they were, nonetheless, slaves. The authors hope to add to the vision and history of slavery in British America the image of poor English children who were mostly kidnapped, English female prostitutes who were sold out of the country as brides to English settlers as a way to populate the colonies, English men who either volunteered their labor or were convicts given emigration to British America as an alternative to death, and the Irish who were in constant battle with the English for their sovereignty and humanity and of whom England wanted to exterminate.

I am wrestling with not the concept of Britain's white slaves, but the implication of this sort of discourse on U.S. Africans seeking reparations for being enslaved. I know how discourse can be twisted to accomplish political agendas; therefore, deracializing, or de-Africanizing slavery in British America as a social and economic phenomena that was not overwhelmingly African and based on racism will be very difficult for me to wrap my mind around. Thus far, Jordan and Walsh argue that few white indentured servants survived indentured servitude, acquired land, or gained a social status above that of a slave, if they fulfilled their contract of indenture servitude. I haven't finished the book, and I'm curious how the authors will handle the shift in status of Europeans in the 18th century as they were increasingly defined as whites rather than by their national origins as a way to establish a racial hierarchy and race-based caste system in the United States that even free Africans in this country could not escape.

If you are curious, Toni Morrison states that reading "White Cargo..." was the basis for her novel "A Mercy."

Okay, so it's hiking this weekend, an 11-mile trek, regardless of the weather. Then I will relax on Sunday and break bread with a friend before going off to tap dancing class. My friend teases me about how I prepare for my hiking treks: eating my protein in the morning, not drinking my mochas (ugh, that hurts), hydrating with water, dressing in layers of silk and synthetics, donning my boots and wool socks, and pushing my locs under my wool cap with ear flaps. He told me that I look like I am about to hike the Himalayas. I had to respond, "no, I'd have a GPS tracking system if I was about to hike the Himalayas." We are best friends! Yet despite our 30 year friendship, he still does not see me as a physical person, which I find very ironic since we have hiked, played basketball, swam, scuba dived, and gone bicycle riding together. Hey, he was the person who taught me how to scuba dive. I suppose being middle aged, I think that he presumes that I will stop being physical and sit down. Wrong! I'm going to keep moving until my legs become like concrete. Besides I keep telling him that women in my family have congenital heart defects; yes every last one of us for three generations! Therefore, I can't ever afford to be sedentary.

Hope that all are having a prosperous year. We in metro DC are preparing for the president's inauguration; it's going to be pandemonium in DC and very difficult to get around the metro area next week.

"Detroit, July 1967"

2009-01-07T19:21:00.000-08:00

Below is a poem that I wrote back in October. I've been wrestling with a novel about the 1967 riots in Detroit for nearly four years. The novel is in various stages. Some chapters are complete. Others need more work. Nonetheless, the poem below emerges from my musings about the novel, where it is going, and what needs to be done next. The tentative title of the novel-in-progress is "At Home in the Night." One of my goals this year is to complete a good draft of this novel.

"Detroit, July 1967"

They swirled like a barrage of gnats
Spot lights unveiling
Hot summer night torn sideways
Babies screamed, slaughters gutted streets
Filled up with swollen anger and
Hungry mischief. That July 1967
When hope snapped necks and dreams
Broke backs and no more stilted speech
Like shattered glass on 12th street
Ringing as loud as the pain, and
Confusion, and silent slow silk
On his arms, strolling home beneath
Whorling wind and heat and loss.

Friendship and New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-03T16:12:00.000-08:00

First, thank you Johnny for the wonderful get together at your home on New Year's Day. As always, you open your home with grace and abundance, and we always have a good time. I am thankful for your friendship. And I will not rag you about cooking anymore. I realized that we all have our abilities; you provide the space, and me, Lynda, and Kerin will bring the food. It's not about gender, it's about what we do best.

Secondly, I never make New Year's resolutions, per say. However, since the birth of my child, I have diligently set ten goals for the year. Most years I can cross off at least five of the goals from my list, this year I managed to accomplish eight of the ten goals. Two goals seemed improbable in light of this financial market and my status in it. So perhaps next year will be the year to make some changes financially. Whichever goals I do not accomplish one year, I carry them over into the next year; that is, provided the goals are still in line with my overall goal that I have set for my life.

The goals are nothing ostentatious. For instance, hiking was one of my goals. That was the first one that was easily accomplished. It was just a matter of doing an internet search, looking at the weekend section of the Washington Post, making a phone call or two, purchasing my hiking boots, and meeting the group for a hike. Already, I have formed relations with two other women from my first hike and we are going on a hike on the National Zoo grounds tomorrow after touring the Mary Cassett exhibit at the National Museum of Women in the Arts.

I don't believe in setting goals that are wholly unattainable in one year. Rather, I break that long-term goal down into its parts and focus on that part of the long-term goal that I can accomplish in one year. This way, I don't set myself up for failure or disappointment.

I record the goals on the last page of my bound journal. This way I can always reinforce my goals by reviewing them continuously and I can also periodically realign my focus when I find myself going astray. When I record my list of goals, they seem more tangible and attainable. It's easy for me to forget my focus if I do not write down my goals.

What are you goals for the year? How do you maintain your focus? Do you share your goals with family, friends, or colleagues? Or do you keep your goals to yourself? I'd be interested in how you go about attaining your goals. Please post comments.

Happy New Year and Hiking

2008-12-31T15:23:00.000-08:00

As I predicted, I'm at home on New Year's Eve in front of this laptop after having hiked five miles around Burke Lake this afternoon. One of my neighbors was cajoled into having a New Year's Eve celebration, but having only sent out invitations last night, many of the folks who were invited had already made plans. So instead of celebrating New Year's Eve, we will gather at my neighbor's house tomorrow to celebrate the New Year. I am accustomed to being alone on New Year's Eve. I was never one for going out. I don't like driving home in the cold in evening clothes. I don't like negotiating the beltway after midnight. It's much easier for me to stay home and read a book.

But I did begin the day with a hike around Burke Lake. As a group of about 20 hikers braved the high winds (up to 50 m.p.h. gusts) and intermittent cold, I thought about how we redefine actions as we age and our bodies change. Now, my son and I used to skip, walk, saunter, hop, run, and jog around this lake when he was three years old. I never realized it was five miles around the lake, otherwise I probably would not have insisted that my three year old son join me in circumambulating the lake. I just recall that whenever we went on our excursion to Burke Lake, afterward he would promptly fall asleep in his car seat en route home. Now I know why. So, just imagine how confident I was when I realized that five miles around the lake is a piece of cake because I had done this before with my three year old. This is not a hike, I told myself! But, since I tend not to engage in moderate exercise, it's either all or nothing, I decided that I need not push myself; that five miles is plenty distance for a windy, winter afternoon.

A tree limb fell twenty feet or less in front of us as soon as we began the hike. The clouds gathered ominously, and I turned to the woman walking beside me and said, "if we were in Michigan, these would be snow clouds." She responded, "we are not in Michigan." But as soon as we turned the bend, the snow began pirouetting from the sky to confirm my lifetime practice of reading the clouds, much to everyone's surprise.

The hike was moderately paced. At one point we had to slow down because a tree fell across the trail, and it would have been too difficult for some of the hikers to walk off the trail and around the fallen tree. We opted to stoop under the felled tree. As I stooped, I was reminded of my physical therapist's warning to retain my mobility, flexibility, and balance as I age. For this reason, I am back in the yoga studio. As everyone stooped to get under the limb, me and another hiker assisted people, and I noted how difficult it was for some to stoop close to the ground and get beneath the fallen tree. In fact, three people opted to crawl on their knees. Some hikers needed assistance rising after they cleared the limb. So for some, I suppose, the hike proved to be a bit more rigorous than anticipated. But we all made it to the end of the five mile hike in tact. No injuries. No one winded. No complaints.

I am grateful to have had a prosperous and rewarding year. I've made some new friends, reconciled relations with two lifelong friends, and fine tuned my life's work. My son ended the semester on a high note! He's happy and grounded. And this makes me happy. As the year closes, I always list my ten top priorities. This past year, I crossed out eight of the ten top priorities. Two of the priorities were impractical given our financial markets this year, but the eight other priorities were quite attainable.

Have a good New Year's Eve.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-24T12:25:00.000-08:00

Well, the shopping mall across the street from where I live is packed. People are running helter skelter trying to get those last minute gifts for family, friends, and spouses. I feel good only having to bake bran muffins for brunch tomorrow, picking up four bottles of sparkling cider for dinner, and relaxing this afternoon while watching the sky get grayer and grayer. I wanted to skate tonight, but I couldn't convince anyone to join me. I still might get up and make it to the rink before it closes this evening. If not tonight, there are plenty of winter days to skate and be in the cold.

I decided to start off the New Year right by signing up for a yoga class on New Year's day. This means that I will not be out late on New Year's eve gallivanting around and trying to sip champagne. Rather, I'll be in early, probably reading a book, and sipping sparkling cider to bring in the New Year.

Have a Merry Christmas tomorrow. Hold your loved ones tight, look them in the eyes, and remember to tell them how much you love them as everyone tears off the wrapping paper and stuff their bellies.

White Vigilante Shootings after Hurricane Katrina

2008-12-19T07:36:00.001-08:00

When I was at the Richard Wright conference this past summer, Julia Wright showed a clip from a documentary capturing white vigilantes shooting and killing U.S. Africans in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. An article in the "Nation" captures in words some of the images that I viewed in Paris. Check out the article at http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090105/thompson

Cold and Quiet in Metro DC

2008-12-18T18:16:00.000-08:00

So recently I lost my favorite academic and intellectual buddy to a difference in perspective about a situation. Oh, well. But my Machiavellian buddy, who is intellectual in a purely non-academic way, re-emerged to engage me in continuous lessons about survival that I often forget while getting caught in the romanticism of literature and fiction. This buddy was an English major, which is why we probably got along when we met 30 years ago. But unlike me, he turned his English degree into a gold mine, and he is always reminding me to stop letting the job work me that I need to learn how to work the job. Yeah, don't you hear the corporate, Machiavellian tone to his advice? But in the past two weeks, I decided that he was right. So, when I posted grades I gave all students better grades than what they earned from my purely crunching the numbers. Hey, and two students have already complained about their grades; even one student who plagiarized an essay. He neglected to remind me about his plagiarized essay in his efforts to negotiate a higher grade. But since I maintain electronic copies of problematic essays (I have told the students this, so I don't know why they are always testing me), I was able to ascertain immediately that this student was being very arrogant or ignorant in attempting to negotiate a higher grade after being warned about plagiarism. However, after sending the student an e-mail message reminding him about the plagiarized essay and also sending him a reassessment of his final essay (which he also plagiarized, but since I was grading so quickly, I ignored language and concepts that appeared suspicious and this essay slipped through the cracks), the student has conceded and thanked me for giving him a second (and third) opportunity to pass the class. Oh well, I am so worn out.

But back to my discussion about friendships at the beginning of this post. Anyway, there's always a yin and yang to relationships, and while I cherish all friendships very deeply and will work at maintaining them, sometimes it is best for people to part ways even when I regret the parting, even when the parting is painful. My mother used to tell me that it takes only 60 days to get over a casual relationship. So I operate on the 60 day rule. If I miss a person's friendship after 60 days, I will make one last concerted effort to mend the fence. However, if after 60 days I have made an adjustment, then I move on. If fate should cause our paths to cross again and we decide to mend the fence, then I will be amendable. But if fate does not intervene, c'est la vie.

The semester has finally ended. I have posted the vacation notice on my university e-mail and voice mail accounts. I've spent the past two days reading Marge Piercy's "Woman on the Edge of Time" as a way to decompress from the semester. Tomorrow morning, I will return to my own writing, which has been woefully neglected these past 15 weeks.

It's cold in metro DC as it is everywhere else in the nation, it seems. I dread the cold, but I'm planning to ice skate on Christmas eve in memory of the way that my eldest niece, Brandi, and eldest nephew, Deondre, used to beg my mom and me to take them ice skating on Christmas eve, downtown Detroit. We would skate at Hart plaza with the Detroit river in the backdrop and the lights from Windsor, Ontario beckoning. Hopefully, I will get some of my neighbors to join me. However, if my neighbors decide not to join me, it will be me and the other lonely hearts on Christmas eve ice skating with the U.S. Capitol building and the Smithsonian museums in the backdrop. But I don't doubt that in addition to lonely hearts, there will be families, lovers, and people who just like to ice skate on Christmas eve.

Yoga Practice and the Books are Shelved

2008-12-14T12:48:00.000-08:00

Finally, I made it to the yoga studio. One of my former yoga instructors opened her own studio this past spring. Since early June, I've been promising that I would go by Radiance Yoga and take a class. But each time, I'd talk myself out of going. However, with all things quiet on the eastern front, I finally got to the yoga studio.

I purposely took a slow moving, beginners class, even though my practice level is far pass the beginner's stage. As I became reacquainted with muscles that I have long ago stopped recognizing, I realized that I was exactly in the class that I needed to be in yesterday morning.

My muscles hummed, talked, and even yelled at me. At one point, in a simple warrior pose, my left arm started shaking uncontrollably. That was when I acknowledged that I was woefully out of shape. Having succumbed to working two jobs last year, I realized that I have sacrificed my health trying to survive economically while living in metro DC. So, I have to set my priorities right. It's back to yoga practice at least once per week, back to the pilates studio for my allegro reformer class (I prefer doing this than lifting weights); and I've enrolled in a tap dance class. Hey, don't laugh. I tapped as a child and teenager. When I lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan from 2001 to 2005, I tapped at the community center with a bunch of other middle-aged, college professors. Besides, once you become proficient in tap dancing, it can provide a really good cardio workout, and it is much gentler on the body than running.

In addition to re-committing myself to getting in shape again, I finally shelved the books. Along one entire wall, from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, are my books. A wonderful friend, hearing the "chick cry" in my voice, offered to come over and anchor the book shelves. I owe the brother a crab cake dinner. It took him ten minutes to anchor the shelves. He turned to me and said, "this was easy," and chuckled. He used my drill, but his bits. I noticed that his bits were of a better quality than mine. So no matter how much I drilled, I did not have good bits to get the job done. I own wimp bits! Now I wonder why the guy in Home Depot didn't steer me toward a better drill and bit set.

Shelving the books was like taking a stroll through my past. My life is marked by the books that I read. Also, having to shelf the books again, reacquainted me with books that I have long forgotten I owned. This also allowed me to take inventory of the books that are missing. For instance, I don't know what has happened to my editions of the Marquis de Sade. Don't be too judgmental, my mother gave them to me to read while in undergraduate school, and I don't recall why she gave the books to me, but I am certain it was in response to something that I asked. Oh, yes, there was a play on campus about the Marquis de Sade, and I was surprised that she had copies of "Justine" and Juliette" in her collection.

Nonetheless, I am most intrigued by what I was reading during my adolescent years. So I paid special attention to those books: John Henrick Clarke's "Harlem" that I purchased and read before I entered high school; my high school editions of Salinger's "Franny and Zoey," "Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters," and of course, the infamous "Catcher and the Rye," which I read every year from the time I was 14 years old until I was 29 years old; and Kurt Vonnegut's many novels that my physiology and anatomy teacher tolerated my reading and chuckling over during his lectures. I really don't know why this teacher accepted my rudeness, except that he would tell me that I was bright, shake his head, and place my A examination down before me. Ironically, I was the only girl who sat at our lab station of four. And perhaps there was only one other girl in the class besides me. In my curriculum, by the 12th grade (which is when we took physiology and anatomy after two years of intensive courses in chemistry and biology) most of the girls had been weeded out and had transferred to another curriculum (usually health and welfare). The three boys who sat at my lab table all went on to be medical doctors (one is a pretty successful orthopedic surgeon who admitted to me about seven years ago at a class reunion to having copied off my examinations; I asked him for a chunk of his salary in return). Perhaps my physiology and anatomy instructor knew the odds were against me if I decided to pursue the hard sciences at the university, particularly if I did not attend an all-woman's college. I never thought about sexism in the hard sciences while matriculating in high school. I just knew that for the most part, the teachers (mostly males, I recall one female biology instructor) simply ignored the girls, or seemed to tolerate us. We were the best and the brightest of the students in Detroit, so they seemed to be a little hesitant to reject our presence overtly.

But, back to the books. I opened a biography of Vita Sackville-West and from the yellowing pages dropped out a letter from a friend whom I haven't seen in 21 years. I sat on the floor reading the letter and recalling our friendship, and how and why we lost contact with each other. Multiple editions of Morrison's books, falling-apart-editions of Tolkien (another author that I read during science classes), and various books in Spanish that were assigned to me in high school that must have suggested that I had a high degree of fluency that I have subsequently lost. Shelving the books and paying particular attention to my books from adolescence reminded me that I have always been doing what I now earn a living doing, that is reading and sharing my love of the book with others. While in an orthodox manner, I am a classroom teacher (even when my job title says, "professor". In a less orthodox manner, I am doing no more than what I have always done my entire life since I learned to read: consume a book, find a group of people who will listen to me, and share my enthusiasm of the book with them. As I anticipate the new semester, I'll have to remember this when the lifting gets too heavy and I just want to quit mid-term.

Our Children and My Self-Induced Anxiety

2008-12-08T13:19:00.000-08:00

I have figured out the true source of my anxiety. While there are some challenges in my personal life that warrant attention, they should not be causing me anxiety and vertigo. But I realized today as I got on campus, that the true source of my anxiety is acknowledging the degree to which so many of my students at the community college and university where I teach are ill prepared to be in classes at either the college or the university. At the college my students' lack of preparedness boils down to a deficiency in basic reading and writing skills. At the university, it is a lack of study skills and seriousness.

I've always advocated that not every high school graduate is ready or willing to attend college or university. Some high school graduates need a dose of reality and should go immediately into the work force. Thus, when they realize that their promotion opportunities are limited because they lack a bachelor's degree, then perhaps they will buckle down, get focused, and apply themselves.

My anxiety intensifies at the end of each semester when I watch the attrition rate in my classes rise, the failure of students to submit their final essays, and the increase in my students' lackadaisical attitudes. Then it is the deluge of e-mail messages and phone calls with the explanations for why they haven't been to class in two months, but really need a grade in my class. They always forget to say "passing grade." Yes, a failing grade is a grade, but my students lack the savvy to be specific.

I probably have more anxiety than usual because the majority of my students are U.S. Africans, and native Africans recently immigrated to the United States. Many have graduated from the public school system in this country. While I cannot fully blame my students' lack of preparedness on the public schools, I am seeing an increasing number of students who seem to have been simply passed through the system. Any student at the college level who cannot craft a coherent sentence has not only been passed through K-12, but also has been passed through freshman-level English courses: a prerequisite for every class that I teach.

So while I want to get to content, I spend too much of my time teaching basic research and writing skills. Yet, my students are not astute enough or lack the courage to hang in there with me and acquire the skills that they need in order to be successful. Either it is apathy or they disbelieve me when I tell them at the beginning of the semester, "if you hang in here with me and take this course seriously, you will not only learn the course content, but you will also have better writing skills."

Ultimately, my anxiety also hinges on my annual review. Last year, my colleague and I (the only two U.S. African in the department at the college at the time) were verbally reprimanded for having the highest failure rate in our courses. I succinctly explained to my chair and dean, that far too many of the students had been passed through lower-level English courses, and when I got them, they were woefully deficient in their writing skills. This year, I have put in place all types of mechanisms to make it virtually impossible to fail my class unless you produce and submit nothing. And some of my students are producing and submitting nothing.

How to solve this age old problem? Do I accept the fact that an entire segment of our population (mostly African and Hispanic students) are purposely under-educated? Do I continue to emphasize to my students the need to have excellent writing and critical thinking skills when they cannot see how these skills are relevant to their economic survival, no matter how many examples I give them? And how can a sorely underpaid college or university professor tell students anything about having marketable skills when they perceive my sole skill as teaching, a skill with limited economic returns from their points of view?

It is a complex issue. But it is an issue that I am not willing to abandon until I figure it out. I know that this country educates at least two kinds of students: the elite and everyone else. If you fall into the category of everyone else, but have the economic resources to attend school in an excellent school district, you just might survive. However, if you do not have these options, chances are you will neither be prepared nor survive college or university without a lot of commitment, sacrifice, and tenacity: qualities which far too many of my students lack.

The Habit of Reading and the "Dancing Mind Challenge"

2008-12-07T12:52:00.000-08:00

As I have posted earlier, I am indebted to my parents, and my mother in particular, for habituating me toward sitting quietly with my own mind either reading or writing, or simply thinking. As a child, I was known for sitting on the sidewalk and watching the ants for long stretches at a time. My mother never disturbed me; or, perhaps she did to call me in for a meal. Nonetheless, she honored my need for solitariness, and often I could finagle my way out of doing housework simply by picking up a book.

Many years ago, Toni Morrison bemoaned the fact that students at some of this country's best universities and colleges unabashedly confessed that they had gotten through high school and their undergraduate studies without as much as reading an entire book. Morrison brought attention to the deficit in reading in our culture, and encouraged all of us to learn to sit alone with our own minds.

This February, in conjunction with Bucknell University, Morrison is inviting college and university students to spend eight hours alone reading or writing during the week of February 18th. Morrison's birthday is February 18th. This is her "Dancing Mind Challenge." Morrison addresses the inability for people to engage in solitary endeavors in her "Dancing Mind" speech that she gave upon accepting the National Book Award in 1996. You can read her speech at http://www.nationalbook.org/nbaacceptspeech_tmorrison.html.

So all us, regardless if we are college and universities students or not, please don't forget to mark your calendar and set aside eight hours beginning February 18, 2009, to sit alone with your own mind and dance with another's.

End of the Semester and Cold

2008-12-05T15:58:00.000-08:00

It is the end of the semester. Students are jockeying for grades. The pleas are coming in: even telephone calls from parents. And my resolve is crumbling. Like them, I just want it all to be over. Unlike some of my students, I am obligated to do the work to get to the finish line.

It is colder than usual in northern Virginia. I picked up my son from the metro so that we could retrieve his tuxedo. He looks so good in it. Hopefully, he will also remember to wear his topcoat, which he tried to convince me not to buy. He swears that he will never put on a tuxedo again. Oh, yes he will even if he has to escort me to a formal affair. Anyway, I have asked him to take pictures. Hopefully he will.

There is a lot of anti-Africomm buzz in and around metro DC. As soon as I get a handle on it, I will blog about it.

Boredom and Young Adulthood

2008-11-29T19:07:00.000-08:00

My son has been in northern Virginia since Tuesday evening. And until an hour ago, I hadn't seen him since Tuesday evening when he left my home to go and play basketball with his father. My last words to him were, "don't let those old men shove you around."

Tonight, yes four days later, he stopped by just to check on me. He promptly announced that he's bored, and he can't wait to get back on campus. I offered to rise from my comfortable spot on the bed reading a book, dress, and drive him back to campus. My earnestness in getting him away from boring northern Virginia quelled his sighs and moans for an hour. In that hour we chatted. I got a little information out of him, not much. But I do know that although I hadn't seen him since Tuesday, he needs me to take him to rent a tuxedo tomorrow for the winter ball! Now, I told him about time management, asked him what has he been doing since Tuesday, and queried him as to why hadn't he secured a reservation for a tuxedo already. He had an explanation, but the bottom line is that he wants me (yes mom) to go with him to pick out a tuxedo. Oh, he's still my baby after all.

All is quiet in our hood. My best friend's father died on November 25, 2008. I've blogged about how diligently my friend has been caring for his father since this past May. My friend's tenacity is amazing to me. He is alarmingly quiet now, but on some level I know that the quietness is due perhaps to a disbelief that he has nothing to do. These past few months my friend had grown accustomed to providing for his father's basic needs and care, nearly around the clock. A nurse came in three days per week for a few hours to bathe his father. However, often my friend was dissatisfied with the nurse's care and would go behind her to improve his father's cleanliness and comfort. I know that witnessing his father's slow demise has altered him in some way. Perhaps when we see each other, he will share some insight with me.

I was spared watching my mother die. She always felt that death was a very private affair, and she died very privately in my father's arms. The closest that I have come to witnessing the dying process is when a very close friend and former paramour was dying of brain cancer. I went to the hospital to visit him. I found him half his normal weight: thin and fragile. His hearing was impaired somewhat, so I had to resort to writing on a notepad what I wanted to communicate to him. We spent a few hours scribbling notes back and forth. This was the last time I saw him alive. I recall that he wanted to give me power of attorney, and I couldn't assume that responsibility because he had three children, two of whom were adults. He couldn't explain to me why he did not trust either one of his children with his affairs. But I perceived that something was amiss and I did not need to get involved. Nonetheless, despite my reservations, his desire to give me power of attorney signaled to me that after all those years of knowing him and although we had broken off our romantic relationship (we remained friends), he trusted me completely with making decisions about his medical care and handling his business affairs. But we both knew that if he were my attorney advising me (and he was always my attorney who gave me excellent advice) he would have advised me not to get in the middle of that "mess." I took his unspoken advice and stayed out of his affairs.

So my child is bored. I dread going back to work on Monday. And it's too cold for anyone to be outdoors right now. Perhaps sometime soon I will finally blog about AFRICOMM and Obama's cabinet. But until then, it's the holiday and I'm not engaging in any real thinking until Monday.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T09:10:00.000-08:00

I know that for some of my friends, today represents the beginning of European genocide of the Native American and African, and the onset of European hegemony. But for some, it is a day to get together with friends and family and to eat too much.

Johnny is responsible for the turkey this year. The women in our Starbucks crew have spent time schooling the brother. My goal is not to take over, and allow Johnny to figure it out (he cajoled me into preparing nearly the entire dinner last year, doing the grocery shopping, and even purchasing table linens). He's going to put the turkey in the oven and drive 30 miles each way to run an errand. Oh well, there goes a moist turkey. But hey, it's on him. My best friend dropped off some crab cakes last Saturday. Yes, a guy, and he cooks better than I do. So I've just filled my belly with two delicious Maryland style crab cakes; if the turkey isn't good, I won't be hungry.

One of my weaknesses is helping men who pretend to be helpless or needy. But I'm not going for it any longer. I have a self-sufficient 18 year old son, so I know it's possible for men to take care of their domestic needs, if they want to take care of them.

The younger Michele used to walk into a man's environment and straighten it out. The new Michele knows that if any person lives in a domestic environment in a state of chaos, it's because either he doesn't care how he lives or he is incapable of creating a habitable domestic space. Either way, it's not my job to fix anything.

When I walk into my father's home, it is neat, orderly, and clean. Having always seen my mother take care of the home, I presumed my father was incapable of taking care of domestic matters. But to the contrary, he's real good at maintaining his home.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving; don't eat too much; and I will blog tomorrow about Johnny's turkey.

Friends and Thanksgiving

2008-11-23T18:37:00.000-08:00

Spent time with a friend whose father is slowly dying. My friend and his mother are providing, in-home, around the clock care for the father. I admire my friend, his mother, and his father. I am unsure if I would have the tenacity to do what my friend is doing for his father. At times though, I know that he is tired, and he takes a respite at my place to collapse and rejuvenate. But this time he told me that he had to have some television, so he brought an antennae to hook up to my television. I really don't like television, and I've never been much of a watcher of television. For some reason, I can't follow the story lines. Anyway, anything to make a friend comfortable. When you've known someone nearly 30 years, and have shared almost every life-changing event with that person, from marriage to death, you have to accommodate the person. Oh, and I finally found out that he is a grandfather. I suspected that his younger son became a father last year, but my friend wasn't speaking a word about it. He told me that he wanted to be "60 years old" before he became a grandfather. I told him that "you should be proud that your son is carrying on your gene pool."

A neighbor (and friend ) is planning Thanksgiving for all the single people in my neighborhood. We had a good time last year; my niece and I did the majority of the cooking. Unfortunately, I am struggling with vertigo, and I can't commit myself to cooking for 20 people and then find myself flat on my back with a half-cooked turkey. So for one of the few times in many years, I'm only responsible for preparing a side dish for Thanksgiving. Wow, it feels so good not to be responsible for Thanksgiving dinner.

It's too cold outside. Thank goodness for Du Bois and hot mochas, although moving to Florida is looking more enticing each winter. Stay warm, and don't forget to curl up with a good book. Soon I will have to post a word or two about Obama's cabinet. To say the least, I am disappointed. But an astute scholar and friend warned me that nothing would change under an Obama administration, that he would be simply a tool of the elite to further their agenda. I knew that he was right, however, everyone knows how damn idealistic I am.

Ten Reasons for Looking forward to My Son Coming Home

2008-11-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

Okay, I've almost survived my first lengthy separation from my only child, my son, David Malik. Now, I have seen him a few times on campus. One time he caught me totally off guard by walking up to me on the quad and wrapping his arms around me in a bear hug. It's not uncommon for one my students to tap me on the shoulder and then move, causing me to get whiplash as I turn my head to find out who's trying to get my attention, but my son's bear hug was completely unexpected.

But, I have to admit, I've missed him despite all of my proclamations about being single, moving into a bacherlorette pad, spending more time writing, and reading, and hey, maybe even dating!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I miss him and want him to come home because:

1. I'm tired of throwing away food that I buy and then don't cook.
2. I'm tired of eating alone.
3. Sometimes I can go an entire day and not talk to anyone, so I miss our grunts and half-spoken sentences; unless, we are conversing about something important.
4. There's no male scent in my living space.
5. I miss seeing his height come through the door.
6. I miss hearing "hey mom" as a preface to a question.
7. I miss hearing him say, "what's for dinner"?
8. I miss responding "food" to his question, "what's for dinner"?
9. I have no one to nag about cleaning up the second bathroom.
10.I simply miss his big rusty butt.

I can't wait until he comes home the second week in December.

Memories of Decadence

2008-11-20T12:22:00.000-08:00

My memories of decadence having nothing to do with material wealth. As a child, my parents provided for us as well as, if not better than, most U.S. African families. I was privileged to have college-educated parents, a father who took graduate courses in taxation, a mother who dedicated her life to rearing her children and supporting her husband, a three bedroom, two bath home with a two and one-half car garage (hey in Detroit your garage had to have enough room for two cars and the other stuff), and an abundance of love. While we had everything materially that we ever wanted and asked for, my decadence comes from the sheer leisure that my mother imbued her children with whenever she felt it necessary to our well being.

There were periods when my mother would remove each one of us from school and allow us to do whatever we wanted to do for the day. I recall having lunch at Elias Brother's Big Boys, then wanting to go either to the library or to a bookstore and get a book. Then I was allowed to sit and read all day, undisturbed.

Today as I made a cup of ginger root tea and grabbed Du Bois's "Black Reconstruction," I felt so giddy I had to examine the roots of this giddiness. I suddenly realized that my feelings come from the absolute pleasure that my mother insist that my siblings and I have in books and intellectual engagement. Quiet time in our house was not often spent in front of a television, although we did watch our share of television as children. However, quiet time usually centered around each one of us choosing a book and sitting down to read. While my siblings may have read for an hour or two, I recall reading until I was beckoned to the table to eat. Only my brother could out read me. Sometimes he would raise his head from a book, his eyes bloodshot and blurry, to tell me about how many Russian lives were lost collectively in the two World Wars. I wasn't very interested in Russian history, but he was and no one could get him to stop talking about Russia until we all stopped what we were doing and listen to him.

Toni Morrison once bemoaned the fact that as a whole, some of us are no longer trained to sit alone with our own minds for lengthy periods; or alone and engaged with the mind of an author. I wonder how people fill their time if they are not reading and thinking, habits that are so intrinsic to the constructions of my siblings and me as productive citizens of the world, that it is unimaginable for me to understand one's purpose for living if that purpose does not revolve around ideas and the expansion of one's intellect.

So, as they say, I am as happy as a clam. Du Bois and I are about to get it on again. And after Du Bois, C.L.R. James is by my bedside. It's nice to have a stack of men by my bedside just waiting with baited breath for me to caress their covers and flip through their pages. Okay, I'm writing about books. But as one critic argued, "there is pleasure in the text."

Du Bois and Snow in Northern Virginia

2008-11-18T11:45:00.000-08:00

So what do Du Bois and snow have in common? Nothing except for I don't feel guilty about being sequestered in my home, watching the snow flurries, and reading Du Bois's Black Reconstruction in America: 1860-1880. This is a tome that has been on my reading list for years, and finally I got tired of reading historians citing Du Bois and decided to get Du Bois's work and read it for myself.

The book is helping to clarify a family narrative passed down to me from my mother. It is one about how one of my female relatives, perhaps my great great grandmother, searched for her children after slavery. My mother always said that carpetbaggers took my great great grandmother's children from her. However, in a conversation with Dr. Ahati N.N. Toure, he suggested that during Reconstruction an apprenticeship program was established that literally removed U.S. African children from their parents and homes, if the Europeans in the community deemed these children's parents unable or unwilling to provide for them. Hence, this was another form of slavery and a legal form of kidnapping, and might lend some insight into what happened to some of my relatives during Reconstruction.

In reading Du Bois, I am becoming more acquainted with this practice of alleged apprenticeship of U.S. African children, but I need to read a text that exclusively focuses on this painful part of U.S. African history during Reconstruction, for Du Bois does not deal with the apprenticeship of children with any depth. However, I am curious now how my foremother's children were taken from her. As the narrative goes, she spent some years walking from Alabama to Ohio looking for her children. I am uncertain if she ever found all of them. I am uncertain how she negotiated her safety. I know nothing about this narrative but the bit that my mother knew. But it is a fascinating and painful narrative passed down to me, nonetheless, that I intend to investigate.

In the meantime, since it's too cold outside to walk, and not enough snow to go skiing, I'm going to get back to my book. Hey, I tried to talk to my neighbors this morning at the local Starbucks, but when one has a choice between communing with Du Bois or talking to neighbors about the Dallas Cowboys, I'd rather commune with Du Bois. But I am trying to be more socially engaged!

The Body Is Not Willing

2008-11-16T10:34:00.000-08:00

For those of you living in metro DC, wasn't the weather absolutely gorgeous yesterday. Even when the rain came down in unrelenting sheets, the air remained warm and I kept my patio door open until the temperature outdoors dropped to 56 degrees, and it became apparent that a chill was replacing the cozy warmth in my home.

My son is having the predictable freshman end-of-the-semester-melt-down. I offered him some strategies for how to cope and complete his classes successfully. Hopefully, he will listen and implement some of the strategies I recommended. But it's time for me to put together that care package full of protein, some homemade cookies, and other necessities to keep him going until the semester break.

I tell my students that their stress level equals the stress levels of their professors at the end of the semester. Well, at least those professors who are engaged and invested in their students' educational success. My breakdown came last weekend when I awakened in a hotel room at 4:00 a.m. in New Haven, Connecticut with the worse case of vertigo in 10 years. I know the technique to try to alleviate or at least wait out the vertigo: keep your eyes closed, don't move, and try to relax. But nothing was working and the symptoms were getting worse: so much so that I was completely immobilized. Just turning my head from one side to the other, with my eyes closed, resulted in extreme nausea and the ultimate result of nausea (I will spare you some of the gory details). But it was the pain in my right shoulder and the realization that the women of my family die of heart failure (damn we live by our hearts, this is something that I'm trying to change, but to no avail), when I finally called the hotel front desk and asked them to call EMS. When the desk clerk asked, "would you rather have a taxi"? I had to spend two minutes explaining to her that I was immobilized with pain in my shoulder, that unless someone could carry me downstairs, ride with me to the local hospital, and hold a bag under my mouth while I deposited bile into it, I think it best that they call EMS. The hotel manager did call back, brought me some water (for I knew that I was extremely dehydrated), and assured me that EMS was on its way. The EMS technicians were so jovial and polite, that I couldn't help but find someway to laugh at their silliness, that is, once they ruled out that I was not in any imminent danger, but I did look a "little pale." I mustered up enough humor to ask them, "how can you tell that a black woman looks pale"? We got a good laugh out of that one. Of course, as they wheeled me on a gurney to the EMS vehicle, we talked about Obama and the change hopefully this country will undergo. They transported me to a Catholic hospital (the only one my health insurance will cover: the hell with these PPOs), and the nurses at the hospital were equally jovial and teased me because I managed to be fully dressed when I arrived at the hospital. Yes, I did muster up the wherewithal to clothe myself despite the vertigo, but doing so seemed to take the better part of an hour.

I write this because it became very apparent to me how vulnerable persons are who are alone. It dawned on me as I was lying across the bed in the hotel room waiting for the EMS to arrive and hoping for the symptoms to subside that perhaps my son will remember that I was in New Haven for a conference. I processed how easily it can be for a person who spends most of his or her time alone, to become ill and perhaps die unnoticed for days. I realized how important it is to remain connected even when remaining connected often works against my nature. I believe that I have always been a very solitary and alone person, and being connected to others has always required a lot of effort on my part. When I tell people that I prefer books to people, they often think that I am joking. However, if my mother were alive, she would validate my perception of who I am. But as I age, and as I realize that I have only one child who will be responsible for me as I become less capacitated, I must come out of my shell and force myself to interact with others more. It is not healthy to spend so much time alone.

My body is signaling that it too is tired. That it needs human stimuli. That my brain is just one part of my body, and I can't do a mind/body split anymore, for when I do this, the price is severe vertigo that often occurs when I am alone because I spend so much time alone. So it's time to bring my head out of a book, my eyes off the computer screen, my pen out of the journal, and look up and see and interact with the people around me. Wish me luck!

An Obama White House

2008-11-05T03:44:00.000-08:00

He won! And for one day we will celebrate, dispense of the cynicism, and relish in a major victory. For today it doesn't matter if we think that Obama's win won't radically alter the power structure in this country that subjugates people of color and African Americans; it doesn't matter if some of us believe that African Americans are not part of the body politic; it doesn't matter if some intellectuals are announcing that we are in a post-racial moment--let us celebrate for Barack and Michelle Obama, their children, and all those persons who believed that it was possible for an African American to ascend to the highest political position in this country and to one of the most influential positions in the world. For one day, let us celebrate. Remember to turn counterclockwise as you dance and yes, the ring shout is permitted.

Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE)

2008-11-01T16:13:00.000-07:00

Picked up my son from the metro station to take him to vote absentee since he has classes on Tuesday. After a two hour wait and getting close to the room where the voting booths were set up, I was pleased to see members of the OSCE monitoring the voting site on Franconia Road in Fairfax County. After the 2000 elections, I have been crying for the UN to monitor our elections. So hopefully with the OSCE and the world's eyes on the U.S., perhaps there will be less disenfranchisement of voters. We shall see.

Busy, Cold and Settling in for the Fall

2008-10-22T17:51:00.000-07:00

It's busy as always in my life. Pulling teeth with students at Howard who still won't buy books. One student suggested that I scan in pages from June Jordan's collection of poetry, "Directing Desire," and e-mail the pages in .pdf to the students. Now, my dear parents out there, we have raised a generation of totally inept young people who will do nothing for themselves if you allow it. I pray that my son isn't at Howard University suggesting to his professors that they scan in pages from the textbooks that he should have bought!

Saw the first frost Monday morning; I'm always unprepared for the cold. But it's good to have a change of season, I am forced to slow down because the days are shorter, and I have absolutely no energy when the sun doesn't shine.

Reading Gene Andrew Jarrett's "Deans and Truants." Well, I'm yelling at the book, literally and figuratively, while I'm reading it. I'm reviewing it for a journal. The book is very problematic. When I finish writing the review and it is published, I'll add the URL to the blog if you are interested in reading the review.

All is well, it's rough being middle-age, single, and woman. I thought that this would be the prime of my life, but it's not working out that way. So I'll retreat to the only world that is completely comprehensible to me: books!

Forget about the Economy, Enjoy a Walk

2008-10-14T08:44:00.000-07:00

I awakened this morning determined not to listen to C-Span on the radio or tune in to NPR, but to grab my journal, book, and purse and head to the neighborhood Starbucks and write. I accomplished this goal. Hurray! I was almost tempted to grab the Washington Post as the glaring headline, "Feds Nationalize Banks," or something to that effect, arrested my eyes. But I didn't; I got my mocha and sat down to a peaceful morning. To hell with it all, my mother told me that I'd never retire; I believe her now.

Fall is upon us. I walked around the pond this morning to check out the leaves changing and the snapping turtles meandering along the waters. The sap in the pine trees is running and the mushrooms are large and have the oddest shapes. The air is just right, not too cool and not too warm, but perfect for a fall walk. I wanted to take a path along the brook, but as I walked with Luther Vandross crooning from my ipod, the path led me deeper and deeper into a densely forested area. Now I knew eventually the path would dump out into either a subdivision or a paved trail or asphalt walkway, but I wasn't feeling it, so I turned back. I suspect that the children in the neighborhood have worn this path through the forest, trying to find a quicker access to the clubhouse and shopping center. Perhaps with a companion one day, I will walk the path and see where it leads me.

Enjoy this day, and if it is as gorgeous where you are as it is in metro DC, forget the damn economy and go for a walk.

AIG and FASB 157

2008-10-08T17:31:00.000-07:00

Oh, they are engaging in double speak. Please listen to the committee hearing regarding AIG. It's the SEC's fault and FASB 157 for the failure of AIG according to the former CEO. My oh, my, are these guys robber barons or what?

Here's a link to FASB 157 for all of us non-accountants out there. Read and learn.
http://www.fasb.org/st/summary/stsum157.shtml

Too bad my former husband's not speaking to me otherwise I'd call him and get an SEC accountant's insight into this mess. Hum, maybe he's not speaking because for the first time in his career he's really working hard. Who knows? Hum, mark to market accounting rules. My assets have fixed values: that's because I'm so doggone poor. Well, the values do float I suppose according to the market, but one thing for sure, I'm not holding anything on the books that is overvalued for future markets thereby misrepresenting my net worth.

Oh, it's difficult to value securities when there's no specific market for the securities according to AIG's former CEO. Huh, am I that dense. If there's no market for the securities they have no value. Hello. Basic economics, but of course, I'm only an English professor not an accountant.

Guess what? We own AIG. We, the taxpayers, have bailed them out. I want to go to the resort in California for a vacation that some AIG executives just enjoyed. I'm working two jobs to keep up. Come on, lets take over AIG's corporate headquarters, check into a $400+/night room, spend $23,000 for the hotel spa (I'm in need of a manicure, pedicure, and a massage; I had to give myself my own pedicure last night. Bummer).

I'll just have to take my former husband to dinner so that he can help me figure this out. One thing for sure, the boys and girls at the SEC do not get hefty bonuses for turning a blind eye to financial abuse and misrepresentation. THEY ARE THE REGULATORS. Yes, I'm shouting. Oh, and by the way, their compensation package is LIMITED. AIG is in the hot seat, and the former CEO is squirming.

Educating African Students: Historicity and the Present

2008-10-04T15:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is what I've been writing today. Since I don't have the intellectual or physical capacity to generate a separate blog, here it is.

Educating African Students: Historicity and the Present

The 1954 Supreme Court decision in Brown vs. Topeka Board of Education[1] evidenced a nearly two-hundred year debate about the efficacy of educating the African in the British colonies, and subsequently, the United States. Based on theories of inherent Western European supremacy and African inferiority, 19^th century arguments concerning public education, no matter how progressive, continued to advocate and support an inferior education for the African relying on bogus scientific theories of biological evolution and cultural determinism that placed the Western European at the highest level in the hierarchy of being, with the African at the bottom.[2] Deemed intellectually inferior, the African, if educated at all, received an industrial arts or manual education that relegated the African’s participation in the capitalist economy solely as a laborer performing the most menial tasks, and as a consumer. This hegemonic attitude by educational policy makers, reformers, and progressives in the late 19^th and 20^th centuries have far-reaching implications that continue to shape attitudes and policies toward educating the African to the present day.

An industrial arts or manual education ensured African subjugation and is the type of education that was advocated and supported by the founder of Hampton Institute, Samuel C. Armstrong. Armstrong “firmly believed that blacks were fundamentally inferior to whites in almost every way, especially in their mental capacities.”[3] Likewise, Thomas Jesse Jones, a Welsh immigrant, reinforced Armstrong’s premise in his position as a chaplain and professor at Hampton Institute, and later as chair of the Committee on the Social Science of the National Education Association in 1912.[4] Jones’s fervent belief that Africans were ill-suited for a liberal arts education, incapable of academic rigor and critical thinking, and inherently intellectually inferior to Western Europeans would be just a ripple in the sea of discourses about education reform in the 19^th century, if his premises did not have such negative implications.

However, battling Jones’s ideology and arguing diligently against the belief of the innate inferiority of the African was W.E.B. Du Bois, who advocated for a liberal arts education as an option for all Africans who desired it. While Du Bois did not exclude the plausibility of Africans receiving an education in the industrial or manual arts, he rejected the premise that the African was not intelligent enough to pursue an education that required abstract reasoning and critical thinking.[5] The battle that Du Bois waged against 19^th and 20^th century education reformers, who dubbed themselves progressive but advocated for a substandard education for Africans, continues in present pseudo-scientific studies and is evidenced by the proliferation of publications about race, education, and intelligence such as Allan David Bloom’s (1987) Closing of the American Mind, Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.’s (1991) The Disuniting of America, Richard Herrenstein’s and Charles Murray’s (1994) The Bell Curve, and Frank Miele’s and A. R. Jensen’s (2002) Intelligence, Race, and Genetics.[6] This ongoing debate that is grounded in 19^th century biological evolution and cultural determinism continues to influence educational policy in this country, teacher training at universities, and teacher’s attitudes toward African students at all levels of education. The community college and university are not immune to imbuing both their curricula and dispositions towards educating African students with an overt or subliminal belief that the African is inherently intellectually inferior.

By African, I am referring to all peoples who are racially and ethnically identified as African regardless of how long has been their removal from the continent. Inclusive in this definition are not only African immigrants who comprise a substantive population at the college, but also U.S. African students. Both groups have been the object of continuous economic and political subjugation through educational policies that ensure their ongoing domination by Europeans. In the U.S., the African disproportionately receives an education that prevents or precludes him from entering into the capitalist economy in a competitive manner that will guarantee an above-subsistence existence and entrée into the middle and upper classes. The African is overwhelmingly tracked for Special Education or the General Education high school diploma, reinforcing 19^th century ideologies that the African’s sole participation in the capitalist economy will be as either laborer or servant, but neither as producer nor as part of the intelligentsia.

While some Africans do manage to circumvent the educational policies and practices, enter into universities and colleges, and obtain a liberal arts education that will prepare them to think critically, become part of the intelligentsia, and participate in the producer class, far too many Africans remain under-educated, poorly trained, and woefully unprepared for full participation in the capitalist economy. The prison industrial complex and other apparatus of the criminal justice system become the repository for those Africans who leave U.S. high schools and are unprepared to matriculate at college or university. Since this country is seeing the end of work in a post-industrial age when high-paying, blue collar jobs are almost non-existent, lack of preparedness almost ensures a downward, rather upward, economic mobility. In a high cost of living area like metro DC, graduating or departing high school without the educational background to matriculate in the college or university eliminates young people from entering into the work force and makes them particularly vulnerable to poverty, crime, and consistent underemployment. Even federal government jobs that relied on a merit system where one could graduate high school, secure federal employment, and work one’s way up the GS scale—based on sheer tenacity, commitment, and merit— are no longer an option for such young adults, since many entry-level positions and promotions are now based on having a four-year college degree. While I am advocating the African’s access to and success in a liberal arts education, I am still very cognizant of the Eurocentric and white supremacist tenets inherent in such an education that fail to acknowledge the contributions of Africans to the intellectual and cultural capital of the world.

In a true democracy, all citizens must have equal access to a high standard and culturally relevant educational system regardless of race or class. Failure to provide access to an education that ensures an individual’s participation in the capitalist economy as something other than a laborer or consumer is tantamount to political, economic, and physical genocide. Ignoring the need to establish educational policies and curricula reform that address and deconstruct the inherent belief of African intellectual inferiority, simply reinforces a policy of subordinating the African that dates back to the birth of public education in this country. It is imperative that frank and open conversations ensue that admit the hegemonic attitude toward educating the African before change can come about.

[1] The sole premise behind this Supreme Court decision, which was championed by proponents of integration, was that resources were woefully lacking in segregated schools. The integrationists aim was to desegregate the public schools thus enabling African children access to better resources; hence a better education. However, what was not addressed was the fundamental hegemonic attitude toward educating African children in the United States. So while African children were integrated into predominately European schools, they encountered physical, psychological, and educational violence as they were attacked and demeaned, and educated without any cultural relevancy to their experiences in the United States or the world. Further, integration resulted in a disproportionate number of Africans being tracked for special education, general education, and vocational diplomas. Quite alarming though are the numbers of Africans deemed to be learning or emotionally disabled, with far too many African boys labeled with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Carruthers contends that “[i]ntergration, which was advanced as the answer to the inferior education given African-Americans under the system of segregation, has managed to ensure an inferior education for African Americans.” See Carruthers, J. H. (1999), Intellectual Warfare, Chicago: Third World Press, 128-129.

[2] See Carruthers (1999), 67.

[3] Johnson, D. (2000). “W.E.B. Du Bois, Thomas Jesse Jones and the struggle for social education, 1900-1930.” Journal of Negro History, 85,79.

[4] Ibid, 88.

[5] Ibid, 83.

[6] Carruthers, 129, 133-139 and Asante, M. K. (1991, Spring). “The afrocentric idea in education.” The Journal of Negro Education, 60.2, 173.

Free at Last

2008-10-03T12:05:00.001-07:00

Sorry for not posting a lot lately. I know, it has been continuous excuses this fall. I took on a rather visible project at work: the Book Bridge Project. It involves the college and community coming together to discuss a book for the academic year. While directing the project is not difficult, negotiating the administrative morass can be very frustrating. I'm not one known for diplomacy, particularly when inaneness seems to impede my moving forward. But I am learning.

The maiden voyage of the Book Bridge Project, a panel discussion and question and answer, went well thanks to some dear and committed colleagues: Ahati N. N. Toure, Ph.D., E. Ethelbert Miller, and Nelson Kofie, Ph.D. I owe them tremendously. My students responded to all of the presenters very enthusiastically, and I am happy for this because the forum was at 10:00 a.m. Normally the students are still dozing at this hour or often are missing in action.

I have been messing around with podcasting primarily for my online students. Some of them are auditory learners; well most of them are. The majority of them are not readers. Therefore, it is become increasingly imperative that I include audio in my course design if I want certain students to be successful.

Nothing else is going on. The weather is fantastic here. My son loves Howard, University; he's studying hard and even reading an unassigned text: Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father. Saw the Jacob Lawrence exhibit thanks to Jim Miller who prodded me to go along with him and his students to the Phillips Gallery to see the exhibit. All 60 panels of the "Migration Series" were exhibited, and I am happy that I accompanied Jim to the exhibit because I had never viewed all 60 panels hung at once.

It's the Duke Ellington Jazz festival this weekend in metro DC. I might catch one or two shows if I can get from under this pile of work.

The House of Representatives signed the bailout bill. How will the government absorb this bad paper without the consumer taking a hit? And to whom will this bad paper be sold back to when it is all said and done? Will it be sold below par? I suppose I should go and read the bill and stop speculating. The text of the H.R. bill is posted on C-Span if anyone is interested. Go to http://www.cspan.org/

J.P. Morgan acquired the assets of Washington Mutual, you know the bank that fell in California. Something seems so damn fishy to me. I can recall from history that the big boys like Morgan once threatened to collapse our economy by pulling their hard cash out of circulation. Now I know that the U.S. Mint can just print more money, but what will its value be on the currency market? Further, in the days of deregulation, do the Morgans and Chases still have control over our economy? Hum, just a thought.

Fall for the Book Festival, George Mason University

2008-09-23T14:28:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful fall day, cool enough to walk without overheating, but warm enough so that you don't need a jacket.

Last night I helped to introduce Chinua Achebe along with the mayor of Fairfax, Virginia at the Fall for the Book Festival. I have to thank my friend of 16 years, Pier Penic, for this honor. Achebe read from a collection of his poetry and from Things Fall Apart. I realized when Achebe was reading one of his poems in Ibo that the poem is recited in the PBS series, "Africans in America, Part I, The Terrible Transformation," for last Wednesday I was viewing the film with my students, and two of my Nigerian students got real excited. When I asked them what was the commotion about, they told me that they were familiar with the poem, and one of the students started translating it for me. But neither student told me that it was a poem by Achebe. So I am indebted to my students for always broadening my understanding of the work that I do. I learn so much from them.

Check out the Fall for the Book Festival at George Mason University. Here is the URL so that you can gleam information: http://www.fallforthebook.org/. My good friend and mentor, James Miller, will be speaking about Richard Wright on Wednesday, September 24, 2008, at 11:00 a.m. He is the Director of American Studies at the George Washington University and president of the Richard Wright Society.

Nothing to report. Everything is eerily calm with my son in college. I'm busy, and it feels good. My students are performing better, which means that I have become a better teacher. The panel discussion on Barack Obama is solid and ready to go at 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday, September 30, 2008, at the Rennie Forum in the Student Center Building at Prince George's Community College. If you are available, please join us for what I think will be a wonderful discussion. There are some absolutely brilliant scholars and writers on the panel.

I'm rereading Richard Wright's Black Power because I am joining James Miller in a discussion on Wright at Howard University on Thursday, September 25, 2008, at 4:00 p.m. I know that Miller knows his stuff, so the good student that I am, I'm going to be prepared.

The Congressional Black Caucus starts tomorrow. If you are in DC, give me a call.

Nothing to post except that years ago my astute mother and aunt encouraged me to buy gold. I didn't. Now I regret not listening to them. One day, I will pay attention to my elders.

Collapse of the Financial Market

2008-09-19T12:04:00.000-07:00

Flat on my back with vertigo. This happens when I am tired and I spend too much time with dusty books in the stacks of libraries. I suppose this is an indication that I need to socialize more and stay out of the libraries.

Heard A'lelia Bundles, the great great granddaughter of Madame C. J. Walker, give a talk about A'lelia Walker at the Alexandria Black Resource Center on Wednesday evening. She debunked two myths: Madame C.J. Walker invented the straightening comb and A'lelia Walker spent all of the money. Look for Ms. Bundles' book about A'lelia Walker sometime next year.

Chinua Achebe will be at the Fall for the Book Festival at the Center for the Arts on the campus of George Mason University on Monday, September 22, 2008, at 7:30 p.m. I am helping to introduce Mr. Achebe, so please join us.

Still up in the air with the publisher about my book; it seems that one of the four readers' reports is recommending a massive rewrite after the reader admits that there is nothing published in African American literary studies and class. Oh well, I think that some of my colleagues treat their peers like graduate students.

The county where I work is threatening to furlough approximately 500 people, including, but not limited to police officers and fire men. Since I work for the county system, I better start watching my pennies.

The financial markets are in a mess. If you don't know this then you have really buried your head deep in the sand. But hey, why don't we march on Washington and demand that the Bush administration refinance our debt at below market rates?I mean, come on, we are productive members of the society; we get up and go to work everyday, rear our children, stay out of jail; some of us even pray on Sunday. I'd like a cool $58 billion in my bank account to ride through this recession.

I once worked in the bond market so I'm not as naieve as the above-paragraph implies. I just wonder how it is that the greed in this country is so pervasive that the greedy will collapse the whole system rather than just steal a little.

This is one reason why I left the bond industry. I was working downtown Atlanta on the legal team that was helping to structure a general obligation deal on that "black" day in October 1987 when the financial markets hit bottom. I kept waiting for folks to jump out of the windows of the Georgia Pacific Building; but guess what, there weren't any windows that would open, so we just worked all night to get the deal to market before the interest rates increased.

So we are stuck with a big hole in our economy after the junta has been in office for eight years. The Bush cartel will walk out with their pockets lined, and we will be left holding the empty bags that all of our hopes and dreams won't ever fill up.

My Plate is So Full

2008-09-09T16:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've been waiting for this moment: son sequestered off on a university campus and I have time to do what I've always wanted to do: read and write all day; not prepare a meal but eat a bowl of grapes in the bed; hang out in the District until I drop and not worry about what time I get home; stay at work and actually get some work done without placing a thousand telephone calls or text messages to check on my son.

So, I'm doing all of this and more. My plate is too full, I have signed on for far too many community projects, agreed to direct too many projects at work; contracted to write too many book reviews and biographical entries; and, pulled down from the shelf too many manuscripts-in-progress with intentions on completing them. I mailed off one manuscript on Monday. And I'm revising a book proposal to mail by the end of the week.

Sometimes I think that I actually married subconsciously to slow myself down. My friends used to complain that "we can never get in touch with you" during the days when landlines and answering machines were the main mode of communication, and I would go for weeks too busy to answer the phone; only coming home to drop in the bed.

But I like it this way. I don't know how to operate unless my plate is full. So if you have received an invitation to the panel discussion on Barack Obama's "Dreams from My Father" that I am organizing for the Book Bridge Project at Prince George's Community College, at 10:00 a.m., on September 30, 2008, please drop by. And if I missed your name in the distribution list, please let this serve as a special invitation to come out.

I'll be helping to introduce Chinua Achebe for the "Fall for the Book Festival" at George Mason University at 7:30 p.m., on Monday, September 22, 2008. I am so excited, and I want to give as lyrical an introduction as my friend and colleague Ethelbert Miller does.

I've been holding down the Library of Congress reading room on Saturdays trying to track down short stories by Marc Crawford, a personal friend of James Baldwin. I actually found one in print in Negro Digest. The story is about a writer who is unable to sell his manuscript. Sounds like the plight of some of us. If any one has contact information for Crawford's family, please forward it to me at michelelsimms@yahoo.com.

We survived the torrential downpour this past weekend. Leaves were strewn everywhere. Fall is rushing in rather quickly this year. I will miss the hot summer days.

Negligent, But Back in the Groove

2008-09-02T17:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know. I've been negligent in posting this blog. Believe it or not, I still journal everyday, I just don't always post my blog. I suppose it's because I find it easier some days to sit and sip my coffee while writing. Lugging my laptop, firing it up, and getting on the internet seems a lot of trouble to me lately. But I'm back at work and in my office by 6:30 a.m. So I will return to my routine of posting my blog as soon as I get in my office.

What's going on? Obama is the democratic candidate for president. A dear friend of mine bet me that this would never happen. I should have made the brother put his Jaguar on the line. McCain has made a really stupid move with his VP choice. Whose baby is it anyway: hers or her daughter's? The Clintons, the Clintons, what can I say?

My niece has had a daughter: this makes me a great aunt tenfold, I think. I've lost count of the new kids in the family. Everyone is doing fine. My son is at Howard. At 5:00 a.m. on Monday, I received a photo of and a message about a cockroach in his room, on my cellphone. I know, $23,000 + for cockroaches and mice. Well, he hasn't seen the mice yet; but when I asked the R.A. "what does my son need to be comfortable in Drew hall," he told me, "mice bait." Oh, well, what can I say? I gave my son the spiel about how you don't kill mice because of the bacteria they emit, lawdy, lawdy, dah; and how you need to be adamant about calling the Dean of Residence Life and demanding that they exterminate. I'm just getting the kid primed for how to deal with property owners if he winds up being a renter for a short time after graduation.

But yes, I'm wholly taken aback by roaches and mice in Howard's dorms. My son is a better person than I am, I would be ballistics about right now and staging a sit in on the quad. When I was leaving campus on Wednesday, a student from Africa pointed out that he had been bit by bed bugs in Carver Hall. Okay, enough, I'll stop here.

Moved, Nearly Settled, Empty Nest

2008-08-11T19:33:00.000-07:00

I suppose that I'm finally back. I've moved into a smaller space. Boxes of books make it impossible to walk around my study on the second floor. I finally gave my son a door key although he will be gone and living on campus this Friday. I will miss him, I even made and froze chocolate chip cookie dough, so when I really miss him I can bake a batch of cookies, wrap them, walk to the post office, and drop them in the mail.

All is well with me. If you are a technician, check out the alumni roundup at www.casstechhigh.ning.com. Hopefully I'll be posting more now that my summer break is coming to an end.

Hello, I'm Back from Paris

2008-07-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back from Paris, and I have been suffering from post-Paris blues. The Richard Wright Centenary Conference was wonderful, and having Wright's daughter, Julia, present was very other worldly to me. She is outspoken, assertive, and engaging. She truly is her father's daughter. Julia Wright raised a number of concerns that everyone should be aware of, particularly the surveillance of U.S. writers and intellectuals by the U.S. and foreign governments while abroad after the Second World War, a surveillance that remains under documented and analyzed.

It was good seeing Houston Baker and his wife, Charlotte Pierce-Baker, John Edgar Wideman, and Michel Fabre's wife, Genevieve. Genevieve Fabre invited scholars to utilize Fabre's archives at her home in Paris. I made some good acquaintances, some of whom are turning into friendships already. I traversed Paris, stood at the Seine, had lunch on the Seine, viewed exhibits at the Louvre, ate and drank wine at the cafes, chatted with colleagues whom I hadn't seen in years, and basked in the aura of Paris: one of my favorites cities in the world.

So I return to the suburbs of metro DC, and I am suddenly very bored and impatient with living in this area. As much as I love it, it is a terribly conservative environment. I've always known this, but the conservatism of this area reveals itself in stark relief whenever I travel to any of the other First Cities of the World.

I will buckle down and shift my attention elsewhere like getting my son off to college in a few weeks, scaling down my living space, and maintaining my blog. Thanks for your patience during my absence.

Daddy's Girl

2008-06-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

My father departed today, and I now fully realize why I am a divorced, middle aged woman. I am a daddy's girl, and I make no bones about it. So while I yearn for companionship, struggle to date, and modify my expectations of men, I know that I am the way I am because I am the eldest daughter of three girls, and I am the apple of his eye.

Now I know that my two sisters are probably puffing out their cheeks right now. But hey, hold on a second and let me explain. I am the second child, but the first daughter. So while my mother maintained the patriarchal covenant of producing the male heir as the first born and securing the Simms bloodline, she produced me second. I can only imagine how my father marveled at me, that baby girl laying in the layette. My father has a photograph of me in the layette with my 23 month old brother peeping in; I am small, innocent, and trying to sleep. Although my next sister was born 17 months after my birth, and with red hair just like my father's was when he was a child, and another sister was born 17 months after my sister with red hair, I was the first daughter.

This past weekend with my father, whenever he introduced me to someone, he said, "this is my number one daughter, Michele." And I found myself quipping, "yes, and #2 and #3 need to get over it." We would chuckle together because on some level we have been saying this most of my life.

So while there are advantages to being "Daughter #1," the disadvantage is that a dad's dreams, hopes, and aspirations are equally embodied in that daughter as they are in a son. Thus, the pressure to achieve, to measure up, to marry with my heart, but also to a man who could provide for me the way my father did, seemed overwhelming at times. I recall as a younger woman deciding it will never happen, and had vowed to spend my life alone and childless until my father visited me while on travel for business, and later expressed concern to my mother that I was "alone."

In many ways, I felt that I was not only Daughter #1, but son too, as my father kept me by his side and honed my entrepreneurial and business skills. It wasn't uncommon for me to be granted the job of posting accounts for my father for the various businesses that he ran when I was a child and teenager. And whenever I sought advice involving anything in the business world, I consulted my father first. But both of my sisters were equally shaped in this manner, it's just that by virtue of birth order, I was the first daughter my father took under his wing.

Well, this "Daughter #1" just spent three glorious days with her father. I am rejuvenated, calm, and very happy. My father always reminds me of my value as a human being and how a man should treat a woman. I am my father's daughter. I am Daughter #1. I am a Daddy's Girl, and I love being so.

Father's Day

2008-06-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

My week has been jammed packed with my son's prom, graduation, arrival of immediate and extended family, grocery shopping, house cleaning, and all the other activities that go along with preparing for my son's rite of passage.

After speaking with my father yesterday to confirm his arrival time, I remembered that Sunday is Father's Day. While I don't necessarily celebrate every Hallmark holiday, I did note that my father had said that he was departing on Saturday. He knows me well enough to hear the unspoken (why can't the other men get it), and he immediately called back and told me that he had changed his itinerary to remain until Sunday, but that he had a meeting on Monday that he had to prepare for (uh, my father is retired, but that's a different story), so he will have to leave Sunday morning. I know that that bit of information was code for "don't make reservations for brunch, Michele."

I immediately thought about how my father has never been one for pomp and ceremony, despite the fact that he had a career with the Department of the Army, which is replete with pomp and ceremony. As an example, when he retired, he notified none of us; or maybe he said simply "I'm retiring." I later discovered through my mother handing me a stack of photographs that there was a retirement celebration that all of his children should have attended. He was later presented with the American flag that was flown on the U.S. Capitol building on the day he retired as well as four stars to symbolize the equivalent military rank that he would have achieved had he not become civilian personnel. I was in awe. But my father's reticence and unassuming posture amaze me, and it is what he has bred in not only me, but which I have also bred in my son.

So while my father is arriving to celebrate the hard work that my son has done by timely graduating from high school, getting accepted into the university that is his first choice, and causing me no problems (oh yeah, single black women can raise black male children and keep them out of trouble , but with the support of family and community), I am going to pause and reflect on my father's unrelenting commitment to being the best father and grandfather that he can possibly be to me, my siblings, nieces, and nephews. Of course, he will not allow me to do anything special for him, but he will hang around long enough for me to say thank you. For thank you is about all that he will permit any of us to give to him.

My father is, in an old fashion sense, a man of a different era. It is only in my father's presence that I feel completely secure, the way that I imagine women in past epochs felt when they knew that the man would take care of everything. In our post-feminist moment when most women do not know how to allow a man to be a gentleman, I love having my father around as he opens car doors, picks up the dinner tab, copiously checks out my house and notes any repairs that need to be made (and makes them without as much as saying a word), drives me around, enjoys my food, brushes the lint from my skirt, and reminds me that I am daughter and woman.

I will love having my father around for the next couple of days. Everyday is Father's Day when my dad is with me.

Graduation, Paris, and the Price of Gas

2008-06-11T13:10:00.000-07:00

My son graduates on Friday from high school. Yippie, now I can reinvent myself. Watch me transform from super mom to super woman; or maybe I'll just chill and do nothing. Paris is on the horizon; I am looking forward to three days of intense discussion about Richard Wright. The price of gas, the price of gas. And to think that I gave my bicycle away to the Salvation Army; I just might have to co-op my son's bike and get on it for short errands around the neighborhood.

Listened to some authorities on oil prices on public television last night. According to these authorities, high oil prices are about high demand (the Chinese and Indians, oh no, not the Americans), limited production, and antiquated technologies in the refineries. My friends tell me at least we aren't paying the prices that some Europeans are paying. This, of course, is no consolation to me and millions of other Americans who remain in this country specifically because we don't want to pay the high cost of goods, services, and housing that Europeans pay. While I'm not comparing the cost of living between Europe and the United States, as a friend of mine so aptly reminds me: the U.S. is the best thing going on. "For now," I always add to his quip before his lips seal.

But from a more cynical perspective, my mother warned me as a child of the high cost of living that would eliminate the middle class in this country. She had a way of studying the data and trends, and making the prediction. Just like she told me as a child that she better not ever catch me in the World Trade Center towers; her words were, "they are going to take them out" as I sat on my cousin's balcony in Brooklyn watching the towers sway in the overcast day and yearning to take the elevator to the top. So while my cousin begged my mother to let us catch the train and go to the top of the towers, she refused. And I honored my mother's warning and never set foot on the grounds of the World Trade Center.

Perhaps this empire is truly near its demise. Its hegemony is beginning to wane, and some economist are worried about what it means to further enrich those rogue states that produce oil and how this economic enrichment will jeopardize our democracy. Well, we can start walking, design more pedestrian and bicycle-friendly cities and neighborhoods, improve public transportation with intercity trains, manufacture more hybrids, and I can list a host of other accommodations that we could make to lower our dependency on oil. It is about a lifestyle change. Are we willing to make one? Or, are we so addicted to oil that we will continue to demand more than our fair share, and if we do not get it, we will obliterate an entire state to satisfy our craving?

Okay, enough for the politics; just food for thought as I prepare for a weekend of walking, walking, and using more public transportation.

Michelle Obama, First Lady

2008-06-10T06:20:00.000-07:00

I've been refraining from blogging about Prince Von Anhalt's racist comment about Michelle Obama, that she looks like a washerwoman. But this morning as I reflect on the strides that Black women have taken to deconstruct and challenge the pervasive racist and stereotypical images of themselves as not only washerwomen, but whores, bitches (sorry dad), venus hottentots, welfare queens (thanks to Clarence Thomas), and many other pejorative appellations that are too numerous to enumerate in this blog, I cannot remain silent.

Prince Von Anhalt's racist comment is not just about Michelle Obama, but it is about Black women whose physiognomies do not replicate the European and Euroamerican standard of beauty. Those of us who are not light, bright, and almost white need to be in the streets protesting, because Von Anhalt, an unapologetic racist, is only echoing what no citizen of this country will dare say aloud to the media; although I have had one African American girlfriend wish that Michelle Obama looked more like Suzanne Malveaux. My girlfriend's pronouncement has caused me to reassess our friendship, for I look more like Michelle Obama than Suzanne Malveaux, so in my warped analytical mind I'm thinking so how does my girlfriend really feel about me.

For many persons, the idea of a First Lady who is African American is enough to cause them to give up their U.S. citizenship. For others, the plausibility of a First Lady who is African American and brown skin is a deep-seated betrayal. How can this possibly happen? Why didn't that biracial man marry a light-skinned African American woman or a white woman? Wouldn't this make the country's acceptance of a Black president easier if his wife just looked more white?

Well, you know me, I want Barack to win, Michelle gracefully to assume the role of First Lady, and hey, I'll drop by the White House and lock her hair; then folks can really do backwards flips. But at least when she visits the Middle East she won't have to keep raising her hand to her head to press down her hair that won't lie down missionary style, like our Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, who was so preoccupied with her hair during a state visit to the Middle East that I felt sorry for the sister and yelled at the television, "girl you know you're supposed to braid that stuff up when it's hot outside; what's wrong with you?"

With all joking aside, it's not just about hair and skin color, it is about Michelle Obama representing a sort of unadulterated blackness, for it is about her strength, her presence, her support of her husband, her love for her husband and daughters, her working-class background, and the inability to decenter her. I see these characteristics in Michelle Obama that I have witnessed in so many "washerwomen" who held families together by taking in laundry when their husbands could not find work, were run off or killed by white terrorists, or when their husbands' wages were not enough to provide for their families.

So if Michelle Obama represents the washerwoman in Von Anhalt's mind, then she embraces a legacy of tenacity. While I am not misjudging or minimizing the economic assault on black women's labor that the washerwoman signifies, I am celebrating the symbolism of the washerwoman as an icon of black strength. So Von Anhalt, you may see the washerwoman as the silent black woman who does your laundry, but in the historiography of black communities, the washerwoman is a force to be reckoned with, and you better watch out when she starts doing the laundry.

Technology and Parenting

2008-06-04T10:10:00.000-07:00

In some ways, the advancements in technology have made parenting a lot easier. For instance, I am old enough to recall my mother using a wash machine with a wringer attached. Imagine the hours she spent sending our clothes through the wringer. I was never old enough to use the wringer before she and my father got rid of it; however, I recall as a young child at least standing beside my mother and conversing with her while she did the laundry. And even in the days before dryers, I would join my mother in the backyard to hang the laundry,and even hand her the clothespins. This was another opportunity for us to converse, me to ask questions, and for her to impart her wisdom.

But with the advancement in technology, what I am noticing is less interaction between children and their parents. I am guilty of allowing my son to walk around the house with an ipod stuck in his ears; however, in his formative years we used to practice "no television, no playstation, and no computer" for a few weeks each year. This worked because he did find ways to interact with me and to occupy himself.

Recently I noticed that more and more parents are simultaneously walking their toddlers in strollers and conversing on their cell phones. While I am not passing judgment, I reflect on the pleasure I got when I was out the house and walking my son in his stroller. These moments were magical as we found the duck pond and fed stale bread to the ducks and geese, looked for turtles on the sidewalks, and marveled at the flora. These walks allowed me to detach from the responsibilities and "shit work" always awaiting me in the house, and forced me to focus on my son, his acquirement of knowledge, and expanding vocabulary.

Yesterday when I noticed that every parent I passed strolling with their toddler was on a cell phone, I started to yell, "They will be 18 soon and won't want to talk to you. Get off your cell phone." But I refrained because my parents raised me to have better manners than that. Nonetheless, the trend of always being on a cell phone has permeated those moments that should be precious and sacrosanct. But who am I to judge.

Idyllic Days

2008-06-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

I have very little to blog about; my life is unusually quiet. I'm trying to stir things up a little, but to no avail. My former students finally understand that I will not spend my summer responding to their e-mail messages, my son is preparing for graduation and prom (he's taking a sprinter to the prom, right on for him choosing an athlete), I'm looking for a smaller habitat (I'm tired of cleaning this house and I have too much space in which to accumulate more stuff), and I'll be in Paris in two weeks.

My day now consists of reading, writing, walking twice per day, and weeding out my library. Yes, for the second time in my life I am selectively choosing books to give away. I am a bit disheartened, but I also know that I do not need copies of Brecht and Hesse's works in German, and my collection of Spanish short stories from high school I'll probably never read again. However, I am keeping all of my books in French because I'm applying for a Fulbright to Senegal. I've been having a great time studying French again.

My son is in his own world. Wheeled up to my house this weekend in his father's car and it dawned on me that he is grown (he's been telling me this for a year or two, but I've been ignoring him).

Nothing has changed in the political arena. I want Clinton to drop out the race, Obama to win, and a dear and wonderful friend of mine to test the national political scene because he has outgrown the environment he's in (hint, hint if you are reading this blog).

The tiger lilies in my front yard are in bloom, the azaleas are spent, and I need to plant some annuals. But I'm too lazy to even mow the lawn these days. I have a wonderful neighbor who must take pity on me because he mows my lawn. We laugh about the fact that between the two of us we have four boys who are too busy to mow the lawn. But I must confess, I never mowed my father's lawn either. He didn't want me to mess it up.

Everything is quiet, and hopefully I'll have something more interesting to post tomorrow.

Richard Wright, Paris, and Memories

2008-05-25T22:32:00.001-07:00

I am going to the Richard Wright conference in Paris next month. Whenever I'm preparing a paper for a conference, I tend to re-read as much of the writer's work as I can. I decided to re-read biographies on Wright by Walker and Fabre. I'm always intrigued by writer's lives, wishing that I had had the nerve to take the risks that some of them took in order to live their unique vision of their life. For awhile, I was headed on that path. Then I capitulated for security: got married, settled down, and had a child.

But I was combing my memory trying to remember how Richard Wright entered my life. Trust me, it was not from my institutionalized education. I am certain that my mother gave me a copy of "Black Boy" to read when I was thirteen years old or so, because I have given each one of my nephews as well as my son a copy of "Black Boy" to read when they turned thirteen, and I know that this tradition did not originate with me.

This past Friday, my son sent me a text message: "Mom, do we have a copy of 'Black Boy' in the house?" Although the books whose authors' last names begin with W are not shelved (I've run out of shelf space), I was certain that all of my books by and about Richard Wright were accessible. When I combed through a stack of books, I realized that I own six copies of "Black Boy," including two hardback copies from my childhood. I sent my son a text message, and he responded by asking me to bring the book to school at 12:30 p.m. Oh, it must be nice to have a mom who is readily available to drop off a book at school in the middle of the day.

I was puzzled as to why he was asking for Wright's autobiography, for I was certain that he had read it before. When my son arrived home I queried him, and yes, he had read "Black Boy" before, which is why he asked me to bring it to school. Evidently he needs a book to read for English class: the last two weeks of school. In my opinion, his English teacher should have taught "Black Boy" in 12th grade English as a prerequisite for graduating. But hey, I don't select the books for Fairfax County Schools, and I have met some of the folks who do. Don't ask me about them. It was quite a revelation when I served on the committee with these folks and wrote reviews for "School Library Journal." I quickly gained insight into why the public and school libraries in Fairfax County are replete with mysteries and romance novels. Oh, and yes, I was the only African American on the committee. Uh, hum.

Unlike my relationship with my mother wherein we discussed nearly every book I read, my son will not discuss literature with me. My son was an avid reader when I homeschooled him. He had no choice. I designed his lessons so that he read in all discipines, and wrote across the curriculum. No worksheets in my house; however,when he entered school in the 7th grade in Ann Arbor, he came home with a stack of worksheets, and he quickly realized that he could not finish all of the worksheets if he took time to read the material in his textbooks. He stopped reading. When he entered the 7th grade, he was tested and his reading level was at the college level. Each year that he was in school, his reading comprehension level dropped, so that by the time he was in the 10th grade, he was reading only at a 10th grade level. Work sheets and busy work decreased his enthusiasm for reading literature and likewise lowered his comprehension level. My mother always warned me that public schools can ruin a bright child, which is why I homeschooled my son in the first place. Oh, well, I am hoping that he will one day revisit his love for reading and understand why I made the educational choices for him that I did.

In the meantime, I miss that my mother is not alive to talk literature with me. This is one of the greatest losses for me in her death: the ability to call her and talk about any book because more likely than not she had read it. My mother and I talked about Wright, and many other writers, at length. And I so miss her stories and insight. My mother grew up in the same neighborhood as Paule Marshall and June Jordan. In fact, once my mother and I attended one of Paule Marshall's readings when Marshall's novel "Daughter" was published. Afterwards my mother and Marshall talked at length about people whom they knew from their neighborhood. Marshall is older than my mother, however, she remembered some of my mother's older siblings.

So I forge ahead without her insight and conversation, but with memories of our debates, and a house full of books to prove that I am truly her daughter.

Commuting on Public Transporation

2008-05-21T18:18:00.000-07:00

I always forget how much I love to ride public transportation and walk the city streets until I consciously choose to park my car and get on the bus and train. Since Monday rather than drive into Washington, DC to attend a professional development workshop, I drove to the metro station and hopped on the train.

As a native Michigander (or Michiganian if you regard the other demonym as pejorative), riding public transportation after you got your driver's license, in some circles, was downright shameful, particularly for boys. However, I never felt the need to own a vehicle. When I think about it, I have only purchased two vehicles in my entire life. I suppose that my native Detroit status needs to be revoked for not supporting the automobile industry all these years.

I fell in love with riding trains first as a child when my mother would take my siblings and me to New York City to visit her family. There was something very magical about the swaying and clanging of the train moving up the track: a behemoth of steel, an over-sized cradle to me when I was child.

As a teenager, I was permitted to ride the New York subway as long as I stayed with my cousins, Timothy and Robin, whose city sophistication was much more than mine, both cousins having grown up and spent substantive time in Brooklyn, even after they relocated to upstate New York. My cousins had been riding the subway most of their lives. I was from a town where you learned to pull the car in the driveway while sitting in your father's lap as soon as your legs could reach the gas pedal or your arms the steering wheel, whichever came first.

My adventure with public transportation and strolling up Georgia Avenue in the early morning reminded me of the absolute urbanity I love when I am catching trains and walking, as well as how it makes environmental and sense for me to ride public transportation rather than get in my car. The trains in metro DC are clean, timely, and efficient. The only drawback to riding metro is that a premium is charged on fares during commuting hours, so that to commute during the rush hour from Northern Virginia and into the District can cost as much as $3.80 one way. I know that the folks in Long Island who commute into Manhattan are laughing at me. Hey, sorry, I'm still in shock. Why should it cost me nearly $4.00 to travel eight miles to the District line, and $4.50 to park my car? Yes, Ethelbert, we need free public transportation.

But I am not complaining. For when I am riding mass transit--instead of being sequestered in the private space of my car listening to music, whizzing by people and places, and ignoring on some level that my body is moving through space--I am forced to pay attention to my environment, to be conscious of how I am traversing the landscape, and to interact with people.

Two little boys wearing similar red and yellow jackets scream; exchange coded recriminations with gapped-tooth smiles; and scoot along the bench at the bus stop on the corner of Georgia and Florida, Ave. N.W. Their energy catches my attention; I can't help but chuckle because most of the adults in the vicinity are dragging their behinds on the pavement. It's 7:00 a.m. How can these boys be so wide awake? Presumably the woman who smiles back at me is their mother; she shakes her head in wonderment, too. We don't have to exchange words. It is a mother thing.

I pass the Howard hospital, I see the personnel in blue scrubs headed toward the entrance. An eerie silence permeates the cold, morning air. Calmness slices me to the quick. Later that afternoon when I walk past the hospital en route to the metro station, the silence and calm have been subjugated by throngs of people, blaring ambulances, and a general sense of controlled chaos.

So content am I with the swaying of train while riding home this afternoon, I fall asleep. I am listening to Thelonius Monk on my ipod. I barely hear a woman say, "Miss, Miss. I'm sorry to bother you, but we are at the end of the line." I rais my head, smile, thank her, and disembark the train. When I finally arrive home, rather than being worn out from navigating the gauntlet inherent in traveling on the highways in metro DC, I am refreshed and ready to commit myself to doing something productive. Later that evening while I am driving my son to the barbershop, he laughs at me for having fallen asleep on the train.

Archives, Georgia Douglas Johnson, Capitol Hill

2008-05-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

I now know that I have adult ADHD. If you ask me to sit down and focus on a subject for longer than 15 minutes, I will scream. But if you ask me to multi-task five projects and have everything done by the end of the day, I will do that and do it well. I know this because this is the second summer that I have attended training seminars, and I simply can no longer learn in a classroom setting. I went online to verify what my learning style is, and after taking three assessments I confirmed what I have recently discovered about myself: I am a visual learner. Give me the material and leave me alone, because after five minutes of hearing your voice drone on and on, I have tuned out. When I teach, I always stop talking after a few minutes and do an exercise to get the students to interact, give them time to reflect, and allow them an opportunity to ask questions.

But, I didn't use to predominately be a visual learner. I think that I was equally balanced between the three dominate learning styles: visual, auditory, and kinesthetic and tactile. However, I suspect that the birth of my son, more than 18 years ago, changed me from the person who could sit for hours listening to a lecture, or needed absolute silence to read and write, to a mom who could read and write with "Thomas the Tank Engine" on the television, the telephone ringing, the dishwasher whirring, and the handyman banging at the door. So I tell my students, if I move from topic to topic every five minutes, blame it on the birth of my son. No, I'm really not that bad, I do stay on topic when I lecture and teach.

After the training session this morning, I spent the afternoon at the Moorland Spingarn Research Center at Howard University going through the Georgia Douglas Johnson collection. Johnson ran a salon affectionately referred to as "The Half-Way House," on 14th and S St., N.W., Washington, DC, during the 20s, 30s, and 40s, and perhaps even longer. Johnson became a mentor and friend to some of the writers who would later become primary voices in the Harlem Renaissance: Jean Toomer, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Bruce Nugent. In addition to letters in the collection from Toomer, Hurston, Nugent, and Stanley Braithwaite, there is a sexually suggestive letter from W. E. B. Du Bois that I had heard about from my mentor, Claudia Tate, and finally had an opportunity to view with my own eyes (although some researcher swiped the original, and now a photocopy is in the file). I always contend that if I had been Du Bois's contemporary, he would have been my man. Some of my students have harangued me for admitting this: they tell me that "Du Bois was an elitist, he was not black enough." However, none of them ever say to me: "he was really smart." And I have to confess, I have a weakness for really smart men. Hey, what can I say, my dad is really smart.

Still searching for property in Capitol Hill, and I may have to face the hard cold fact that I may not be able to live there. Back in 1996, I recall yearning to live in Capitol Hill. I was married then, and it seemed like an unrealistic move: small child, gentrifying neighborhood, higher than average crime rate, bad parking, blah, blah, blah... or so I was convinced by my child's father. Now that I am single and just yearning to be within a stone's throw of the Library of Congress, I am priced out from purchasing anything large enough to hold my books.

Now I have thought about getting rid of my books and finding a small place that I can afford. Hey, but the problem is that too many books in African American literature that I need for my research and teaching are "missing" or "lost" at the Library of Congress. Therefore, my personal library is becoming increasingly more valuable to me. It is really a problem for scholars, writers, and students when the Library of Congress does not have the books you need. Oh, well, it's time to start compiling my list and send out the formal letter. If any of you are also finding that books are "missing" or "lost" at the Library of Congress, send the bibliographic information to me at lisa0158@yahoo.com. I will add your books to my list and send it to someone who is in a position to investigate why so many doggone books are missing.

Peace to all. I hope that you are finally experiencing some warm weather. It's raining far too much in metro DC. I found myself also looking for real estate in Florida this past weekend because I was so tired of the rain and clouds.

Summer Break

2008-05-16T10:02:00.001-07:00

Oh, summer is coming, and my academic year has yielded to a screeching halt. I am done grading papers, fielding e-mail queries, and posting grades. I believe I was the last person out of my department yesterday, but I was determined to start my break today and not have to be on campus filing grades at the last hour.

I picked up my stack of books from interlibrary loan, and couldn't resist going through them despite the fact that I was dogged tired yesterday. I'm preparing to write an essay on Richard Wright for the conference in Paris next month. I hope to see some of you there.

Leisurely had my cup of coffee this morning that was momentarily interrupted by the Fairfax County Police stopping and interrogating one of the regular customers, and former Starbucks employee. Yes, he was young, black and male; he was sitting at a table outside sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper. I had to rise from my seat and go outside and observe what was transpiring. The police in my neighborhood have a habit of stopping minority male youths without probable cause or an articulable fact. The threshold according to Internal Affairs is "reasonable suspicion." Well that's too broad for me, and leaves far too many black, hispanic, and arabic males, in particular, susceptible to being harassed.

Some of our youth are not trained in the basic operating procedures that our parents trained us in during the days of overt police brutality in Detroit before the Coleman Young years. The young man this morning at Starbucks did not even ask the officer's name, and I am certain that he was too shaken up to note the officer's name and badge number. As polite as I could be I got the officer's name, business card, and badge number. But something was up because the officer told me that "you can call my boss if you want to." Hum, total lack of respect. But I will do just that. However, the officer did call for back up. And an unmarked car with a black officer pulled up. Neither one of the police said anything to me or the young man. Wow, what a way to start one's day. You can be sitting at a Starbucks and have a police officer demand to see your identification without telling you why.

Of course I am concerned because of the incident that I experienced last month, to which Internal Affairs has still not sent me a communication regarding their investigation, like promised. And my son and his friends are always noting how the police harass them throughout the neighborhood. I recall similar incidents of police harassment in this neighborhood during the 90s when the minority boys got around 14 years old. I suppose nothing has changed, but I will continue to be vigilant in protecting myself and the youth in this community.

Friday Night in Metro DC

2008-05-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

So it's Friday night, and I hadn't intended to leave the house at all hoping to connect with a colleague so that we could chat about an upcoming conference in Paris that she and I are attending. But she didn't place the call and my son needed a ride, so I dressed and left the house.

I'm sitting in Busboys and Poets in Shirlington. It's not as nice as the one in DC, but I didn't have the energy to drive into the District and hunt, and then fight, for a parking space, so I've kept my behind in the dreaded suburbs of northern Virginia. (My friends in Maryland and the District will not cross the Potomac river into Virginia).

Just saw a gentleman who reminded me so much of a high school sweetheart. Almost spoke to the gentleman, but decided that being forward is so out of character for me, so I let him pass by. Besides, he only reminded me of a high school sweetheart which would have been the only reason why I would have spoken. Oh, well.

My son tells me that I need to get a life, that is, "mom, I'm going soon, what will you do with yourself?" I've contemplated this question before, and I thought that I was cool with him leaving, but suddenly the house seems too large, too quiet, and too empty. Oh, no, what's happening to all of my plans about being free and single?

Digital Humanities and African American and African Diaspora Studies

2008-05-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

It has been more than one week since I last posted on my blog. Sorry, I am inudated with "end-of-the-semester fiascos." Plagiarized essays, reappearing bodies that have been absent from the classroom for weeks, and grade-begging students have tested my last nerve. I realize that somewhere on my forehead there must be stamped the phrases "mom," "she's easy," and "push back and she'll collapse" because my students are really pushing the envelope this semester. They are attempting to get away with as much as possible without putting forth the least amount of effort.

To relieve the end of the semester doldrums, I attended the Digital Humanities and African American and African Diaspora Studies Conference at the University of Maryland this past weekend. It was fantastic to see humanities scholars conducting courses in virtual world using "Second Life," digitizing film footage from the 1960s Civil Rights Movement in Georgia, and communicating with a product developer from ProQuest about the need to digitize Black World/Negro Digest and The Michigan Chronicle. The conference reinvigorated my desire fully to integrate technology into my teaching, and not just Blackboard and the internet, but also developing digitized course sites.

But there was one comment that left me a little concerned. The comment dealt with the purported absence of blacks in technology. Specifically, one scholar argued that she organized the first Afro Geek conference to create a space for African American technology Geeks to exchange ideas because they needed to reinforce that Blacks were engaged in technology. Now, maybe I'm old and there is a generational disconnect (no, I'm not that old, uh hum) but I am surprised that although this scholar acknowledged the origins of the internet from "the military-industrial complex," I am certain that her insistence on the absence of blacks in technology speaks loudly to her ability to utter academic buzz words without understanding the meaning behind those words.

The military industrial complex, among many things, also represents a critical mass of Black engineers and computer scientists who worked on the internet and other aspects of bringing documents into the purview of digitization. Because Black engineers and computer scientists coming out of college before the 1970s met widespread discrimination in private industry, they often had to accept positions with the federal government and with the defense department and related branches of the armed forces. So when humanities scholars assert that there was, and continues to be, an absence of African Americans in technology, this reinforces for me the disconnect between the humanities and technology. I think that it would behoove someone (not me,I'm too busy) to investigate those anonymous black technologists who worked in various branches of government to develop the internet and other apparatus related to our current digital age.

As an aside, when I was a child because I was raised in a racially segregated, but highly technological environment in Detroit, ALL of the computer scientists and engineers that I knew were, not white, but African American. Although my self-referentialty is not reality, a scholar's blatant statement that there is a digital divide between blacks and whites, ignoring the contributions of blacks to the development of technology, frightens me and reinforces the purported absence of Blacks in a field in which they have had a substantive contribution. And all by a black scholar who has not bothered to do her homework, but has used her own self-referentiality as a basis for reality.

John A. Williams and Chester Himes

2008-04-29T08:10:00.000-07:00

Another cold and rainy morning. I'm sick of it. I thought I was living near the District of Columbia, Washington DC, and not Seattle, Washington. Ugh.

Spent the morning reading a collection of letters between writers John A. Williams and Chester Himes. I recall as a child being introduced to both these writers by my mother. One summer we were taking a road trip to New York. My father was driving while my mother sat in the front seat of the car laughing her head off while reading a Himes' novel. Undoubtedly, I picked up the novel behind her, which I was inclined and allowed to do. As a child, I was permitted to read anything that I wanted to, provided I consented to discussing the book with my mother after I read it. So you can imagine the type of trouble I got into with my English teachers for reading literature that was not age appropriate. But that is another story for another blog.

Years later, while on the faculty of the University of Rochester, I arranged a colloquia and invited John A. Williams to speak. Williams' papers are housed at the university. They seemed of little or no importance to the faculty until I brought to their attention the value of having Williams' papers there, or so it seemed. An hour before I was to meet Williams and his wife Lori for dinner, my computer ate, devoured, extinguished, did something to my introduction of Williams. I was so crushed because I finally in my own way wanted to give Williams his due. Williams, like Baldwin, held a prominent place in my mother's mind as one of the most formidable Black writers of his generation. So I was not only letting down Williams, but in some way my mother too. Luckily, at the time I had committed most of Williams' biography and works to heart, having re-read all of his work in print in preparation for my introduction, and had spent hours in his papers at the University of Rochester skimming through boxes and boxes of personal correspondences, letters to the utility companies, post cards, etc. While I did not necessarily give Williams his due, I am certain that he was not terribly disappointed. We had a good evening, the reading was excellent, and almost everything came off without a hitch; except the university had neglected to cut a check for Williams' honorarium. Having read more than enough about Black writers not getting paid, I was very uncomfortable telling Williams that I did not have a check for him at the end of the reading. But I promised my first born to him if I did not get the check. (Williams was kind enough to correspond with my child months before the reading). I got Williams' honorarium mailed off to him and did not have to give up my first born (not that Williams and Lori even wanted another child to raise).

In reading the correspondences between these two men, I am intrigued by their mobility throughout Europe, Africa, and the United States. Men, who it seems, moved every few months trying to find ideal conditions under which to live and write, and how difficult it was for them to find a place where they could settle down. The challenges with agents and editors appear to be so daunting it's sheer wonder that either Williams or Himes was able to get any writing done.

But both writers have given us bodies of work that are incredible and attest to their commitment to the craft despite the obstacles. If you haven't picked up any works by Williams or Himes in a while, please do.

Rainy Day, End of the Semester

2008-04-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

Nothing happening today except rain and an uncontrollable desire to sleep. If I were a child again, I would have willingly taken my afternoon nap today. No coaxing from mother, just a cup of hot tea and a nappy. This is how I felt all day today, and when I arrived home at 3:00 p.m., I promptly warmed up some leftover lasagna that I prepared yesterday, ate, climbed into the bed after eating, and unabashedly napped.

I can't wait until the semester is over so that I can return to napping every afternoon after lunch.

Check Out My Nephew Marco Hansell

2008-04-27T12:12:00.000-07:00

Hey, for all of the people reading this blog other than family, check out an interview of my nephew. He has a viral marketing company, and if I'm lucky he'll take out time to help his ol' aunt one day market her writing. He shares an uncanny resemblance to my father, in looks and tone.

http://www.thepham.com/

Halie Gerima, Sankofa, and Poetry Slam

2008-04-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not posting but once this week. I had a deadline for one of my faithful readers of this blog. Faithful reader, your essay is in the mail.

My poetry students at Howard University had the option of doing a final project or writing a final essay. Of course, they did the project. So just imagine how surprised I was when one of the students secured a space at Sankofa on Georgia Avenue to perform poetry and hold an open mike. And since we were in the space of a filmmaker, the performance was also filmed.

I had been meaning to get over to Sankofa since I met Halie Gerima at an NEH summer seminar in Black film at Central Florida University in 2000. Not only do I like Gerima's films, but he was the only filmmaker and film scholar at the NEH seminar who spent time with scholars from outside of film studies. Despite my limited knowledge in black independent films at the time, Gerima was approachable, accessible and engaging, and responded to my questions without the least bit of arrogance or condescension. Other scholars and I sat in a Caribbean restaurant somewhere in Orlando and ate and talked for a few hours with Gerima.

I am pleased that I finally made it over to Gerima's space. Sankofa is the type of space that I imagine myself having one day: a room full of books, films, good food, and excellent smoothies. The food is fresh and unprocessed. I heard that the coffee is wonderful too. So when I am on campus this Wednesday, I'll drop in for an afternoon coffee.

When you are in DC, drop by Sankofa at 2714 Georgia Avenue. Also, if you are unfamiliar with Gerima's films, see below and please check them out. If you can't find copies of the films, or other African American and African films, contact Sankofa at (202) 234-4755 or (800) 524-3895.

Director:

1. Adwa (1999)
... aka Adua (Italy)
2. Sankofa (1993)

3. After Winter: Sterling Brown (1985)
4. Ashes and Embers (1982)

5. Bush Mama (1979)
6. Wilmington 10 -- U.S.A. 10,000 (1979)
7. Mirt Sost Shi Amit (1975)
... aka Harvest: 3,000 Years
8. Child of Resistance (1972)
9. Hour Glass (1971)

Producer:

1. The Cutting Horse (2002) (executive producer)

2. Through the Door of No Return (1997) (producer)
3. Sankofa (1993) (producer)

4. Ashes and Embers (1982) (producer)

5. Bush Mama (1979) (producer)

Writer:

1. Sankofa (1993) (writer)

2. Ashes and Embers (1982) (writer)

3. Bush Mama (1979) (writer)
4. Mirt Sost Shi Amit (1975) (writer)
... aka Harvest: 3,000 Years

Editor:

1. Through the Door of No Return (1997)
2. Sankofa (1993)

3. Bush Mama (1979)

Thanks:

1. 500 Years Later (2005) (special thanks)

Self:

1. The Healing Passage: Voices from the Water (2005) .... Himself
2. Casting for Glinda (2001) (V) .... Himself

3. Ouaga (1989) (TV)
... aka Ouaga: African Cinema Now! (UK)

"The N Word" by Jabari Asim

2008-04-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I attended a "meet the author" program at the Sherwood Regional Library, organized by my good friend, Pier Penic. This month's author was Jabari Asim: noted writer of children's books, former editor of the Washington Post Book World, and current editor-in-chief of "The Crisis" magazine.

Asim's book, "The N Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn't, and Why," engages an in-depth analysis of not only the use of the N word during colonial and post-colonial America, but he also provides ample evidence for the ongoing denigration and subjugation of U.S. Blacks by the dominant culture. Asim's position is that when U.S. blacks contextualize the word within an continuous campaign of racism, then this should be evidence enough to eliminate the word from our vocabulary. Although Asim does not endorse censorship, the historical research and his analysis of literature, 18th and 19th popular culture, and jurispudence provide ample evidence to reassess the use of the N word.

One very positive aspect of Asim's book is its accessiblity. Having read the primary texts to which Asim refers, I can assure you that he has done an excellent job of researching and analyzing those texts. For those of you who do not have time to read Blight, Frederickson, Foner, Carretta and Berlin, to name a few scholars, please read Asim. Then if you want to delve more deeply into the insidious use of the N word and treatment of persons of African descent in this country, go to Asim's "Selected Bibliography" and start reading.

Ralph Ellison, Black Panther Party, and Oscar Micheaux

2008-04-17T14:50:00.000-07:00

Please note below that C-Span2's Book TV will highlight books about or discussions on Ralph Ellison, the Black Panther Party, and early black filmmaker, Oscar Micheaux.

Book TV Alert
C-SPAN2's Book TV: April 19-21
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Insightful author interviews
Saturday 10 PM, Sunday 6 PM and 9 PM,
Monday 12 AM ET

Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Steve Coll is the author of Ghost Wars which looks at Osama bin Laden's time in Afghanistan since the Soviet Union's invasion of Afghanistan in the early 1980s. His latest book, The Bin Ladens, is a history of the bin Laden family and its rise to prominence in Saudi Arabia. Mr. Coll discusses his new book with Michael Scheuer, former head of the bin Laden unit at the CIA.

Weekend Highlights
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Adam Bradley, 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book - Discussion of Ralph Ellison's Manuscripts for his Second Novel
From the 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville, Virginia, a discussion by Adam Bradley on the unpublished second novel by Ralph Ellison. This event took place at the Central Jefferson-Madison Library.
(Saturday 9:30 AM, Sunday 12:30 AM ET)

Paul Alkebulan, Wesley Hogan, Patrick McGilligan, 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book - African American Revolutionaries Panel
From the 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville, Virginia, a panel discussion on African American revolutionaries. This event features Paul Alkebulan, Survival Pending Revolution: The History of the Black Panther Party; Wesley Hogan, Many Minds, One Heart: SNCC's Dream for a New America; and Patrick McGilligan, The Great and Only Oscar Micheaux: The Life of America's First Black Filmmaker. This event took place at the Central Jefferson-Madison Regional Library.
(Saturday 2:30 PM, Sunday 4:30 AM ET)

Jeremy Bailey, Alan Pell Crawford, Jon Kukla, 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book - Thomas Jefferson Panel
From the 2008 Virginia Festival of the Book, in Charlottesville, Virginia, a panel discussion on Thomas Jefferson featuring Jon Kukla, Mr. Jefferson's Women; Jeremy Bailey, Thomas Jefferson and Executive Power; and Alan Pell Crawford, Twilight at Monticello: The Final Years of Thomas Jefferson. This event took place at the University of Virginia bookstore.
(Saturday 11 AM, Sunday 6 AM ET)

Quick Links
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Click here for this weekend's complete Book TV schedule Book TV Website Book TV Bus on MySpace

Questions? Comments?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Email: booktvalert@c-span.org

What to Do: Black Intellectuals and the Current Crisis

2008-04-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

This morning at the local Starbucks, I settled in with my mocha to finish reading Houston Baker's "Betrayal: How Black Intellectuals Have Abandoned the Ideals of the Civil Rights Era." I mentioned this book in my posting of April 15, 2008. I must say that my own perception of Baker's elitism has been radically altered by his interrogation and critique of Black neoconverservatives and centrists Shelby Steele, Stephen Carter, John McWhorter, Henry Louis Gates, Cornel West, and Michael Eric Dyson, all of whom have always left a nasty film in my mouth when I read their works. And in the case of Gates--who has always been complimentary, kind, and gentle towards me--whose memoir, "Colored People," I distinctly recall putting down in sheer disgust for his glorification of a black segregated, racial past that was devoid of analysis. And I must admit, I have a huge problem with Black men marrying white women. Yes, I have unabashedly put it out there. I figure that if my highly successful father (and light-skinned to boot) could find a soul sister to marry, then so can every other doggone Black man in America. We are constructed by our family mileux, sorry.

But in no way does my own limiting personal narrative serve as a barometer for the mores of the race. However, I cannot discount what Baker also alludes to, and what my mother emphasized my entire life: no matter how you may benefit from the capitalist economy, no matter what price you set for your soul, you will never be an insider, do not elude yourself. My mother often referenced the plight of Jewish intellectuals and middle-class during the holocaust as a case in point of how I can never be more American than black, and my blackness and concerns about the black majority should always be central to my existence in this country.

As my father negotiated the complex and racist terrains of the Department of the Army, retiring at a very high rank befitting his energy and sacrifices, and as I was sometimes privy to his stories about the injustices of the bigotry and racism that he experienced, despite his success and the economic stability of my childhood, we were never permitted to forget our allegiances to and alliances with the black majority.

Hence my life has always been replete with relations with blacks from across the social and economic strata. Although I was quite privileged in my upbringing, I have always been disheartened, amazed, and taken aback by friends and in-laws who pejoratively talk about "those blacks who make us look bad," and how I need to "give that black stuff up." These are the same people that if my parents had embraced their neoconservative ideology, would not have been allowed to grace my mother's front steps let alone form an alliance with me.

I wonder how any black person in the U.S. can disavow himself of the plight of the black majority. I wonder how some of my former working class friends, whose introduction to the black professional class was through their association with my family, could ever utter that I need "to get over that black stuff," when in fact, their very success in Fortune 500 corporations, particularly the boys that I brought home, has much to do with my father's influences on their lives (one friend recently thanked my father for the impact that my father had on his success). And let us not talk about the papers I wrote, notes I took, textbooks that I read into tape recorders, to help these working-class boys(who are now corporate executives) pass their damn classes in high school and college. But now I'm being told by them to "give up on the black stuff." In essence, to disassociate myself with the plight of the black masses. However, if I had embraced these men's current ideology, perhaps they would have never passed those classes that I helped them pass under my own allegiance to blackness and believing that we must lift as we climb and give back to the race, for clearly these successful corporate executives rose from the ranks of the black majority.

I wonder now how these men function in their corporate lives. I ponder on thoughts of how many blacks these men have axed, canned, destroyed, and denied access under the guise of their neoconservative politics and disassociation with the black majority. I wonder how many of them reflect on the fact that the only reason why they can grace the halls of corporate America is because men like my father fought tooth and nail not only for affirmative action, but also for the right to access, upward mobility, and retention. I wonder how many of them embrace the fact while my father piled up rejection letters from the Fortune 500 and then, Big Eight accounting firms, that it was his resiliency, and the resiliency of other race men like him, who never turned away from America living up to her myth and creed of equality. The black corporate men of my generation are the direct beneficiaries of the work of men like my father. But these same men want me to give up on the black majority as they have undoubtedly given up on them.

So I am happy that Baker is calling some of us out. Thank God, I'm not one of the ones being called out. His argument is so persuasive that the black intellectual centrists and neoconservatives should pause and take note. But perhaps they won't, only time will tell as they capitulate to the U.S. capitalist demi-God that precipitates their wholesale betrayal of not only the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr., but also the plight of the black majority. Read and reflect.

Houston A. Baker, Jr., "Betrayal..."

2008-04-15T05:32:00.000-07:00

Attended Houston A. Baker Jr.'s lecture and book signing at Howard University yesterday. Ethelbert Miller and Dr. Lila Ammons, interim chair of Afro American Studies, gave wonderful introductions of Baker. Ethelbert's introductions are like prose poems; when I asked him about how he constructs his introductions of writers, he started explaining to me that he models the Michael Jackson video. I take this to mean that the way that Michael Jackson restructured the music video is the same method that Ethelbert uses in introducing writers. That is, he doesn't deliver the stereotypical biographical sketch that lists accomplishment after accomplishment. I hope one day to have Ethelbert introduce me for as a speaker. I wonder what he will do with my bio.

Baker's lecture was provocative. And I came home and immediately started reading his book, "Betrayal: How Black Intellectuals Have Abandoned the Ideals of the Civil Rights Era." The black intellectuals whom Baker takes to task in his book are: Stephen Carter; Cornel West; Henry Louis Gates, Jr.; Michael Eric Dyson; and Shelby Steele. I'm 35 pages in and I am riveted. Baker's lecture reinforced in my mind the need to continue to produce good scholarship and not to capitulate and start writing pamphlets. Well, not that anyone has approached me with a six figure contract to write pamphlets. But, if in the event they do, I'll have to consider Baker's warning.

Speaking of scholarly books, my manuscript that I worked so hard to get to the editor is being sent our for "re-review." It was reviewed by my peers once, this is how I secured the publishing contract. Now it's being sent to the same reviewers (ideally, that is if they can be tracked down) to be reviewed again. See this is why folks resort to writing pamphlets. You just get tired of all the craziness of the academic presses.

Besides, who is even going to take the time to read a book that has a slew of endnotes, bibliography, and inter-textual references. Alright, I'm sleep deprived and pissed that my book is going out for re-review. But I know that Baker is right. Ultimately, a society is measure by its art, music, and intellectuals. Now I'm sounding elitist. I'll stop writing this blog here and get some rest. No, do my taxes.

Cherry Blossom Festival, Rain, and Lazy Saturday

2008-04-12T12:17:00.000-07:00

Nothing is going on today. Intended to catch Ethelbert Miller at the Library of Congress, then conduct some research, and later on swing by the Tidal Basin to attend the Cherry Blossom Festival. But the best laid plans go awry. I walked to and from Starbucks today, and upon arriving home intended to shower and take a short nap. When I awakened again, it was 12:45 p.m. and raining hard.

I rose and warmed up some lunch, grabbed some butter cookies, and climbed back in bed with my laptop and a copy of Quincy Troupe's collection of poems, "The Architecture of Language." It was a long week: interviewing with Internal Affairs at the Fairfax County Sheriff Department, giving a presentation on "Richard Wright's 'The Long Dream': Desire and the Protocols of Race," and editing an essay "Writing Nation: Giovanni, Sanchez, and Lorde and the Black Arts Movement" that I will send out before April 30, 2008.

So I guess that I'm tired. I'm trying not to feel guilty for sitting around today when my lawn needs cutting and the hedges need trimming. Nonetheless, I think I will stay in and do nothing.

Generations X and Y, Late Baby Boomers, and the World is Going to Hell in a Hand Basket

2008-04-11T06:12:00.001-07:00

I didn't blog yesterday because the day was too pretty. The sun came out for the first time in five days in metro DC, so I went for a long walk in Huntley Meadows, which are preserved wetlands about two miles from my home.

But before walking, I was in the neighborhood Starbucks when two of my neighbors dropped in. One is retired military, special forces, and now owns a consulting firm, and the other neighbor is an executive with a hotel chain. We bemoaned the lack of competence in the younger generation: I voiced the lack of competence in the educational environment, and both of my neighbors articulated incompetence in the work environment.

It was during my walk when I realized that every generation berates the aptitude, commitment, and performance of the younger generations. How do we stop this pattern, and if the generations after us are getting "dumber," how do we enlighten them?

As I reflected on this conversation, I began looking beyond my daily environment to examine the competence of the younger generations. I know that two of my nieces are far savvier than I. In fact, I have on occasion not only called on one of my younger nieces for advice, but also have allowed her to take the lead in certain situations. I also recognize that my students are also more knowledgeable in particular areas than I am, and many of them have flourished amidst obstacles that are unimaginable to me. While I may have had to negotiate a more contentious racial landscape in the U.S., they have been the unwilling recipients of the drug and free sex culture that my generation precipitated. While I had to contend with STDs, they have had to worry about and witness the ravaging effects of AIDS. In my generation, smoking marijuana was considered hip and cool, the younger generations know that not only is marijuana a gateway drug, but often marijuana is immediately rejected for crack cocaine. They are even now witnessing their friends getting addicted to heroin, a drug that was not widely used in my generation.

I write all this to incite those of us who are late baby boomers and older to pause and recognize that our children and younger generations are the direct recipients of the world that we created for them. If they are lazier, dumber, and less committed, we have to ask ourselves not only what actions did we engage in to help foster the behavior of the younger generations, but how can we help to change the culture in which the younger generations are subsumed.

So today, I make a commitment to stop berating the generations that will soon be taking care of me, and to help these younger people reach their full potential by addressing the ills in this society that have fostered their lack of or underachievement. The world is not going to hell in a hand basket; it is in fact ripe with opportunities, and we just cannot turn our backs and decide that the ills of the younger generations are not our problem.

Holler Out to Friends and Family, But Especially Friends

2008-04-09T05:20:00.000-07:00

You know, I spoke with two very close friends of mine last night; I have been friends with both of these individuals since I was 13 and 14 years old. One friend has a particularly demanding career, and I am always cognizant of the time he sets aside to provide me guidance and emotional sustenance. And the other friend, my best girlfriend, is always available to help me negotiate those minefields that only women negotiate. Also, it seems that no matter how much time has lapsed since our last conversations, we resume our interactions as if time has stood still.

I marvel at the tenacity of our friendships, at its openness and level of commitment. I know that friendships are sometimes more difficult to maintain than relations with family. No matter what, your family is your family, but you get to choose your friends. For a lot of you reading this blog, we have been friends for years. So this morning, I just want to thank you for decades and years of friendship, for your unwaivering support, and the tenacity of your spirit and commitment. And for my new friends reading the blog, I look forward to the blossoming of our relations. Thank you.

If you haven't read Tyehimba Jess's "Leadbelly," please check it out. And if you do not normally read poetry, Jess's "Leadbelly" is an excellent way to get into some poetry. Yes, it is about the blues man Leadbelly. And for you Detroiters reading this blog, Jess grew up on Appoline and Cambridge and attended U of D high school. He's from my hood. Check him out.

Tyehimba Jess, Quincy Troupe and E. Ethelbert Miller

2008-04-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

Oh, what a treat last night at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. hearing Tyehimba Jess and Quincy Troupe read their poetry, accompanied by a harmonica player and bassist, respectively, and also E. Ethelbert Miller's superb introduction. This was just what the doctor ordered for an unusually gloomy Washington spring.

Tyehimba Jess is a home boy, that is not only did he grow up in Detroit, but we discovered that we grew up around the corner from each other. So it was really nice to connect with Jess and talk about Detroit, the poetry scene, and how the demographics in our neighborhood have shifted.

Quincy Troupe was Quincy: he gave "a concert," not a reading. But, at one point during his concert he actually transported me back to Spain, causing me to rethink my plans for my trip to Europe this summer. I really love Spain, although my son hated it. My introduction to Spain is quite different than my son's. I studied the language from elementary school through graduate school, and actually was fluent in Spanish upon graduating high school. As I memorized in middle school Spanish class, "La universidad de Salamanca es la mas antiqua de Espana," I could only dream of seeing the university one day. Or when I read Cervantes in Spanish in high school and finally went to Spain and saw the monument to Cervantes, I almost collapsed in tears. In graduate school, I fell in love with reading Octavia Paz in Spanish, something was getting lost in translation, and I am happy that I read Paz in his mother tongue.

However, my son's Spanish classes have always been overcrowded and not taught my teachers who were terribly enthusiastic about either the language or teaching. So my hat's off to Dr. Damien (foreign language teacher at Cass Tech) and Ms. Fernandez (Spanish teacher at Bow and Coffey elementary schools) for creating my love for not only the Spanish language but all languages.

But back to Quincy Troupe, he took me to Spain, and after the reading he introduced me to his friend whose home in Spain facilitated Troupe's beautiful poem. And, of course, Troupe couldn't help but give tribute to Miles Davis's "Sketches of Spain," which is one of my favorite Miles's CDs.

Ethelbert, Ethelbert. Mr. Miller is one of my colleagues, and I'm always popping in on him and occupying his time. Hours before he introduced Jess and Troupe, I had popped in to his office, sat down, bantered back and forth with him, and occupied his time, oblivious to the fact that somehow and at sometime he had composed an introduction for both poets that was a poem in its own right. Touchee to you Ethelbert. Next time I'll be a little more respectful of your time.

If you are in Washington DC on April 14, 2008, please stop by the Founder's Library, Browsing Room, at Howard University, at 4:00 p.m. to hear Houston Baker speak about his newest book, "Betrayal: How Black Intellectuals Have Abandoned the Ideals of the Civil Rights Era." And I promise not to bother Ethelbert on Monday so that he can prepare, what I know will be, an extraordinary introduction for Baker.

"A Dream in Doubt"

2008-04-07T06:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, on a rainy afternoon, I went to the Busboys and Poets in Shirlington to screen the documentary, "A Dream in Doubt," directed and co-produced by Tami Yeager and co-produced by Preetmohan Singh. The film chronicles the murder of an Indian Sikh, Balbir Sodhi, after the tragic events of 9/11. Mr. Sodhi's death is recorded as the first hate-crime in direct connection to 9/11 since the convicted-murder, Frank Roque, was overheard by co-workers and friends stating that he wanted to shoot some "towel heads," that is, kill people who wore turbans. In addition to murdering Mr. Sodhi, Roque also shot up the homes of Lebanese American and Afghani American families. Although Mr. Roque was sentenced to death for his murder of Mr. Sodhi, the state of Arizona rescinded the death sentence citing Mr. Roque's mental illness as a mitigating circumstance. Mr. Roque was subsequently sentenced to life in prison without parole.

In addition to the death of Mr. Sodhi, the family suffered another tragic loss when another brother was killed in San Francisco, a few months later, while driving his taxi. The San Francisco police department and district attorney did not rule this crime as a hate crime, rather they concluded that the other brother, Sukhpal, happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

This is a powerful documentary that chronicles only one family's tragedy with post 9/11 hate crimes. The post-film conversation revealed that many Muslims, in particular, are afraid to bring attention to their victimization, report hate crimes, or even galvanize forces to address hate crimes because they feel that they and their mosques are being watched by the federal government. They prefer to remain as far below the "raider" as possible.

The film will broadcast on local PBS stations on May 20, 2008. Please check your local listings for the times in your areas. Peace.

Racial Profiling and Fairfax County

2008-04-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

I am always very cautious about my son's mobility around metro DC, and particularly in Fairfax County. He's Black, the county is majority white and affluent, the schools are good, and the courthouse and jails are filled with Black and Latino men. So when my son is out late at night and wants to walk home, I almost always go and pick him up unless he reminds me that I'm being over-protective.

Tonight he called from the metro station and let me know that he would catch the bus home. I offered him a ride if the bus took too long to arrive. And sure enough, a few minutes later he took me up on the ride.

We were cruising down Franconia Road, I'm telling him about my mother and the first time she picked me up from the Huntington metro in 1985, and how proud she would be to see my son negotiating public transportation alone. I was being a little nostalgic.

When we pulled up at the light at Franconia and S. Van Dorn to make a left turn into my subdivision, I saw one Fairfax County police officer parallel to my car in the lane beside me and another stopped at the light to my right about to make a right turn and travel west on Franconia. I took note of both police officers. I'm Black in America, I have to take notice.

I made my left turn and the officer that was parallel to me cut across the lane and made the left behind me. My son noted that the officer was no longer traveling down Franconia Road but had dropped behind us. I told my son, "well if he turns at Castlewellian, then he's following us." Sure enough when I turned left onto Castewellian, he turned left too. And in less than 100 feet, the lights on his squad car began flashing.

We went through the routine: license and registration. I reached in my purse and handed the officer my license, but let him know that I needed to reach in the glove box to get my registration. He decided that he didn't need the registration after all. He told me that when he ran my tags, the computer listed that the registered owner didn't have a license. He took my license and ran it. The officer came back and told me that the description on my license fits the description on the vehicle's registration. Hum. I have the registration, title, and County of Fairfax, 2008 Personal Property Verification right in front of me now; none of these items has a description of the owner on them, unless by description he meant my name.

I was particularly perturbed but maintained my composure. The officer could not see me, the driver, from his vantage point before he pulled over my car; rather he had a full view of my 6' 1 1/2" son in the passenger seat. I am certain that my son incited the officer to run my plates. For it was only after the officer looked at the age on my driver's license that he realized he didn't have two teenagers joy riding in a stolen Honda. Yes, I still look young, and especially at night in workout clothes. The officer even thanked me for pulling over. What else was I supposed to do? Maybe floor my car, speed down Castlewellian to my home, and jump out the car in front of my house, running with my child behind me, while the officer calls for back up, draws his service revolver, maybe take a few shots at us.

The irony of the entire situation was that the officer was Latino, and Latino young men in the county are known for really liking Honda Accords. They may or may not come by them legally; I just know that the Honda Accord is still the most stolen vehicle in our county.

Needless to say, I don't get mad; I get even. Within 20 minutes after the incident I had filed an online complaint with Fairfax County Internal Affairs. I am certain that the officer stopped us because we were Black while driving. I am also certain that it was my son that the officer was after, not me. Tough luck for him that my son was with his 50 year old mother. But fear is in the back of my mouth because my son could have been in my car driving and alone, and perhaps I would be posting a completely different blog tonight.

Alice Walker's Open Letter Regarding the Presidential Election

2008-04-05T14:59:00.001-07:00

Read and contemplate. Have a wonderful weekend.

Lest We Forget: An Open Letter to My Sisters Who Are Brave
By Alice Walker
The Root
Thursday 27 March 2008

The author argues that we must build alliances not on ethnicity or gender, but on truth.

I have come home from a long stay in Mexico to find - because of the presidential campaign, and especially because of the Obama/Clinton race for the Democratic nomination - a new country existing alongside the old. On any given day we, collectively, become the Goddess of the Three Directions and can look back into the past, look at ourselves just where we are, and take a glance, as well, into the future. It is a space with which I am familiar.
When I was born in 1944 my parents lived on a middle Georgia plantation that was owned by a white distant relative, Miss May Montgomery. (During my childhood it was necessary to address all white girls as "Miss" when they reached the age of twelve.) She would never admit to this relationship, of course, except to mock it. Told by my parents that several of their children would not eat chicken skin she responded that of course they would not. No Montgomerys would.
My parents and older siblings did everything imaginable for Miss May. They planted and raised her cotton and corn, fed and killed and processed her cattle and hogs, painted her house, patched her roof, ran her dairy, and, among countless other duties and responsibilities my father was her chauffeur, taking her anywhere she wanted to go at any hour of the day or night. She lived in a large white house with green shutters and a green, luxuriant lawn: not quite as large as Tara of Gone With the Wind fame, but in the same style.
We lived in a shack without electricity or running water, under a rusty tin roof that let in wind and rain. Miss May went to school as a girl. The school my parents and their neighbors built for us was burned to the ground by local racists who wanted to keep ignorant their competitors in tenant farming. During the Depression, desperate to feed his hardworking family, my father asked for a raise from ten dollars a month to twelve. Miss May responded that she would not pay that amount to a white man and she certainly wouldn't pay it to a nigger. That before she'd pay a nigger that much money she'd milk the dairy cows herself.
When I look back, this is part of what I see. I see the school bus carrying white children, boys and girls, right past me, and my brothers, as we trudge on foot five miles to school. Later, I see my parents struggling to build a school out of discarded army barracks while white students, girls and boys, enjoy a building made of brick. We had no books; we inherited the cast off books that "Jane" and "Dick" had previously used in the all-white school that we were not, as black children, permitted to enter.
The year I turned fifty, one of my relatives told me she had started reading my books for children in the library in my home town. I had had no idea - so kept from black people it had been - that such a place existed. To this day knowing my presence was not wanted in the public library when I was a child I am highly uncomfortable in libraries and will rarely, unless I am there to help build, repair, refurbish or raise money to keep them open, enter their doors.
When I joined the freedom movement in Mississippi in my early twenties it was to come to the aid of sharecroppers, like my parents, who had been thrown off the land they'd always known, the plantations, because they attempted to exercise their "democratic" right to vote. I wish I could say white women treated me and other black people a lot better than the men did, but I cannot. It seemed to me then and it seems to me now that white women have copied, all too often, the behavior of their fathers and their brothers, and in the South, especially in Mississippi, and before that, when I worked to register voters in Georgia, the broken bottles thrown at my head were gender free.
I made my first white women friends in college; they were women who loved me and were loyal to our friendship, but I understood, as they did, that they were white women and that whiteness mattered. That, for instance, at Sarah Lawrence, where I was speedily inducted into the Board of Trustees practically as soon as I graduated, I made my way to the campus for meetings by train, subway and foot, while the other trustees, women and men, all white, made their way by limo. Because, in our country, with its painful history of unspeakable inequality, this is part of what whiteness means. I loved my school for trying to make me feel I mattered to it, but because of my relative poverty I knew I could not.
I am a supporter of Obama because I believe he is the right person to lead the country at this time. He offers a rare opportunity for the country and the world to start over, and to do better. It is a deep sadness to me that many of my feminist white women friends cannot see him. Cannot see what he carries in his being. Cannot hear the fresh choices toward Movement he offers. That they can believe that millions of Americans - black, white, yellow, red and brown - choose Obama over Clinton only because he is a man, and black, feels tragic to me.
When I have supported white people, men and women, it was because I thought them the best possible people to do whatever the job required. Nothing else would have occurred to me. If Obama were in any sense mediocre, he would be forgotten by now. He is, in fact, a remarkable human being, not perfect but humanly stunning, like King was and like Mandela is. We look at him, as we looked at them, and are glad to be of our species. He is the change America has been trying desperately and for centuries to hide, ignore, kill. The change America must have if we are to convince the rest of the world that we care about people other than our (white) selves.
True to my inner Goddess of the Three Directions however, this does not mean I agree with everything Obama stands for. We differ on important points probably because I am older than he is, I am a woman and person of three colors, (African, Native American, European), I was born and raised in the American South, and when I look at the earth's people, after sixty-four years of life, there is not one person I wish to see suffer, no matter what they have done to me or to anyone else; though I understand quite well the place of suffering, often, in human growth.
I want a grown-up attitude toward Cuba, for instance, a country and a people I love; I want an end to the embargo that has harmed my friends and their children, children who, when I visit Cuba, trustingly turn their faces up for me to kiss. I agree with a teacher of mine, Howard Zinn, that war is as objectionable as cannibalism and slavery; it is beyond obsolete as a means of improving life. I want an end to the on-going war immediately and I want the soldiers to be encouraged to destroy their weapons and to drive themselves out of Iraq.
I want the Israeli government to be made accountable for its behavior towards the Palestinians, and I want the people of the United States to cease acting like they don't understand what is going on. All colonization, all occupation, all repression basically looks the same, whoever is doing it. Here our heads cannot remain stuck in the sand; our future depends of our ability to study, to learn, to understand what is in the records and what is before our eyes. But most of all I want someone with the self-confidence to talk to anyone, "enemy" or "friend," and this Obama has shown he can do. It is difficult to understand how one could vote for a person who is afraid to sit and talk to another human being. When you vote you are making someone a proxy for yourself; they are to speak when, and in places, you cannot. But if they find talking to someone else, who looks just like them, human, impossible, then what good is your vote?
It is hard to relate what it feels like to see Mrs. Clinton (I wish she felt self-assured enough to use her own name) referred to as "a woman" while Barack Obama is always referred to as "a black man." One would think she is just any woman, colorless, race-less, past-less, but she is not. She carries all the history of white womanhood in America in her person; it would be a miracle if we, and the world, did not react to this fact. How dishonest it is, to attempt to make her innocent of her racial inheritance.
I can easily imagine Obama sitting down and talking, person to person, with any leader, woman, man, child or common person, in the world, with no baggage of past servitude or race supremacy to mar their talks. I cannot see the same scenario with Mrs. Clinton who would drag into Twenty-First Century American leadership the same image of white privilege and distance from the reality of others' lives that has so marred our country's contacts with the rest of the world.
And yes, I would adore having a woman president of the United States. My choice would be Representative Barbara Lee, who alone voted in Congress five years ago not to make war on Iraq. That to me is leadership, morality, and courage; if she had been white I would have cheered just as hard. But she is not running for the highest office in the land, Mrs. Clinton is. And because Mrs. Clinton is a woman and because she may be very good at what she does, many people, including some younger women in my own family, originally favored her over Obama. I understand this, almost. It is because, in my own nieces' case, there is little memory, apparently, of the foundational inequities that still plague people of color and poor whites in this country. Why, even though our family has been here longer than most North American families - and only partly due to the fact that we have Native American genes - we very recently, in my lifetime, secured the right to vote, and only after numbers of people suffered and died for it.
When I offered the word "Womanism" many years ago, it was to give us a tool to use, as feminist women of color, in times like these. These are the moments we can see clearly, and must honor devotedly, our singular path as women of color in the United States. We are not white women and this truth has been ground into us for centuries, often in brutal ways. But neither are we inclined to follow a black person, man or woman, unless they demonstrate considerable courage, intelligence, compassion and substance. I am delighted that so many women of color support Barack Obama -and genuinely proud of the many young and old white women and men who do.
Imagine, if he wins the presidency we will have not one but three black women in the White House; one tall, two somewhat shorter; none of them carrying the washing in and out of the back door. The bottom line for most of us is: With whom do we have a better chance of surviving the madness and fear we are presently enduring, and with whom do we wish to set off on a journey of new possibility? In other words, as the Hopi elders would say: Who do we want in the boat with us as we head for the rapids? Who is likely to know how best to share the meager garden produce and water? We are advised by the Hopi elders to celebrate this time, whatever its adversities.
We have come a long way, Sisters, and we are up to the challenges of our time. One of which is to build alliances based not on race, ethnicity, color, nationality, sexual preference or gender, but on Truth. Celebrate our journey. Enjoy the miracle we are witnessing. Do not stress over its outcome. Even if Obama becomes president, our country is in such ruin it may well be beyond his power to lead us toward rehabilitation. If he is elected however, we must, individually and collectively, as citizens of the planet, insist on helping him do the best job that can be done; more, we must insist that he demand this of us. It is a blessing that our mothers taught us not to fear hard work. Know, as the Hopi elders declare: The river has its destination. And remember, as poet June Jordan and Sweet Honey in the Rock never tired of telling us: We are the ones we have been waiting for.
Namaste;
And with all my love,
Alice Walker
Cazul
Northern California
First Day of Spring

All's Quiet on the Eastern Front

2008-04-04T03:35:00.000-07:00

Besides April showers in metro DC, all is quiet and uneventful. My son pulled his first all nighter; he was working on a project for English. Of course, he didn't ask for my help. What can I say? I'm very proud that he is independent. But I also know that sometimes he needs to ask for help; this is a character trait that he shares with me. However, when he came in from school yesterday, he didn't bother to grab a snack or even take off his clothes, he simply fell across the bed and promptly slept for four hours.

I recall my senior year. I had a project for economics. It had been assigned at the beginning of the school semester, and I blew it off thinking, "really how difficult can this project be." My economics instructor polite told the entire class that none of the seniors would graduate if the project was not complete. "Holy cow," I said to myself, "she's talking about me." I went home, started my project, and it was 7:00 a.m. the next day before I finished typing the last entry for the project. I had pulled my first all nighter. Well, I continued to pull all nighters straight through undergraduate, my professional career, and graduate school. But when I finished my dissertation, I promised never to be awake when the birds started singing unless I was rising from a restful night of sleep. Thus far, I have kept my promise (unless I am on a transatlantic flight). I pulled all nighters in graduate school because I had a toddler, and I could never start my work until after he went to bed, which usually wasn't until 11:00 p.m. But now, you won't catch me up all night, not for any reason in the world.

However, I am happy that my son is disciplined and diligent. I just wish that he would allow me to help him in his senior English class so that he could slam dunk and earn that A. Oh, well, I suppose it is what it is, and I'll just leave him alone.

Harold Cruse and The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual

2008-04-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Between editing my book manuscript and redrafting an essay for a colleague, I have spent my downtime re-reading Harold Cruse's 1967 manifesto, "The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual." Cruse's book was one of many that sat on my mother's bookshelf when I was a child and that I perused, and eventually read as as an adult, along with Fanon's "Wretched of the Earth" and "Black Skin, White Masks." Because my old edition of Cruse's work is falling apart, I treated myself to the 2005 edition with an introduction by Stanley Crouch.

Now, I don't particularly like Stanley Crouch, but I will read his writings; it's not just that we occupy two very different political spheres and possess divergent world views, it is just that I don't think that he's very intelligent. For me, the introduction that he has written for Cruse's work seals the nail in the coffin of Crouch's intellectual banality. But what is even more disturbing is the fact that the publisher of the 2005 edition of Cruse's work did not seek out or secure a scholar to write the introduction.

Crouch makes such erroneous claims as the following: "The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual seemed to assume that there was a substantial intellectual tradition among American Negroes. That was neither true forty years ago nor is it true now." This statement alone evidences why I do not consider Stanley Crouch to be anymore than a conservative, political pundit in the same vein as someone like J.C. Watts. Crouch is dismissing Du Bois's early sociological studies, particularly The Philadelphia Negro, wherein Du Bois went door-to-door to collect the data, or the current work of Henry Louis Gates, Jr., especially Gate's attempts at creating a database of the records from the ships involved in the transatlantic slave trade in order to ascertain, among other elements, an accurate enumeration of the number of slaves that were actually involved in the slave trade.

These are just two examples that immediately come to mind. Crouch further writes: "There has never been a substantial body of thought on any Afro-American subject that was formed of deep studies, original theories, probing cultural examination, complex religious assessment, and schools of philosophical concern that raised questions about essences as opposed to superstitions, hearsay, and propaganda." I suggest strongly that Cruse read Cornel West's works from the 1980s, particularly, "Prophesy Deliverance!: An Afro-American Revolutionary Christianity," and "Prophetic Fragments." Better still, he needs to go back and read Fanon for starters.

Crouch's introduction to Cruse's seminal work reminds me of how little regard publishers (and even Crouch himself) have for Black intellectual thought. Crouch is the last person who should have written the introduction to Cruse's work. His introduction seems more like he is settling scores with the Black intellectual community rather than providing an introduction that will both contextualize and analyze Cruse's work and its contributions to Black intellectual thought of the twentieth century. But of course if Crouch doesn't believe such a tradition exists, then of course he could not have risen to the occasion and written a substantive introduction.

It is a shame that in 2005 Cruse was so intellectually and physically debilitated (Cruse died in March 2005) that he could not have stopped the publisher from appending his work with Crouch's bad introduction.

Blackface, Ghetto, and Class

2008-03-31T12:22:00.000-07:00

Some of you know that I do my research and writing in the different ways that class is manifested in Black culture, particularly in the literature. I was reviewing my e-mail messages and came across a query from an academic listserv about what does it mean for suburban upper-middle class Black youths to pretend to be from the ghetto. The person posing the inquiry wanted to know if the youths were engaging in "blackface."

Of course, I find this line of inquiry problematic. For one, I couldn't discern what the writer meant by "blackface." Two, the question denies class diversity among blacks; implicating somehow that urban, middle-class Black youths are not black because to pretend to be from the ghetto somehow blackens them. And three what does it mean to "act ghetto"? Are there certain behaviors among blacks from urban, potentially, less economically advantaged areas that are intrinsically different from Blacks from the suburbs?

I wonder is there anything worth while in engaging this line of inquiry. Besides, I find the use of the word ghetto in relations to Black communities really problematic. My mother, a woman without the credentials of some of my colleagues, always told me that me and no other Blacks had the right to claim the word ghetto to describe U.S. Black communities. That, in fact, we had been hoodwinked by White sociologists who were as ignorant as we were. Then my mother sat down with a stack of books and had me read about the origin of the word ghetto, its relations to Jewish ghettos in Europe, and how such ghettos functioned. She asked me one thing: "what's the difference?" I noticed immediately that Jewish ghettos were communities that functioned despite racism. There were bankers, butchers, tailors, newspapers, etc. Post-integration Black, urban communities, I argue, have ceased being ghettos.

But to get back to the scholar's line of inquiry: blackening one's face, as Bert Williams did, was a performative act used to appease white audiences in portrayals of Blacks with which whites were comfortable. So when black middle-class youth are "acting ghetto," who is their audience? Other black upper-middle class kids? White upper-middle class kids? Who? Are they performing "blackface"?

As my son prepares to move into the District to go to Howard U. I have noticed that his physical posture is slightly changing. The inflection in his speech is shifting. He's not speaking as clearly. He's dropping the last syllables of each word. I know what this is about. It's not an easy prospect for a sheltered, upper-middle class (upper income with his parents' combined resources) African American young man to get off the metro train and stroll up Georgia Avenue to Howard U. amidst the folk. (Which is why Howard runs a shuttle from the metro to campus, but my son refuses to take the shuttle). Real or imaginary, he knows that he is different from too many of the folk in the community around Howard, and as a matter of survival he is attuned to the cultural codes that set him apart. Well, he's not doing blackface, he is intuitively shifting his posture and demeanor to fit in, or at least to be as inconspicuous about his privilege as possible; just as he did when he enrolled in school and realized that to survive he had to adapt.

So maybe my esteemed colleague on the listserv is referring to something quite different in his reference to blackface. All I know is that Black men have no choice in this culture but to be chameleons, able to adapt whichever posture is necessary for survival. That is the beauty of the performative natures of our existence. If it is acting blackface, then so be it. But I don't think that such a negative appellation is necessary to describe cultural shifting and performance.

My colleague's entire line of inquiry reminds me how privileged some Black academics are, and how their line of inquiry almost always implicates their own bias and elitism about class; a conversation that we woefully need to have aloud.

Narratives of Black Bourgeois Desire is Done

2008-03-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

Okay family and friends, it is done. My manuscript has been completed, printed, boxed, burned on a CD, and ready to be mailed to the publisher as soon as the post office opens in the morning. I have met my deadline. It took everything that I had not to post the manuscript tonight. But I looked up and it was 7:15 p.m. and the post office in DC closes at 8:00 p.m. on Sunday. I'm only 10 miles from the post office, but I just didn't have the energy to rush north on I-395 to get to the post office before it closed. Oh, do I miss the 24 hour post office in Detroit.

Now I can relax for one day because I owe a friend on this blog list a manuscript by April 30, 2008. It's on the Black Arts Movement. I've printed a draft of the manuscript, and I will begin revising it tomorrow.

All's quiet on the eastern front. I'm burned out. And I'm going to bed. I will post tomorrow.

Love DC and Congressman John Lewis

2008-03-29T18:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, so have I ever shared with you how much I love D.C. ? I'm sort of addicted to the government buildings, Smithsonian museums, and Busboys and Poets, but my worse addiction, I must confess, is the Library of Congress.

Now I was a library addict before moving to D.C. My addiction is strongly rooted in my family dysfunction; some of you know what I'm referring to: a mom who considered going to the local library a family outing, and traveling to Woodward Avenue to the Main Library of the Detroit Public Library system was a field trip unsurpassed. Well, in this regard, my family was very dysfunctional, so much so that the one place I always felt comfortable beyond measure was in a library.

No matter where I travel throughout the world, I always find myself at a library. Although I have conducted research at the British Museum and spent time at the Bibliotheque Nacionale, neither library can measure up to the Library of Congress.

There's something about sitting at a desk in the Main Reading Room either waiting for my books to be delivered, taking notes, or cite checking that gets my blood going. Since my first visit to the Main Reading Room in 1985, I have been in love, yes, and addicted to the Library of Congress.

So today I drove over to the Library of Congress to cite check my manuscript one more time. Since 9/11 the protocol at the Library of Congress has changed. There are more Capitol Police around and folks seem a little more uptight, but hey, I smile regardless of what's going on because I'm in heaven once I enter the Jefferson building.

Five hours later, with my stomach growling and 3/4 of my cite checking complete, I stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue to grab something to eat. I stop at Cosi because I haven't been in the Cosi on Capitol Hill since I returned to the area in 2005. It's before the dinner hour so it's not too crowded even though the typical Capitol Hill crowd is milling about. I force myself to pass by Trevor's Bookstore. I need to produce, not consume books, I tell myself.

As I'm paying my bill at Cosi, I glance out the window and I am certain that I see Congressman John Lewis walking by. I pay my bill and exit Cosi. I can't let the Congressman pass by without saying hello. I say hello, he pauses, we exchange polite pleasantries. I notice that he has his dry cleaning in his arms. I'm feeling slightly intrusive and apologize, saying to him: "You can't go to the dry cleaners without folks stopping you." He doesn't seem to mind as he tells me that he's in town to preach a sermon at the National Cathedral this Sunday. "Tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of the last time that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered a sermon," he tells me. He jars my memory, and I say, "That's right." I cannot ever forget Dr. King's dates of birth and death: his date of birth is the same as my mother's and his date of death is the same as my aunt's date of birth. I tell Congressman Lewis that I will be at church tomorrow.

I love D.C. Where else can I stand on a street corner and have a normal conversation with a congressman without a formal introduction, without pomp, and without ceremony? As I strolled up Pennsylvania Avenue to my car, I decided that nothing will ever take me away from D.C. again. In fact, I've been contemplating for years just moving close to the Library of Congress so that I can spend my days off conducting research and writing. I think that I just might do that.

Hillary Clinton and Religion

2008-03-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

I am sharing with you some information forward to me from one of my students at Howard University. Food for thought in light of Clinton's current lambasting of Barak Obama's connections to Reverend Wright.

Hillary's Ties to Religious Fundamentalists

By Barbara Ehrenreich, Barbaraehrenreich.com. Posted March 20, 2008.

When it comes to unsavory religious affiliations, Hillary Clinton is a lot more vulnerable than Barack Obama.

There's a reason why Hillary Clinton has remained relatively silent during the flap over intemperate remarks by Barack Obama's former pastor, Jeremiah Wright. When it comes to unsavory religious affiliations, she's a lot more vulnerable than Obama.

You can find all about it in a widely under-read article in the September 2007 issue of Mother Jones, in which Kathryn Joyce and Jeff Sharlet reported that "through all of her years in Washington, Clinton has been an active participant in conservative Bible study and prayer circles that are part of a secretive Capitol Hill group known as the "Fellowship," aka the Family. But it won't be a secret much longer. Jeff Sharlet's shocking exposé, The Family: The Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power will be published in May.

Sean Hannity has called Obama's church a "cult," but that term applies far more aptly to Clinton's "Family," which is organized into "cells" -- their term -- and operates sex-segregated group homes for young people in northern Virginia. In 2002, writer Jeff Sharlet joined the Family's home for young men, foreswearing sex, drugs and alcohol, and participating in endless discussions of Jesus and power. He wasn't undercover; he used his own name and admitted to being a writer. But he wasn't completely out of danger either. When he went outdoors one night to make a cell phone call, he was followed. He still gets calls from Family associates asking him to meet them in diners -- alone.

The Family's most visible activity is its blandly innocuous National Prayer Breakfast, held every February in Washington. But almost all its real work goes on behind the scenes -- knitting together international networks of right-wing leaders, most of them ostensibly Christian. In the 1940s, the Family reached out to former and not-so-former Nazis, and its fascination with that exemplary leader, Adolph Hitler, has continued, along with ties to a whole bestiary of murderous thugs. As Sharlet reported in Harper's in 2003:

During the 1960s the Family forged relationships between the U.S. government and some of the most anti-Communist (and dictatorial) elements within Africa's postcolonial leadership. The Brazilian dictator General Costa e Silva, with Family support, was overseeing regular fellowship groups for Latin American leaders, while, in Indonesia, General Suharto (whose tally of several hundred thousand "Communists" killed marks him as one of the century's most murderous dictators) was presiding over a group of fifty Indonesian legislators. During the Reagan Administration, the Family helped build friendships between the U.S. government and men such as Salvadoran general Carlos Eugenios Vides Casanova, convicted by a Florida jury of the torture of thousands, and Honduran general Gustavo Alvarez Martinez, himself an evangelical minister, who was linked to both the CIA and death squads before his own demise.

At the heart of the Family's American branch is a collection of powerful right-wing politicos, who include, or have included, Sam Brownback, Ed Meese, John Ashcroft, James Inhofe, and Rick Santorum. They get to use the Family's spacious estate on the Potomac, the Cedars, which is maintained by young men in Family group homes and where meals are served by the Family's young women's group. And, at the Family's frequent prayer gatherings, they get powerful jolts of spiritual refreshment, tailored to the already-powerful.

Clinton fell in with the Family in 1993, when she joined a Bible study group composed of wives of conservative leaders like Jack Kemp and James Baker. When she ascended to the Senate, she was promoted to what Sharlet calls the Family's "most elite cell," the weekly Senate Prayer Breakfast, which included, until his downfall, Virginia's notoriously racist Sen. George Allen. This has not been a casual connection for Clinton. She has written of Doug Coe, the Family's publicity-averse leader, that he is "a unique presence in Washington: a genuinely loving spiritual mentor and guide to anyone, regardless of party or faith, who wants to deepen his or her relationship with God."

Furthermore, the Family takes credit for some of Clinton's rightward legislative tendencies, including her support for a law guaranteeing "religious freedom" in the workplace, such as for pharmacists who refuse to fill birth control prescriptions and police officers who refuse to guard abortion clinics.

What drew Clinton into the sinister heart of the international right? Maybe it was just a phase in her tormented search for identity, marked by ever-changing hairstyles and names: Hillary Rodham, Mrs. Bill Clinton, Hillary Rodham Clinton, and now Hillary Clinton. She reached out to many potential spiritual mentors during her White House days, including new age guru Marianne Williamson and the liberal Rabbi Michael Lerner. But it was the Family association that stuck.

Sharlet generously attributes Clinton's involvement to the underappreciated depth of her religiosity, but he himself struggles to define the Family's theological underpinnings. The Family avoids the word Christian but worships Jesus, though not the Jesus who promised the earth to the "meek." They believe that, in mass societies, it's only the elites who matter, the political leaders who can build God's "dominion" on earth. Insofar as the Family has a consistent philosophy, it's all about power -- cultivating it, building it and networking it together into ever-stronger units, or "cells." "We work with power where we can," Doug Coe has said, and "build new power where we can't."

Obama has given a beautiful speech on race and his affiliation with the Trinity Unity Church of Christ. Now it's up to Clinton to explain -- or, better yet, renounce -- her longstanding connection with the fascist-leaning Family.

Chinua Achebe and It's Been a Long Time

2008-03-26T03:43:00.000-07:00

Sorry for being so silent lately. But I went on Spring break and sequestered myself in a friend's condominium, with all meals provided by him, to complete the editing of my book manuscript, which will be published by the University of Illinois Press. Since I have training as a copyeditor, I find it difficult to let a manuscript go. Only a firm deadline will get me to release a manuscript, which is why I have always felt more comfortable with writing jounalism than scholarly pieces because journalists are pretty darn frim with deadlines: the paper is going to press, no ifs, ands, and buts about it.

But, I am placing the manuscript in the mail on Monday, and as I write this blog, chapter one is printing. Already I noticed that I inadvertently deleted the epigraph. I'll have to go back in and replace it. Oh, the book is about class and African American women's literature. It has been derived from my dissertation, a manuscript that I was determined not to shelve, but to give some other life outside of dissertation abstracts and microfiche since I sacrified my first born to get the dissertation written.

Had a wonderful time this past Monday night at the Washington Post attending a tribute to the Nigerian writer, Chinua Achebe, and also to celebrate the 50th year anniversary of the publication of "Things Fall Apart." Achebe was warm, engaging, and intriguing, and despite his confinement in a wheel chair it felt as if he were walking around the room touching everyone on the head and opening our consciences. He discussed the absence of language that he discovered among African characters in European fiction and how the impetus for his writing came out of this absence of language. Achebe argues that the longest sentence spoken by an African character in a European novel is in Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," and that sentence is eight words long. Otherwise, according to Achebe, African characters grunt or emit animalistic sounds from their mouths, but they do not talk.

Those of us who are familiar with the debate about language know that it is not only the absence of language among African characters in European fiction that fueled the literary imaginations of African writers, but also the debate about the absence of literature written in indigenous languages that has incited not only strident conversations but also chasms among some African writers that at times they seem unable to bridge. One only has to think of N'gugi wa Thiongo's conversations and writings about language to get a sense of how important language is to African writers. And the struggle continues.

There was a similar tribute to Achebe in New York City last month which I had purchased a ticket for, but was unable to attend because of a lack of transportation that fit the demands of my schedule. However, I would have loved to have attended that tribute because Morrison, too, examines the absence of language in African American characters in U.S. white writers' fiction in "Playing in the Dark." Just like African characters in fiction by European writers, African American characters are seen but not heard.

But enough for literature. All is well on the homefront. Rumor has it that my son has received a university scholarship to Howard's business school. His father and I are still trying to confirm this gracious award. The kid has worked hard, and he has never disappointed either me or his father. We are so proud of him. In the meantime, he is just trying to hold the ballast in the water and sail to port. He has some difficult classes his senior year, thanks to his overly ambitious mom strongly recommending that he register for such courses. But he is rising to the occasion and making my future prospects for retirement feasible.

I will be writing regularly now that the pressure of getting my book manuscript completed has subsided. So look for my daily blogs again. And please post comments, I'd love to read them.

June Jordan, Victoria Mxenge, and Black Women's Struggle for a New World Aesthetic

2008-03-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

Since I am so thoroughly involved in completing two manuscripts and teaching, and am unable to pay attention to anything beyond what is before me right now, I will share with you what my current endeavor is this morning.

One course that I teach every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at Howard University is contemporary black poetry. The course was designed prior to my arrival on the faculty, so while I do have control over the content, I do not have control over the parameters, which are community and the Black Arts Movement. I have always been interested in the Black Arts Movement since I heard my mother say B.A.M. when I was a little girl in reference to my bestfriend's older sister, therefore, I make the course meet my desires to delve in depth into the movement.

Currently, my students have been assigned June Jordan's posthumously published collected edition of poems, "Directed by Desire." Our class discussion alerts me that they are not reading, but the good thing about poetry is that we can read it aloud on the spot and then analyze the poems. In reading Jordan's poem, "To Free Nelson Mandela," I have been reaquainted with the murder of Victoria Mxenge, who was an attorney in South Africa and whose husband was assassinated, arguably for his involvement in the African National Congress (ANC). Mxenge spent the rest of her life investigating her husband's death, being a political activist, and becoming a role model for younger generations. She was brutally murdered in the driveway of her home before her children. "In 1987 a Durban magistrate refused a formal inquest into Victoria Mxenge's death ruling 'she had died of head injuries and has been murdered by person or persons unknown' " ("Biography of Victoria Mxenge," http://campus.ru.ac.za).

I always contemplate the unsung sheroes in the fight for not only a New World aesthetic and consciousness, but also for the liberation of Africans, Africans of the Diaspora, and all persons who are oppressed. The struggle continues as we acquaint yet another generation of our children to the fights of our ancestors.

Latino Voters and African American Candidates

2008-03-06T14:43:00.000-08:00

Once again, please bare with me while I get my book manuscript in shape to get off to my editor at the University of Illinois Press and complete an essay for a journal in American studies.

Take a look at the article below and originally published in Time magazine regrading Latino Voters and African American Candidates. I would love to read your comments.

The Black-Brown Divide
Hillary Clinton has done well with Latino voters in the early-primary states. Is that because her opponent is African American?
By Gregory Rodriguez, New America Foundation
TIME Magazine | February 4, 2008

I imagine he said it as if he were confessing a deep, dark secret. And, of course (wink, wink), he had no idea his little confession would make the rounds. But when Sergio Bendixen, Hillary Clinton's pollster and resident Latino expert, told the New Yorker after her win in New Hampshire that "the Hispanic voter -- and I want to say this very carefully -- has not shown a lot of willingness or affinity to support black candidates," he started a firestorm of innuendo that has begun to shape how the media are covering the race for the Democratic presidential nomination in the heavily Hispanic Western states.

After the Jan.19 Nevada caucuses, in which Latino voters supported Senator Clinton by a ratio of nearly 3 to 1, some journalists literally borrowed Bendixen's analysis word for word before going on to speculate about Barack Obama's political fortunes in such delegate-rich states as California and Texas. Ignoring the possibility that Nevada's Latino voters actually preferred Clinton or, at the very least, had fond memories of her husband's presidency, more than a few pundits jumped on the idea that Latino voters simply didn't like the fact that her opponent was African American.

The only problem with this new conventional wisdom is that it's wrong. "It's one of those unqualified stereotypes about Latinos that people embrace even though there's not a bit of data to support it," says political scientist Fernando Guerra of Loyola Marymount University, an expert on Latino voting patterns. "Here in Los Angeles, all three black members of Congress represent heavily Latino districts and couldn't survive without significant Latino support."

Nationwide, no fewer than eight black House members -- including New York's Charles Rangel and Texas' Al Green -- represent districts that are more than 25% Latino and must therefore depend heavily on Latino votes. And there are other examples. University of Washington political scientist Matt Barreto has begun compiling a list of black big-city mayors who have received large-scale Latino support over the past several decades. In 1983, Harold Washington pulled 80% of the Latino vote in Chicago. David Dinkins won 73% in New York City's mayoral race in 1989. And Denver's Wellington Webb garnered more than 70% in 1991, as did Ron Kirk in Dallas in 1995 and again in 1997 and '99. If he had gone back further, Barreto could have added longtime Los Angeles mayor Tom Bradley, who won a majority of Latino votes in all four of his re-election campaigns between 1977 and 1989.

Are these political scientists arguing that race is irrelevant to Latino voters? Not at all. Hispanics, coming from many countries, are hardly monolithic; but all things being equal, Latino voters would probably prefer to support a Latino candidate over a non-Latino candidate, and a white candidate over a black candidate. That's largely because they are less familiar with black politicians, as there are fewer big-name black candidates than white ones, and because, stereotypes not withstanding, many Latinos don't live anywhere near African Americans. California, for example, which has the largest Latino population in the country, is only 6% black. Furthermore, in politics, things are never equal.

"It's all about context," says Rodolfo deala Garza, a political-science professor at Columbia University. "It always depends on who else is running. Would Latino Democrats vote for a black candidate over a white Republican? Hell, yes. How about over a Latino Republican? I'm very sure they would." Guerra says name recognition and the role of mediating entities such as unions, political parties and Latino elected officials are also important. For a well-known black politician or incumbent, there is little problem winning Latino voters. But when the candidate is not well-known, it helps to be endorsed by mediating institutions that people trust. Part of Obama's problem in Nevada was that, apart from the late endorsement by the Culinary Workers' Union, he didn't have a lot of that institutional support. And though he has begun to build those relationships in California -- including the endorsement of the Latina head of the Los Angeles County Federation of Labor -- he may not have enough time to attain the kind of recognition among Latino voters that Clinton enjoys.

But if there's one thing we're learning in this historic year, it's that voters are even less easy to pigeonhole than candidates.

Copyright, TIME Magazine

Read Rodriguez's another article Clinton's Latino Spin

Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Evelyn Higgenbotham

2008-03-01T18:21:00.000-08:00

Sorry for not blogging more. I am up against a March 31st deadline for my book, and I am determined not to miss the deadline. It is entitled "Narratives of Black Bourgeois Desire." The University of Illinois Press is the publisher.

On Friday, I had the pleasure of attending an event hosted by the Moorland-Spingarn Research Center at Howard University honoring the publication of the African American National Biography (AANB) edited by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Evelyn Higgenbotham, director and professor, respectively, at Harvard University's W.E.B. DuBois Institute.

I always enjoy hearing Gates speak even when I don't necessarily agree with his politics. I always marvel at the way he can galvanize a team and get a project done. Some of you may know Gates as the editor of Africana Encyclopedia and founder of Africana.com.

The AANB has more than 4,100 entries, a mosaic of African Americans who have made contributions to the history and culture. An online version will be launched soon.

Please note that the Drs. Gates and Higgenbotham are still looking for contributors for the online version of the AANB. Here's the URL, please check it out. http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~aanb/

Black College Students, Reading, and the Death of the Book

2008-02-28T09:09:00.000-08:00

I have been very quiet lately and not posting. The deadline for my book is quickly approaching, and I am overwhelmed with too much teaching and not enough time to think. I am not disputing that there is thinking involved in teaching. But I have been shanghaied with issues that should not arise when students enroll in a college-level course. Thus, I have concluded that some of the stereotypes about African American students are true. I am going to share one with the hopes that those of you who read my blog and have children, particularly college-aged children, will heed my warning. I want to begin by creating a context for my frustration, and that context emanates from my personal and family milieu.

It was unheard of in my parents' household to be poorly read. That is, my siblings and I were introduced to classical western literature before we began school: from Grimm's to Aesop's tales. As we aged, my mother purchased a set of "The Book House for Children," which, if my memory serves me correctly, contained full-text of some of the better known stories in World literature. By the time I was in the 6th grade, my context for literature became the Great Books, as well as fiction, poetry and drama by African American writers. Our winter nights were often spent reading and talking, with my mother insisting that one of her four children run downstairs and pull a book off the shelf to support the point that she was attempting to prove. The winter when I was 18, my mother instructed all of us to read Dostoyevski, Camus, and Hesse; she must have been going through a existentialist phase. I matriculated in advance English classes in high school despite being enrolled in chemical-biological studies curriculum. I was raised to revere the sacredness of the written text. And my siblings and I were information connoisseurs. I know that my mother spent the majority of the family's disposable income on books. My mother always told me if I could read and comprehend what I read, I could accomplish anything.

I have taught at two research one universities that recruit from America's best and brightest students. I now teach at Howard University, that ideally, recruits the world's best and brightest students of African descent. I also teach at a community college where my students possess a range of aptitudes and levels of commitment to their education.

While teaching at the University of Michigan and University of Rochester, I never had to wrestle with students to purchase their books, or to read. Yes, these were predominately white institutions with a handful of Black students. However, even my Black students came prepared to work. In fact, having me in front of the classroom as their professor often gave the one or two African American students in the class a level of comfort that allowed them to reveal their intellectual prowess without fear of reprisal. I often marveled at how well-read my Black students were at these universities.

But my experiences at Howard University and Prince George's Community College, with majority Black student populations, have been quite different. If I were not African American, I would swear that the majority of Black students don't read.

Yes, you read me right.

It is the seventh and eighth week of classes at Prince George's Community College and Howard University, respectively, and students are still telling me that they do not have their books. And this is a normal occurrence. After hearing this confession yesterday, with both students pronouncing that they didn't have their books as if it were a badge of honor, I lost it. I pointed out to one of the students that she had an eighteen karat gold serpentine chain around her neck and the other had a brand new Blackberry. I told them that their priorities were misguided. Both students expressed the fact that their parents did not give them money to buy books. While I won't test the efficacy of their statements, the mere fact that both these undergraduate girls expressed this sentiment speaks loudly about the environments from which they have come.

My wonderful colleague and poet, E. Ethelbert Miller, interceded, and began asking the girls simple, but revealing, questions: 1. Are there books in your households? 2. Did you go to the library as a child? 3. Do your parents read? 4. Do you have your own library? The students' responses to these questions revealed that they had not been reared or educated in an environment where there was a respect for reading. I concluded that some of us are rearing our children and sending them off to college without a healthy respect for the place of reading, in learning and in their lives.

While I am far more tolerant of my students in the community college who are less likely to read a short story I assign since the majority of the students are at the college because they have not proven to be high academic achievers, I am intolerant of my students at Howard University, who are supposed to represent our communities' best and brightest. Like so many blacks in my generation, Howard University has been positioned as the Harvard of the HBCUs. Although it may be somewhat conceivable for a white student to matriculate and graduate from Harvard without reading, I don't have a Black friend who graduated from Harvard without reading. In fact, all of my friends and colleagues who are Harvard alumni are avid readers. I know that the majority of my students at Howard would not last one semester at Harvard without reassessing their commitment to reading, attending classes, studying, and improving their writing skills.

Ethelbert told me that I was educating the future leaders. I challenged him on this fact. I have not come across any future leaders among my students at Howard University. They do not read, they barely attend class, and they do not possess the writing skills that will make them competitive or successful outside of Howard University. My colleague told me that too many of the Howard professors don't demand academic rigor from the students. This perplexes me since so many of the faculty, like myself, have graduated from universities where academic rigor was a prerequisite for not only matriculating, but also for graduating. Then I must ask myself, have my colleagues also stopped demanding academic rigor of themselves?

So I have sounded off. If you are one of my friends with children and you do not have any books in your house, shame on you. If you send your children off to college without money to purchase their books, double shame on you. Our kids will not be competitive in a world that still revers the book, critical thinking, and excellent writing skills. The educated elite will always have access to elite positions in the job market, the better graduate schools, and a higher quality of life. Race will somewhat impede our children's access to this world, but not reading will certainly deny them access completely. While the book may be dying in some areas of Western culture, the elite will always revere the book. Get over it, and make your children readers before it's too late. And ask yourself, when was the last time you read a book for sheer pleasure? Remember our children learn from our examples.

Elderly Parents and Care Giving

2008-02-22T07:53:00.000-08:00

For the past 48 hours, I've been pondering the racial and historical contexts of Hillary Clinton's continuous accusations of plagiarism against Barack Obama. And I've been combing the financial disclosure reports for each candidates' campaign, noting that of the three front runners, Obama, Clinton, and McCain, Obama has been the only candidate who has not received any money from political committees.

But there are issues closer to home for most of us than who will be our next President, although there is the strong possibility that the next President will greatly impact on the issue that plagues me most this morning, and that is the quality of life of our parents as they age and our quality of life as we age, too.

Currently, two of my friends are caring for elderly parents. Shirley is an only child and her father is deceased. So the responsibility of caring for her aging mother, who has dementia, rests solely on her. Although my other friend, Ricci, has two half-sisters, Ricci feels that it is his responsibility to care for his elderly father.

I marvel at both friends' resilience. I worry about Ricci because he has his own health issues that are exacerbated with stress. I know that going to the rehabilitation center daily for the past two weeks is beginning to take a toll on his health. He has promised to take off on Sunday and rest because his father's health has improved enough for the doctor to project a release date.

For my other friend, Shirley, her mother is in the early stages of dementia and hasn't started wandering out the house and getting lost in the neighborhood. However, my girlfriend did mention that her mother remains awake all night, and this is when her mother's behavior dramatically changes and requires Shirley's attention. After sleepless nights Shirley rises to teach a class online, provides psychological evaluations for clients, manages her own business, and is writing the last two chapters of her dissertation. She is 32 years old. I wonder how many of us were, or will be, caring for an ailing parent at 32 years old because of fear of inadequate health care, or concerns about the poor quality of the health care that is available.

I asked Shirley if she had not interceded and moved her mother to northern Virginia after seeing the poor care that her mother was receiving in Tennessee, where would her mother be today? Shirley unequivocally said, "she'd be dead." I know that on some level, Ricci feels the same way about his father. Once when Ricci traveled to metro DC to visit his father during a previous hospitilization, Ricci was so alarmed by the poor quality of care that his father was receiving that he physically carried his father out of a rehabilitation center. Ricci removed his father against doctor's orders, and within hours he had his father admitted to a cleaner facility with a more competent staff. However,the stress involved in bucking the system in order to provide his father with decent health care eventually took its toll on Ricci.

As my father ages, as I age, I ponder what is in store for me as both potential care giver and recipient of care. I wonder what the future holds for my son as an only child of divorced, middle-aged parents. My father always tells me not to worry. My son also tells me not to worry. I should be grateful that both my son and father, like my friends Shirley and Ricci, have the emotional, financial, and spiritual resources not to be plagued by the ever pressing need to revamp our health care system so that the young, sick, disabled, and elderly are provided for.

I pause when I think of the resources that Shirley and Ricci are expending in order to care for their parents. I also pause when I think about the fact that both Shirley's and Ricci's parents also have the resources to be independent during their elderly years, thereby, minimizing the impact of their failing health on their children's resources. I further pause and think that because of my father's resources, intellect, perseverance, and managerial skills, he was able to navigate the quagmire that the health care system became when my mother was ill with lung cancer. With spread sheets and research in hand, my father was able not only to have in-depth and informed conversations with my mother's doctors, but he was also confident that he could command the best of care for her because of his resources. Further, he was not dependent on his children to provide my mother with the care and support she needed.

But what about the tens of thousands of Americans who do not have such resources: health insurance; access to quality health care; homes with equity; savings; loving children; or family and friends to assist them during their most trying years?

As the size of U.S. families shrink and people are having children older but living longer, the possibilities of having a good quality of life as our population ages is being jeopardized. While we do age better than perhaps our grandparents did, the rising costs of health care and lack of access to a high standard of health care will compromise the quality of elderly life for all except the wealthiest of Americans.

As I peruse the financial disclosure reports of our members of Congress, I am certain that few of them are genuinely concerned about their quality of life if, and when, they become ill, or as they age. They have good health insurance and access to the best of health care; most have assets that far exceed those assets of the average, upper-income American; and they have pensions that will never be jeopardized by an Enron scandal.

Let's hope that at the very least, our next President will strongly consider the quality of life of an aging population; and this quality of life requires not only comprehensive and affordable health care insurance, but also a health care system that is affordable and with competent people who are paid a competitive wage to ensure a high standard of care regardless of a patient's income or economic status.

Creating a Life Worth Living

2008-02-20T07:35:00.000-08:00

E. Ethelbert Miller will be conducting a panel discussion by interviewing me, along with Dr. Jamie Walker and Dr. King-Miller, at 3:00 p.m., Howard University, 3rd Floor, Founder's Library. If you are in the District today, please stop by.

Okay, so I'm combing the shelves of the library looking for ESL material for a gentleman whom I am tutoring, and my eyes rest on a book entitled "Creating a Life Worth Living." Hum. I love my life, but maybe I can improve on it. So I take the book out of the library.

Instead of following the author's directions, that is, to complete the exercises in each section before reading on, I read through all 298 pages in one sitting. Now, I'm ready to go back and do the exercises.

The book is geared toward "artists, innovators and others aspiring to a creative life," according to its author, Carol Lloyd. Hey, I tell myself, why not. I was once an artist (dancer, poet, and creative writer) before I became a legal assistant, wife, mother, and scholar. Maybe I can recapture those creative aspects of my personality.

So I plunge in. The first chapter of the book instructs the reader to keep two notebooks: a feelings notebook and an adventure notebook. I pause. I dump everything into my journal each morning (some of which I post on this blog). I can't do that. I can't compartmentalize. Alright, I'll violate the author's second word of caution (like when I read the entire book in one sitting instead of methodically going through it and completing the exercises at the end of each chapter as directed) and keep one notebook or journal for both feelings and adventures. Besides, I'm already carrying too much stuff around with me, I can't add another notebook to the burden. I have this fear of being a bag lady one day.

The first exercise is to generate ideas and take one of these ideas and develop it into a project. Well, since I have a deadline for my manuscript looming dangerously close (the book is due to the publisher in March), I had better focus and make this idea for a project about my book. Now I'm violating the author's third word of caution, that is, to have the project generate from the adventures notebook. But isn't a scholarly book a doggone adventure? I ask myself.

So to justify working on the book, I imagine the book signings, lectures, and invitations to participate on panels at professional conferences that publication of the book will generate. Hey, although the book project may not be creative, marketing and selling an academic book is not only creative but an act of sheer tenacity. Maybe I'm onto something.

I guess I'm just hopelessly too creative to follow instructions. Oh, well, that's the story of my life. But hey, I think that in addition to working on the manuscript, during my downtime, I'll start developing a strategy for marketing the book. Now I feel much better.

Fidel Castro Resigns

2008-02-19T03:28:00.001-08:00

The international news wires are blaring with the resignation of Fidel Castro. Political pundits are speculating that nothing will change in Cuba because it is expected that the National Assembly, the legislature, will nominate Castro's brother, Raul Castro, as President. And Fidel Castro will continue to write articles for Cuba's state press thereby remaining a formidable voice in Cuba's culture and politics.

I have always been intrigued by the political, economic, and ideological wrangles between the U.S. and Cuba. I vaguely recall the tension during the Cuban missile crisis (yes I am old enough to have trace memories of those times even if I didn't understand at the time what the crisis was about). And these memories were reinforced when I met my first Cuban family in exile while I was in elementary school. I have always wondered how an island 90 miles off the coast of the Florida Keys could be such a nemesis for the U.S.

Though I do not claim to know anymore about Cuba than what I have read in translation and available in U.S. bookstores, I do know the relative caution that encases Cuban poets and artists when I have met them stateside at various functions when we Americans start probing about freedom of speech, economic stability, and quality of life in Cuba. Typical American questions that are rude and perhaps dangerous to those artists who have been allowed out of the country in hopes of projecting a more positive image of Cuba to the people of the U.S.

Although the U.S. press is anticipating that nothing much will change in Cuba with Castro's resignation, we can only hope that the academic and artistic communities continue to find ways to collaborate (despite restrictions on tourist travel to Cuba) and to remind both countries that the people of Cuba are human, all to human, and suffer from the same exigencies created by policies meted out by both governments. For, after all, domestic and international political and economic policies hurt real people, not nations, but people.

A Family's Tenacity

2008-02-18T09:10:00.001-08:00

When I reflect on my childhood, I marvel at the sheer tenacity that my parents exhibited in rearing four children, and born within five years, in Detroit, Michigan during the 1960s and 1970s. I revel in the fact that I never felt emotionally, physically, or financially deprived. I always knew that my mother would be at home waiting for me when I arrived from school. And, yes, true to the nature of a post Second World War homemaker, my mother often had warm, toll house cookies and cold milk to be consumed when my siblings and I arrived home from school.

In rearing my own son, I realize how different his life has been from mine. As an only child he has benefited from his parents' undivided attention. But also as an only child, he's never had the joy and frustration of having a sibling share a bedroom with him, take the last pancake, or grab the car keys and back out the driveway just when you decided you had to drive cross town to see the love of your life; or so you thought.

I am extremely grateful to my parents for the love, care, and security that they rendered me. It is their love that allows me to be the achiever that I am, to take risks knowing that no matter what happens, I will land on my feet. I hope that I have provided my son with the same sense of security so that he will continue to be confident and have high self esteem, and take calculated risks.

Clarence Thomas Biography

2008-02-16T14:16:00.002-08:00

Today I attended a discussion and book signing with Kevin Merida and Michael Fletcher, Washington Post associate editor and staff writer, respectively, and authors of the biography, "Supreme Discomfort: The Divided Soul of Clarence Thomas."

Both Merida and Fletcher assert that part of their project is to interrogate Thomas' racial identity; that is, what are the factors that construct Thomas' sense of race. While Thomas' autobiography points to incidents from his childhood and formative years meted out by black schoolmates and colleagues that indelibly scarred him, Merida and Fletcher's research, which includes interviews with childhood friends and classmates, tells a different story. Thomas would not grant an interview to Merida or Fletcher, and when Merida and Fletcher forwarded a copy of their published biography of Thomas to him, according to the authors, Thomas' secretary returned the book.

Both Merida and Fletcher argue that much of the pain of discrimination by blacks that Thomas claims to have suffered is not remembered by those persons who were intimately connected to Clarence Thomas during these years. It seems that while Thomas' autobiography is directed towards settling old scores and supporting the mythic Horatio Alger rise from rags to riches narrative that seems to be the requisite background for all successful U.S. blacks, Merida and Fletcher's biography reveals the financial support that Thomas received from his grandfather until Thomas decides to withdraw from Seminary school, career guidance and support by African Americans during key moments in his career, and continuous engagement and encouragement from conservative whites and African Americans.

Merida and Fletcher's biography of Clarence Thomas provides an in-depth examination of the factors in Thomas' life that have made him the man that he is. Although Thomas rarely gives credit to the social and political forces as well as the individuals who helped him achieve his success, Merida and Fletcher's biography reminds readers that no person, including Clarence Thomas, achieves success solely through their own efforts. If you are the least bit curious about accessing a more balanced view of the second black U.S. Supreme Court justice, I strongly suggest that you read Merida and Fletcher's biography of the honorable Clarence Thomas.

Let The Voters Decide

2008-02-14T07:05:00.000-08:00

I've decided to forward to you an e-mail message received from my father regarding the concerns regarding the DNC Super Delegates. Read and take action if you are concerned. And Happy Valentine's Day.

Dear Charles M.,

This is an unprecedented year. Thirty-seven states and U.S. territories have already voted and we don't have a clear nominee. Senators Clinton and Obama are in a delegate race to the nomination.

There are a lot of ways that delegates get assigned to a specific candidate, but almost all of the allocated delegates are directly tied and bound by the actual votes in each primary or caucus -- all of them that is, except super-delegates.

Super-delegates are a contingent of almost 900 elected officials, party insiders, and current DNC members and they aren't required to follow the voters. In fact, after every Democrat has voted and the last allocated delegates are assigned, super-delegates have the power to overturn the popular vote and crown a different winner.

That's right, if super-delegates don't like who you choose to be our nominee, they can overturn your vote. We can't let that happen. Our nominee must be chosen by Democratic voters, not by back room deals of the party elite. Sign our petition now to let the voters decide:

www.DemocracyforAmerica.com/VotersDecide

We must respect the 20 million Democrats who have already voted and the millions more who will vote before the convention. It's up to us to make sure the almost 900 super-delegates do the right thing.

Sign the petition today and we'll deliver all of the signatures directly to super-delegates.

And this is just the beginning of our campaign to let the voters decide. The longer it takes to win, the more we'll escalate the campaign. We'll write letters, make calls, and hold media events. Because when it comes to protecting the will of Democratic primary voters, DFA members know exactly where we stand.

www.DemocracyforAmerica.com/VotersDecide

Thank you for taking action today.

-Charles

Charles Chamberlain
Political Director

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Landslide for Obama in Chesapeake Primary

2008-02-13T03:18:00.001-08:00

The polls predicted that Obama would beat out Clinton by 20%. However, he won by a landslide while his opponent, Senator Clinton, scurried out of town to Texas to court the hispanic vote.

Clinton's loss in metro DC should send a loud message to those voters who are still undecided. Her loss echoes how Clinton and her husband, former president Clinton, were not the favored couple in this area during the president's administration. They were acerbic, less than polite, and ruffled the feathers of more than one of the power brokers in metro DC; that is, they lacked decorum and protocol. And the former president's entire administration was involved in one crisis after another: Travel Gate, White Water, and Monica Lewinsky, to name a few. While our former president may have done right by the economy (some economists argue it was just a matter of timing and the nature of business cycles), we must recall his botched state visit to Africa, where he looked not only flustered by the throngs of Africans excitedly greeting him, but he also looked afraid.

Okay, senator Clinton should not be held responsible for her husband's indiscretions. But recall that the joke during our former president's administration was that former president Clinton was taking orders from his wife. Uh, hum.

Loyalty to the public and sustaining the public's trust are tantamount to the character of a leader. Neither Bill nor Hillary has displayed such character. They will bait and switch, curry the public, and say anything to garner and retain power. Do we really want another four years of the keystone cops couple?

Election Protection, The Chesapeake Primary

2008-02-12T07:22:00.000-08:00

Today in Virginia, Maryland and DC we go to the polls to cast our votes in the Presidential Primary Election. But yesterday when I was leaving campus, my eye caught a poster on the wall outside of the Political Science Department. The content on the poster reminded me how contentious this country has always been and continues to be not only in electing a president, but in allowing people to exercise their rights to vote. The poster advertised the work of the Lawyers' Committee for Civil Rights Under the Law, "a private, nonprofit, nonpartisian legal organization formed at the request of John F. Kennedy in 1963." This organization has also established an Election Protection Coalition to answer questions regarding voters' rights during the primary. The telephone number is 1-866-OUR VOTE.

After the Bush-Gore debacle that went all the way to the Supreme Court, my colleagues and I were calling for the United Nations to monitor our elections in this country, just as the United Nations (as well as teams of lawyers, politicians, and even our former president, Jimmy Carter) monitors the elections of Third World Countries and newly formed democracies.

As the contention in this primary grows, perhaps it is time for the citizenry to rise and demand that our primary and general elections for president be monitored by the United Nations. A fair election helps to legitimize a democracy. Clearly our last two presidential elections have further illegitimized democracy in the United States.

As we galvanize together for one of the most important presidential election in our lifetime, let's not forget that when the stakes are high, people play dirty. We've already seen the air thicken with suggestions about what the DNC will do about the Florida and Michigan primaries. This is only a glimpse of the challenges that are ahead of us.

Remember 1-866-OUR VOTE. Call them if you have any problems. Also, it is time for us seriously to consider demanding more monitoring of our polls in this country. Perhaps it is time for the United Nations to step in.

Podcasts and Relaxing

2008-02-10T14:09:00.001-08:00

Two things are plaguing me today. The need to have more order in my life and to be more intellectually engaged. I've been running from pillar to post, teaching a full load at one college and part time at a university, rearing my son, tutoring a young man from Saudi Arabia in English, and writing for the local newspaper. Therefore, I sometimes don't take the time to engage in the intellectual endeavors that are necessary to sustain me. Although teaching is very intellectually engaging, I cannot always interest my students in the lofty ideas and conundrums that periodically plague me. Far too many of my students are simply in the classroom to get a grade, obtain the credit, and move on. Attitudes like my students' are what drove me out of the university and into the library when I was an undergraduate student because I saw too many professors capitulating and servicing the students' needs. I don't do this. Either they engage in intellectual rigor or they drop my class. In this regard, I am unyielding.

Today, after brunch at my favorite hangout, Busboys and Poets in Shirlington, I took one look around my house and found the disorder creeping in on me. Those of you who know me know that I cannot operate within chaos, which is why all of my books are arranged in alphabetical order, and my closet is organized according to the type of garment and its color, from light to dark. I know, I'm probably a bit anal. But my mother told me the key to running an orderly household is to be organized. So yes, I do roll my linen like she did, and my spice cabinet is also arranged alphabetically.

As I moved about the house cooking, organizing, vacuuming, and dusting, I engaged in my latest method for relaxing, listening to my ipod. My wonderful son gave me an ipod for Christmas. I still marvel over how he knew just what I wanted. I marveled even more when I realized that I could download lectures from university professors, the Washington Post Book Review, and unabridged editions of books, and listen to them while I worked, commuted, and journaled.

I am in heaven again. As my eyes age and reading becomes harder and harder for me, I can still gain pleasure and stimulate my mind from the printed text. The other night, I lay in the bed listening to "The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass: An American Slave." I've taught this narrative for more than 12 years, and it has never come alive for me the way that it does when I listen to it in the middle of the night on my ipod. I don't have to stop to turn the tape over, insert another CD, or press play. I just click on the arrow and away it goes. Wow, I love this technology. I know. Don't laugh at me. In marketing terms I am a late, late adapter.

So if your ipod is full of music, you may find it pleasurable to download some of the many podcasts that are available on the internet. I know that I am simply gleeful listening to the numerous podcasts that I have located and downloaded.

Alexandria, Virginia and the Slave Trade

2008-02-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

As busy as I am, I am attempting to recapture the activities of my pre-mom, pre-wife years. One activity that I engaged in quite regularly was freelance writing. Recently, I signed on to freelance write for the local weekly paper, The Alexandria Times. One of the stories that I covered this morning was a walking tour, "Black History Above and Below Ground."

Under the blustery sky and with the chilling winds slapping my face, I stood on the corner of Duke street and Reinkers Lane as I listened to Dr. Pamela Cressey, an archaeologist, explain to the predominately white crowd, how Alexandra was the largest slave trading city on the east coast. She pointed out the former Bruin "Negro Jail," which was the location of one of many slave traders in Old Town Alexandria.

Dr. Cressey retold the story of the Edmonson family. The father, Paul Edmondson, was a free man. However, he married Ameila Edmonson, an enslaved woman; therefore, all 14 of their children took the legal status of their mother.

But in 1848, some of the Edmonson children while being hired out to work in Washington D.C. Along with 70 other enslaved African Americans, some of the Edmonson children attempted to escape from Washington, D.C. aboard the schooner Pearl. The escaped slaves, along with the Edmonson children, were captured and placed into bondage in the Bruin "Negro Jail." Paul Edmonson, in conjunction with white abolitionists, eventually raised enough money to purchase his children's freedom.

I glanced up and looked at the green neon signs of the Whole Foods Market across the street. Up and down Duke street and throughout Old Town Alexandria, more high-end townhomes and condominiums are springing up to add to the already condense and crowded landscape that has obliterated vestiges of the slave past. No where did I get a glimpse of any evidence that human beings were coffled and driven up Duke street like cattle. Directly across the street from the former Bruin "Negro Jail," a slaughter house and tannery were once located; slaves and animals traded and slaughtered within feet of each other.

Despite the lack of visual evidence of the city's involvement in the slave trade, I appreciated the candor and truthfulness with which the archaeologist relayed the early Black history of Alexandria. I must say when I visited Mount Vernon about ten years ago with my son, I had a much different experience as the docent attempted to explain to the predominately white crowd how benevolent George Washington was as a master. For my son's own benefit, I stopped the docent and set the record straight. His benevolence is irrelevant, he held human beings against their will. Period. And when he had an opportunity to manumit his slaves, he did not. However, this time I could listen intently as a white Ph.D. set the record straight.

Empty Nest Syndrome, Or Happy to Be Free and Single Again?

2008-02-07T06:46:00.000-08:00

My son, David, graduates high school in June. In addition to marking this milestone, he turned 18 years old this past January, and declared rather profusely that he was "grown." I started to burst his bubble by telling him that being grown is not a matter of chronology but responsibility, and also hand him one-half of the monthly expenses to pay. But I decided there is time enough for that.

I recall quite vividly when I declared I was grown. I was much younger than 18, and my rebellious period started much sooner than my son's. Thus far, he has been on track, yet there are those subtle changes that make me grind my teeth at night, subtle changes that are inevitable and represent some of the pangs of maturing.

1. Having girlfriend problems (I thought he was smarter than this);
2. Becoming unfocused his last semester (I keep reminding him it sure would be nice not to have to write those tuition checks, that a scholarship will keep me from having to live with him when I am old and retired;
3. Leaving his shoes at the front door for me to trip over;
4. Scattering his belongings all over the house (I'm confined to my bedroom and kitchen);
5. Eating a sandwich and drinking a soda from 7/11 rather than consuming my gourmet French Chicken cooked in a Dutch Oven (a recipe I hand copied from Cooks Illustrated magazine while sitting in Barnes and Nobles); and
6. Having to tell him every night at 10:30 p.m. to come up stairs and get ready for bed (he awakens at 5:30 a.m., I still think that kids need 8 hours of sleep; well, at least I do, he needs to come upstairs so that he won't awaken me, I'm a light sleeper.

I know that I will miss him when he is away. But I am almost certain that I will not suffer from empty nest syndrome. In fact, when he told me that he will get on the metro and travel from Howard University's campus to northern Virginia where I live every weekend to eat and do his laundry, I threatened to apply for a Fulbright to a university in Africa.

Oh, after 18 years, how will it feel not having to worry quite as much, not having to prepare dinner every day, and not having my house filled with the remnants of school projects, worn out clothes, and love letters from his girlfriend? I don't know, but I am sure looking forward to being free and single again.

Family Hour?

2008-02-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

I missed the half-time Super Bowl entertainment when Janet Jackson suffered from a wardrobe malfunction. But I didn't miss this year's Super Bowl. While the half-time performance by Tom Petty was mild, and quite frankly, boring if you are not a Petty fan, I noted that towards the end of the broadcast the commercials became sexually suggestive.

The two commercials that seemed to me to be less than family friendly were the man with the jumper cables hooked up to his nipples and the scantly clad woman in the Victoria Secrets advertisement suggesting that the post-game time would be even better than the game itself.

Maybe I'm too sensitive and cynical. Now, there was a lot of controversy regarding whether or not the exposure of Janet's breast was a mistake or planned. Regardless, we do know that the exposing of a man's nipples with jumper cables attached to them as well as the scantly clad woman in the Victoria Secrets commercials were not only planned, but condoned by the network.

For the most part, a man exposing his breasts and nipples is not deemed sexual in our culture. But, I still don't want to explain to a five year old sitting beside me who asks, "what is he doing?" For even a five year old knows that there is something out of the ordinary being portrayed on the screen.

Likewise, any prepubescent boy could have processed the suggestive and not so subliminal message emanating from the provocative and scantly clad model in the Victoria Secrets commercial. I suppose violence and sex are permissible during the Super Bowl provided the sex is not cloaked in Blackness. Alright, we know it is completely acceptable for the violence to be Black, we only have to look at who the players are.

I turned to another middle-aged woman beside me and said, "This is not family friendly." She agreed. I think that after I post this blog, I'm going to contact the network and complain.

My Home, My Disappointment

2008-02-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, as most of you may know. But after graduating high school, I never had a true affinity for the city, having never felt completely at home there because Detroit was not my mother's home. Despite my personal unrest, I was a staunch supporter of my beloved city, and would go toe-to-toe with anyone who demeaned it in any way. But the last debacle with Mayor Kilpatrick not only saddens me but also reminds me of all that bothered me about Detroit, and this is particularly true of the mayor's mother's response to her son's indiscretions.

It is not that I am taken aback by congress woman Carolyn Kilpatrick publicly declaring her allegiance to her son, despite the fact that he possibly lied under oath about his affair with Christine Beatty, his chief of staff. One expects a mother to support her son at all costs. But perhaps it was the manner in which she chose to support her son in a public forum screaming loudly; referring to her grown son as, "my boy"; and vehemently insinuating that someone else, and not her son, is responsible for his current predicament.

The mayor and his mother embody the most negative stereotypes of African Americans: loud, uncouth, and indiscreet. I have noted that some Detroiters seem to live within a bubble that prohibits them from realizing that they are citizens of not only a nation but also a world. I do not fully subscribe to the belief that every Black person is representative of the race. However, I do strongly believe that Black public officials have an obligation to exhibit a degree of decorum and restraint within public venues. After all, whether Black public officials regard themselves as representative of the people or not, they are. And their public behavior and indiscretions ultimately do negatively impact on their predominately Black constituents.

How can people like Mayor Kilpatrick and his mother even profess wanting to help Detroit become a world class city when they are trapped within the myopia that has defined far too many Black Detroiters' lives and perceptions since the Coleman Young years?

The Kilpatricks' inability to see how their behavior only fuels a national perception of Detroit as an urban, postmodern industrial wasteland, governed by incompetent people, severely limits relocation of people and businesses to the city. There is one thing for sure, Detroit will never become a vibrant city again unless jobs and people are willing to relocate there.

Since I departed Detroit in 1987, I very rarely hear anything positive in the media about the city. I used to attribute the media's negative portrayal of the city to the fact that Detroit was majority Black. However, intellect dictates for me that race cannot be the panacea for all that is bad and wrong in the city. At some point, the buck needs to stop somewhere. Not only should Detroiters call for the mayor's resignation, but the citizens of the 13th Congressional District should strongly consider a new person to represent them in Congress, too.

Six terms sitting on the Hill have been too many for the congress woman, and two terms throwing parties in the Manoogian mansion have been too many for the mayor.

Detroiters, you deserve better.

More Similarities Than Differences

2008-02-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

As you may know from earlier posts, one of my favorite haunts is the neighborhood Starbucks. I often sit there to write, grade essays, prepare for class, and read. I started this habit when I was a stay-at-home mom with a toddler son who spent his entire day with me. Often after dinner, I handed my son, David Malik, to his father and hit the front door; at break neck speed I'd make my way to the neighborhood Starbucks. Many years ago, in conjunction with the manager of Starbucks, I ran a neighborhood reading program, "Reading Under the Coffee Tree," where moms and toddlers would gather to read stories aloud to preschoolers.

As I sat in my favorite chair in Starbucks this past Tuesday, a Moslem woman, Sarah, wearing a hijab, sat across from me chatting on her cellphone. An infant was asleep in a stroller parked beside her. She ended her telephone conversation and immediately began to engage me in a conversation in precise and calculated English. Inevitably our conversation centered around children, being at home, the difficulty in finding good childcare, her academic career, my teaching, etc.

Although Sarah is at least 20 years younger than I am, I noted how the challenges that she is faced with are no different than the challenges I faced as a mother with a newborn, 18 years ago. Like me, she, too, finds refuge in the neighborhood Starbucks. Unlike me, she walks to the Starbucks because her customs do not permit her to drive.

We exchanged telephone numbers. She exacted a promise from me to visit her in her home because it is a one mile walk to my home from hers. Sarah pulled back her hijab to straighten it out. I would have never guessed that her dark brown, curly hair sported blonde streaks.

I smiled and told her that we are both rebels in our own way. She laughed as her husband pulled up and rushed in to help her with their infant son.

I know that Sarah, a Saudi Arabian woman who has only been in the U.S. 6 months, has a lot in common with me. We are both women. We are both mothers. We are both racialized minorities in a white dominant, patriarchal society.

Lazy Day

2008-01-31T16:40:00.000-08:00

I apologize for posting so late in the day. It has been a rather lazy day for me. I work all day on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, so I tend to relax on Tuesday and Thursday. But today I took relaxation to another level.

I awakened at 5:00 a.m. to get David Malik up. He wanted to finish some homework before going to school. He's so self sufficient that I no longer prepare breakfast. I climbed back into bed under my down comforter, and hardly lifted my head when he came to my door at 6:38 a.m. to let me know that he was leaving for school.

When I awakened again, it was 9:05 a.m. I never sleep this late unless I am sick; motherhood cured me of sleeping until 12:00 p.m. I jumped out of bed and quickly showered because I had a 10:00 a.m. massage scheduled. After 1 1/2 hours having my muscles kneaded, I rose and made my way to my favorite grocery store, Balducci's. Since I hadn't had breakfast, I decided to stop in the restaurant next door to the grocery store: Farrah Olivia. Farrah Olivia is owned by an Ethiopian chef. He doesn't serve Ethiopian cuisine, but an amalgam of French and American, but with those nice eastern and northern African spices added to the food. Hum, lunch was good as I lingered over the City Paper and dug my spoon into the creme brulee.

My son disturbed my leisurely and decadent day with a text message beckoning me to be home when he returned from school because he needed school supplies, undoubtedly for a project that is due tomorrow. But hey, he's in the 12th grade and has been admitted to Howard University, so I don't fuss with him anymore. Instead of hovering over him and worrying about his project, I asked him once if he needed any help. He responded, "no." So I promptly went upstairs, undressed, and climbed into the bed for a long, mid-afternoon nap.

Wow, it was such a decadent day.

Happy Birthday, Malik

2008-01-30T04:02:00.000-08:00

Eighteen years ago, my mother sat up all night with me while I held a heating pad to my lower back and sipped mother's milk tea. My mother never hinted that I was in labor, but by 9:08 p.m., January 30, 1990, I was holding an 8 lb. 1/2 oz. baby boy in my arms. His father and I named him David Malik Burton.

Today he awakened at 5:30 a.m., as he has done since the first day that he came in this world. I marvel at how quickly the years have passed; how resilient of character my son is; and how he has steadfastly remained on track, gracious, and humble. Despite major life changing events that he has endured, he has never caused me a moment's worry. He has always made the right decision amidst overwhelming obstacles. He has learned to weather disappointment and keep it in perspective, and he has celebrated his accomplishments with a quiet sense of pride.

I know that our relationship is shifting, that he is a young man, and I am the mother who still hovers too closely, fears too much, and sleeps too lightly. But as my parents always told each of their children, "you will always be my baby." My son will always be my baby. When I am old and he is helping me get up and down the stairs or unscrewing the lid off a jar, he will still be my baby.