Ancestry

Here’s What Happened When I Had My Ancestry Traced

People are pregnant, married, moving up the corporate ladder, doing crossfit, getting tatted, and I’m over here finding out about ancestors.

It wouldn’t be summertime if I didn’t put myself on a mission. Sometimes it’s cardio. Sometimes it’s cooking. Often, it’s reading enough to be able to jump into most conversations, survive, and contribute.

I mainly ventured into the ancestry rabbit hole because of history. Whenever I asked my parents where Ancestor So-and-So was from, it was always some southern state in the U.S. I’ve seen pictures of ancestors whose phenotypes prominently display Africa. I’ve seen some that made me my cock my head to the side.

But Massa ‘Nem is not an ethnicity. And the USA is relatively new. I wanted a deeper tie to an original region. I am usually elated to be a black American, but I also periodically feel displaced here. This feeling has arisen when people speak a native tongue, as slavery stripped my ancestors of ours.

Ancestry tracing is gaining popularity. It is beneficial for people who were adopted. Some do it to find out about possible illnesses. Some do it to boast their multi-racialism. Some trace to prove their lineage is uninterrupted. Dude, do you. Technology supplements aspects of our identity that institutions can erase.

This experience was deep. While I identify with the cultural and political power of blackness and see Africa as the motherland, I was pretty open to whatever appeared on the report.

Then there’s the social aspect of identity in contemporary America. In our post-everything society, where we are actually post-very little, there’s often a schism between foreign (a.k.a. “exotic”) and typical identity.

Personally, this results in folks expecting and wanting me to be spicy black. They want some performative drum circle/humanities 201/geography 301/passport-y black lady display because of my Swahili and Arabic first name, hip-length dreadlocks, rudimentary reggae knowledge and interests beyond my backyard.

People stay asking where I’m “from-from.” For those who don’t know, saying it twice helps people know it’s real. We all know the difference between liking a dude and like-liking him, right?

Apparently, I’m Jamaican. St. Lucian. Dominican. From St. Croix. Bahamian. I’ve also been Eritrean, Egyptian and Somali, although never at the same time. A Colombian guy seemed underwhelmed by the fact that I was born in a city where people wear more camo than ethnic garb.

All I can be is who I am. I am cotton black. Yet, I try to have a sense of humor because everything has degrees. A common Imani inquiry for the from-from set is, “What? Cotton don’t excite y’all?”

In all seriousness, family is exciting. Making connections. Globalism.
Feeling included by a place and its people.

That’s where 23andme.com comes into play. I researched ancestry-tracing services and decided this was the one for me. Plus, if it’s good enough for Henry Louis Gates Jr., I’m just saying.

It cost $99, not including shipping. I registered a profile, paid, spit in the kit, mailed off my specimen and waited for results, which came pretty timely.

My immediate family and I discussed everything. They had no objections. Additionally, they know I blog. They consented to me sharing the story about our ancestry. They agreed it would be neat to leave the option open for 23andMe users who share our genetic info to connect.

Then 23andMe emailed me, saying relatives were online. Y’all. We have all the cousins. Most of them are black. Some are mixed. Some are white. I started introducing myself, wondering if they would be welcoming. I don’t want anything from them, other than to get to know them as people and see where our ancestors intersected. So far, everything’s going well.

If you’re only here for the breakdown, it is in the photo below.
MyAncestry
Note: We are also .8% Neanderthal. Should I beat my chest for cave-dwelling foremothers or nah?

Ultimately, the results make sense. A long time ago, my ancestors were involved in the trafficking of people. Most were the trafficked. Some were the trafficking.

Despite these layers, my cousins still want to connect. For that, this mission is accomplished.

 

Edited to add: 23andMe says that as their algorithm improves, it’s possible for ancestral reports to change. Mine did, a little, so I posted the most recent one too.

Ancestry

Academia, Beauty ideals, Color, Prejudice

On Dreads & Why You Can’t Send a Girl Who Knows Who She is Home

Exhibit A: Nine year old Imani with a fresh perm and JC Penney dress.
Exhibit A: Nine year old Imani with a fresh perm and JC Penney dress.

“They didn’t like my dreads,” Tiana Parker, a 7-year-old black girl said. “They” are her former school, Deborah Brown Community School. Officials told Parker’s dad, Terrence, that she wasn’t presentable because of her hair.

According to the community school, “hairstyles such as dreadlocks, afros, mohawks, and other faddish styles are unacceptable.” And chastising little girls to the point of tears about their immutable characteristics is?

I don’t know a 7-year-old white girl experience. But, I remember being a 7-year-old black one and confronting people’s ignorance and distaste for anything that rendered me blacker or highlighted my parents’ conscious choice to let people know who I am. But, they taught me first.

What do I mean? If Imani Jackson shows up as a resume or application, you might not know exactly who I am, but you have a pretty good idea of who I’m not. First, it’s dope that Tiana is brave and bold enough to wear her natural hair at seven. That her father, a barber, champions his princess’ natural mane? Doper. People want their loved ones to love themselves and to present in ways that cause them the least amount of resistance.

But, it’s bigger than individuals, y’all. When I was seven, my mom finally acquiesced. The relaxer I begged, prayed and hoped for finally morphed my midnight mass into long, straight hair. I wore it relaxed for about four years until it broke, fried and drowned in a pool of split ends and spritz.

I experimented with natural styles, and unfortunately blonde hair dye, for a while until at age 17 I saw a picture of Goapele, thought about Lauryn Hill, and decided to quit playing. I began locks at 10 years old than Tiana. It taught me patience, persistence and self-love. Some days I had to go on with life, when my head looked like Coolio and a Chia pet’s Bill Nye experiment.

Gradually, the nappy, curly and coiled collision locked, grew, and became something I’m proud of. But, it was painful to get there. At Tiana’s age, I attended a multicultural magnet elementary school, as in mostly white, with kids of color and military families sprinkled in.

The teachers were generally competent, although some needed to venture beyond their backyards if they wanted to connect with more students. My hair, which my mother braided, pressed and styled in awe-inspiring black-girl styles, reminded everyone that I was different. I was tired of being different.

Always in the back of the class photos, taller than most of the boys, and having a “foreign” first name in a city that just missed being in South Georgia, my differences felt burdensome.

Why hadn’t my mom named me Brenda? That is her name. It was my late grandmother’s name. Teachers wouldn’t mispronounce Brenda. I wouldn’t be forced into awkward conversations with adults who didn’t know Kwanzaa existed, Swahili isn’t a place, and while Iman was hot stuff, her name is Spanish and I was not named after her.

Teachers barreled through Brittanys, Ashleys and Brandons with reckless abandon. That weird I-word lodged in the middle of the roll was an impediment from quickly assessing which students came to school that day. I learned to raise my hand when anything remotely “Ih”-sounding preceded Jackson.

The long and short of it is that I evolved with family support and love. The kind of love that Tiana has, as her dad, Terrence, went to bat in the media and against that school for her. That’s the same love my father showed when he reprimanded a high school boy who sought to impress his high school friends at the expense of middle school me by shoving a dirty, discarded pick in my Afro at the bus stop.

In many settings I was the only non-mixed black girl who were wore her natural hair. I was nappy and trying to be happy before curling puddings, big time bloggers and a bourgeoning beauty industry would explode into follicular fiestas for women who sat on the sidelines because they didn’t want drama regarding the hair from their mamas.

Today my hair is a big part of my identity. It’s proof that I survived. I was bullied, ostracized, thought suspect and ridiculed for being me in a world that mistreats the other. My hair gets checked by TSA. I force them to discuss the additional searches. I am stereotyped about how I spend my recreational time.

I’m automatically West Indian, even though I’m not. My mom, who has a big, curly fro, is apparently black Latina. Why our ethnicities don’t match is beyond me. I become de facto hair teacher for people of all backgrounds who don’t know how follicular diversity works.

White people tell me about their friends with sketchy showering habits and dreads. Sometimes they share the (BIG!) secret that all of their hair isn’t naturally straight. Rasta men greet me in ways I don’t fully understand. Older blacks tell me that I beat the odds and look nice with “those dreads.” Somehow my dreads inspire conversations about how black men with dreads must disprove ideas that they’re thugs.

Mostly now, I’m embraced. My hair is healthy. It’s strong. It’s long. It’s a lot like me. It’s accepted and acceptable because I accept it, love it, treat it well, and remove myself from situations where I won’t be valued because of what it represents. Life is too short to hang out in hate spaces.

Academia, Freedom

My 1st Year of Law School Was Just Like Being in a Moshpit

It started first semester. You were my, my boos. Please note: This picture does not include additional books & sources that I read/took notes from etc.
It started first semester. You were my, my boos. Please note: This picture does not include additional books & sources that I read/took notes from as a 1L.

Moshpits aren’t my thing.

On a holiday break from college, my friends and I attended a rock show. We didn’t know much about the bands. Tickets were affordable. We were bored. So it goes.

Bury Your Dead (BYD). A normal person unfamiliar with the night’s lineup would have made contextual leaps based on the band’s name. Sometimes Imani finds other nexuses.

I rocked jeans, lime green flip-flops and understated makeup. In we walked. Multiple stage dives greeted us. My stomach flopped.

One of my professors says lawyering is about semantics. Trust, Imani. Not recklessness. Sometimes people stage dive, and nobody falls. Aight.

Law school. In I walked. Learn your environment, Imani. Socratic Method. Getting called on.

“Ms. Jackson,” did I care to elaborate on (seemingly) esoteric points of the law as evidenced by the case it took me two hours, a Google history lesson and five dictionary trips to read?

Are we rocking with the majority opinion or does the dissent warrant consideration? As a coffee shop hopping, love bug leftie, I usually root for the underdog. But, is that this professor’s thing?

I’d try.

Success was perfect. Liberating. When I didn’t know the answer… Stage dive. Would I catch myself? Toiling. Reading. Noting. Study groups. Panic attacks. Dreams about class/assignments/justices/dicta/policy/issues. Can sleep please be my happy space, God? Thanks, Mgt.

Competition. The curve. Meh. Part of why I transitioned from performance theatre to creative writing in my arts high school was a desire to dictate my lane without it being relative to what everybody else had going on. Law school sees it differently.

Fists. Ideas. Someone repeats what was just said as if an epiphany god made it rain. People light up. Are some ideas more palatable from certain people? What did I sign up for?

At the BYD show, I didn’t realize I was in a moshpit or that they spontaneously form. Then a cluster of raging, sweaty people surrounded me. Someone punched me, and several ran into me. My flip-flop was swallowed by a crowd. My face hit the wall.

Ready to (try to) fight, the crowd was gone. I’ve actually never been in a fight. A new moshpit formed. Whoever hit me was in that mass of people pummeling each other. Masochism.

Sometimes you gotta move on. Appellate brief. Oral arguments. Midterms. Finals week. Walk by faith and not by sight. And sometimes sight reminds you why you’re there.

A man who lives under a bridge a block from campus spread his blanket beside a shopping cart one evening. I was leaving the library. It was freezing. Blasting the radio and heat in my Jetta, while envisioning a pre-wine to-do list, the man’s blanket broke me. I’m going home to an apartment in a gated community. He’s settling in beside rocks. Sobbing, I turned onto the highway. God, I’ll do this. You let me be here. I’ll do it.

This experience hasn’t been all or even mostly bad. I went first for oral argument. It went well. My partner is a genius. We signed our lives over for the pretend client with dedication until our brief’s submission night and argument morning.

Three attorneys, who I had never met, grilled me for 10 mind-blowing minutes while I defended the rights of a pretend man that pre-law school Imani would have written off as a creeper. A meek legal voice left my lips. With a crescendo-esque cadence, theories flew  and before I knew it, OMG adrenaline. Can I go again? Please? What about these other cases, Your Honors?

Were my client’s rights being infringed upon? Were tenuous connections used to inappropriately authorize invasions against a man deemed a creeper, whose  non-traditional interests shouldn’t be at issue?

Then the February bar takers passed with an almost 83% rate, besting competitive state schools. Strike, Rattlers. There’s always illumination in a tunnel.

Ultimately, law school relaxed me. So much is piled on my classmates and me that if we freak out about each thing, everyone will drop dead. Since I put too much time, money and effort into the education thing to go out like that, I learned to breathe. Sometimes.

That is not to say that I regurgitate statutes or 100% know the demographics I will serve. I won’t pretend that law is demystified. It takes three years to graduate. I have one under my belt. It takes bar passage to be licensed.

But, I’m learning a lot. I read/write/analogize more efficiently. I respect expertise. I notice things I didn’t before. When I renewed my lease, all that crazy jargon formed clearer ideas about what my landlord expects from tenants.

Then there’s the fact that I got my ass kicked a lot. I sent manic texts to a few trusted people, all in the legal field. I cried in a bathroom, on the highway and in my pillow. But, all the lawyers and judges I’ve met said that the worst is behind me.

It helped to cling to words. I’m so grateful to use my journalism degree as a writer while navigating this space. My editors are tremendously understanding. P.S. if you’re reading this and we’re social media buds, read me to feed me. I post links often.

In all seriousness, questions remain. I lost some things. Patience for folly. Unneeded weight stressing about stress.

A sexy marketing/journalism job offer in a big city came during first semester. I could make big girl money! Have my beaming brown face plastered on press releases! Diversity!

A mentor-turned-friend once said that my content is more relevant than my countenance. I thought he was just trying to make me feel better because modeling agents said I was “commercial.” Now I get it. I want to absorb all the life, knowledge, love and wisdom I can to make anything I curate worth the recipient’s time.

Romance. Someone I dated began waxing poetic about everything. He appointed himself as my biblical liaison and counselor. Um. What?  Maybe I missed my blessing. *Flashes back to kind collegiate men.* Their family members they had me meet. Dinner dates. Ideas we volleyed. Full stop. Everything happens for a reason.

I accept my role in my journeys. I have complexes. I love to be confided in. I hate being vulnerable. My family is profoundly loving and periodically stressful because they are truly standouts. I just want to carry our name well.

This post is not a rager or rhythm & cry-baby. It’s a victory song. I didn’t need that green flip-flop, although I had hobble-swag back to the car. I’m currently good on some normative success markers. These unorthodox dots will connect.

Adios, 1L year. You rocked and rolled. The homies and I will see another show.

Note: I didn’t actually say that creeper bit in my argument. That was subtext.

Also note: I wrote this forever post ago and wanted to wait until my grades posted and mental arbitrary hurdles were hopped. Here’s to 2L year filling my soul with gooey goodness.

Academia, Freedom, Joy, Love, Peace, Prejudice, Relationships

Embrace summertime, not pervasive personal questions

As the sun beams, wind blows, tan lines surface and memories accumulate, remember caution, especially when addressing recent graduates and upwardly mobile peeps.

Some stuff is not your business. This is a mighty revelation for some because nosy people feel entitled to everyone’s business. Because other people’s business underscores universal issues, right?

Your finances, proclivities and politics belong to all. It’s social commentary, not nosiness, right?

Child boo.

Add prevailing notions of a woeful romantic climate for women (especially of color), abysmal job market for all, and the prevalence of Facebook notifications, that yes, even they are engaged now, and the stage is set for pervasive post-grad personal questions.

I graduated in December, but recurring interrogatives often confront me. Spring graduates, prepare. You will develop nosiness spidey-senses.

You know the type. They occur as visions, when one knows that an individual who may not have taken as keen an interest in your professional and academic pursuits, is about to hit a recent graduate with the flex.

Who cares about community service? Let’s discuss carnality. Internships? So, what’s your boyfriend’s name?

It’s the pressure that causes women to hide their relationship statuses on Facebook, hashtag #him on Twitter or take to blogsites of anonymity to express the desires of their hearts without rampant judgment and assumptions.

Breezily dropping questions in speech does not change the fact that some questions are not necessary.

Too many people are team Mind Everyone Else’s Business (MEEB). And what many MEEBs fail to realize is that technological advances and instant gratification do not trump manners.

We live in an era of hyper-connectivity with key words and paparazzi creating facades of access when most people do not owe us anything.

If a celebrity, or heck, even friend of a friend, decides to put something out in the public domain, there is a strong correlation between its existence in that space and the likelihood of people commenting on and noticing it.

Fair enough.

But, even when people make something known, a notion prevails that MEEBs can ask whatever, whenever in whichever capacity the almighty collective schnoz deems appropriate.

No.

There are real opportunities to help and frequently in less invasive ways. We must remember time and place. As we embrace summer we must acknowledge that this is a transition period for scores of people, especially young women.

And transition points are tough. They are marked by reflection, trial, triumph and reassessment. All of that is not breaking news nor should it be.

Transitions do not have to occur under a microscope by obsessive observers who ought to channel their investigative gifts into self-actualization more than dirt digging.

Obviously I’m not addressing everyone. Some people have relationships of trust, love and expertise, which make their interactions meaningful opportunities to learn and grow. Every inquisitive soul is not a MEEB.

But, sometimes sexism is a little too blatant as some situations expose how little unfortunate minds think of women on their own, independent of their romantic relationships or decision to express certain personal choices on a plethora of platforms.

As recent graduates collect photos, funds and memories, many begin planning and working toward the next phase of their lives. Support them. Sponsor something. Connect them with viable professionals. Love them. Help if you can.

But, a bargain for exchange should not be access to the whos, whats, and whens of their bedrooms, date nights and black books, especially if you’re not dating, pursuing or remotely close to them.

As the temperatures rise, don’t catch MEEBer fever.

Beauty ideals, Color, Freedom, Journalism

Virginity, public figures and women’s worth

Who doesn’t love an endearing Olympian, one with a story of overcome obstacles and inevitable success? Add to the mix a self-deprecating, green-eyed hottie with a six-pack, cascading chestnut hair and refreshing sexual candor.

The media loves Lolo Jones. And with her work ethic, talent, good looks and smarts, this is rightfully so.

But for some journalists and bloggers, her personal decision to abstain from sex eclipses all the other things that make her rad, namely athletic prowess and openness about a range of topics.

Jones was the leader in the gold medal final of women’s hurdles in 2008 at the Beijing Olympics, but she hit a hurdle and finished seventh in the race.

That unforeseen occurrence will likely serve as motivation as she works toward the Olympics in London.

The track and field runner’s likability stems not only from people cheering her on in hopes of a UK win, but also because of her willingness to share different aspects of her life.

She acknowledged childhood trials and said that she could have been a “professional shoplifter”, not because she wanted the latest duds and coordinating accessories, but because she wanted to help feed her family.

That candidness spilled over into her personal life as she took to Twitter about her life as a virgin. She has said that the decision was difficult and, essentially, that it complicates and/or obstructs her dating life.

Jones decided that she would not have sex until marriage and said that she wants the experience to be a gift for her husband.

The choice is commendable, yet universal fixation with her decision to wait can underscore a climate of crotch-watching judgment of women who do not, have not, might not, or were robbed of their opportunity.

The conversation is appropriate in this instance because Jones opened up the lines of dialogue, but there is a fine line between celebrating people who live up to normative goals and making things awkward and judgmental for those who differ.

This includes everything from household composition to economic expectation and worship habits.

Family and relationship dynamics are disproportionately attributed to women, their sexualities and their inherently linked worthiness. Oftentimes women carry babies to term and burdens of patriarchy and sexism for life.

Even so, we know about Jones’ virginity in the same culture that also publicized Tim Tebow’s. One time for journalistic balance.

Be clear: It is not about taking anything from Tebow or Jones for allowing their convictions to mitigate against their carnality. It takes strength and comfort in one’s individuality to do so.

But, it is also cool when people who descend from substance abusers avoid vices, when dropouts birth college graduates, when abuse victims peace out, and when people deviate from a predetermined route that could be easier to trek. Defying negative statistics is made of win.

Yes, there is a case for rarity.

Legitimate virginity (not newfangled this-not-that or s/he-was-actually-a-rough-draft stuff) is an increasingly abandoned choice in a society of notable sexual risk and/or reward—teen pregnancy, general pregnancy, STDs, connections, recreation, enjoyment.

Jones should be championed for being different and because of her capacity to become a  model of perseverance and hard work. (She worked at Home Depot and as a hostess while studying at LSU.)

Critical thinkers have to make sure that celebrating one does not slight the other. Honest questions should be asked.

Would people take as keen an interest in her sexuality if she did not fit beauty ideals? What if she were of mixed gender, not race? How high will the pedestal created for her other aspects of life be now? Will people remember that her life is hers, regardless of her ascension to public figure status?

People are complex. Societies are complex. With diversity and enough intelligence to appreciate variety, we should celebrate respect, honesty, autonomy and selectivity in healthful sexual practices.

We should be careful not to allow women’s bodies, and preconceived notions about how they look and how they’re used, to trump conversations of a more universal and inclusive nature, aka stuff that is actually other people’s business.

We should unpack biases whenever they involve others’ liberties to be whom and how they are—without harming others.

Regardless of notches on one’s belt or the absence thereof, in matters as sacred as one’s body, people are not entitled to more than they are offered.

Sexuality, as with many aspects of humanity, does not exist only in extremes with alienated virgin on one end and walking grab bag on the other.

Freedom, Journalism, Love

Count your blessings, yo!

I dwell in abundant grace. It is not always transparent. But, if I refocus, it is always apparent. It is not always as accessible as I would prefer. But, I accept my role in reclaiming it.

So much of the world is what we create it to be, and for that I am grateful. Again, for my perception I am responsible.

People tend to think I have rose-tinted glasses, perpetual peace signs, and rechargeable Zen. Boylookaheeeere.

The older I become the less it is about what people perceive and what I perceive about myself. What I want. What I go for. When I succeed. When I falter. Humble pie a la mode.

When I bandage bruised knees and sprint against Father Time. Or Mother Time. No phallocentrism.

During my freshman year of college a journalist whom I admire told me that I write well, and have potential, but need my “ass kicked by life.” He told me that he could tell that I grew up in an environment where I was nurtured and, essentially, allowed to be a happy, observant hippie type. He told me that trying experiences would improve my work.

That was a trigger. My work is integral to my worth. And while I  am unopposed to juggling tasks, my words are the work I most enjoy.

Yet I wonder how much will happen? In what time frame? *turns around, looks at donk, files for it’s-been-kicked documentation to send to verification office that will reverse the odds*

On a cognitive level I know to acknowledge that which is empirical and experiential, but the overlap of sensory stuff and emotionalism are real in the field.

At first the expression “in my feelings” was irksome, but mid-issue it is beautifully simple and profound.

This is the part where open-book-painfully-honest-Imani makes an allusion to trials and tribulations without naming them. She summons wisdom, meditates on some Proverbs, and backstrokes into optimism as if her soul needs buoyancy.

Because it does. And that’s ok.

When I was 14 I confronted a life changing decision to go forward with spinal fusion surgery to correct my scoliosis. I grew like a sunflower. From 5’5 at age ten to 5’10 at 13.

I am now 6 feet tall.

I did not become a world-traveled model, glorified for height and opted out of awkwardness and alienation. (I have interviewed them for stories, though!) Instead, a doctor told me that if my spine were not corrected, my organs could fail in the future.

Think about it. A straight back keeps everything in its proper spot. A sideways curve, which I had, could wreak internal havoc.

I told my parents that I wanted it corrected. And so it was. Roses. Carnations. A hot, cocoa haired nurse. I still cannot determine if he were real or an intravenously induced halleluj–oops, hallucination. Excruciating recovery. Appetite loss. Ringing a bell for family members to bring me food.

What sounded royal in nature sucked for an independent spirit that would rather fight the power than say pretty please.

But, God was with me. I came out of the surgery with a scar that did not keloid (a very real fear for people of color). I am in good health.

I met several people who either had or need the surgery through the years.

In a teen club near the beach, I spotted the telltale mark on a girl’s back in a restroom. I snatched off the fishnet shirt over my bikini top to show her my solidarity mark.

At first she looked weirded out. Then it was a really cool, random, human moment of frailty and understanding. We complimented each other’s scar, exchanged anecdotes, and rejoined the foam partiers.

(Judge not, y’all.)

My cousin went to school with a girl who fell into the small percentage of people who were paralyzed by the surgery. I thank God and my cousin’s discretion that I never heard the story until I healed.

My sister was a toddler when it all unfolded, so she was not aware of my difference until she became older. A year or two ago she asked me why I have a faint mark from between my shoulders to above my tailbone.

I told her that I have sexy back, and proceeded to gyrate and serenade her off-key dinnamug in my best Justin Timberlake impression.

One day I was boring. I told her the grown-up version, a clinical story of rapid growth, S-curvation, and why I told my mom that she could not send me to school with an Afro and back brace with headgear.

I bring this up not to have more eyes on my back, although I don’t mind my scar, but to remind myself and someone else who might need it, that we are built for survival.

It does not take a huge risk to realize our potential, although it can help.

Sometimes we find our resilience in  painful, trying and inopportune ways. Sometimes people can bring about discomfort.

If we let too much outside noise reverberate, we lose the safe space to dare, dream and do. If we lose our technicolor dreams and improvement themes, the world falls flat.

So I write this as a promise to improve my gratitude and attitude. Stuff sucks, but so much more does not. I will do my best to pop-and-lock during what my mom calls “but, God” moments.

Go ‘head. Be gone with it.

Academia, Entertainment, Freedom, Joy, Love, Peace

Ego Trips, epiphanies and intellectualism with Nikki Giovanni

When public figures present their humanity to crowds it is that much easier to understand why people love them. This could not have been more apparent than when Nikki Giovanni made an appearance in my hometown, Jacksonville, Fla., last night.

It was an honor not only to see her encourage and empower a mostly Black audience at Edward Waters College, but it was also humbling to see that a woman, whose brand withstands the test of time, share triumphs, pain and progress with audiences.

She delivered a constructively critical presentation and performed spoken word.

After signing every autograph requested of her, she graciously engaged the media and talked everything from peace to hairpieces in a  press conference at the college. She told the media that she had nothing else planned that night and would answer every question asked.

She re-emphasized the need for urban youth to have technology, namely computers or iPADS. She shamed anti-immigration legislation.

When asked about natural hair, Giovanni did not espouse self-hatred themes about women who embrace chemical alterations.

In fact, she said she thought it was quite clever when young women had green hairpieces.

“One plays with oneself,” she said. She shared that when overcoming cancer she colored her hair blonde to show her mother that she would be ok. Also, as a woman with tawny skin, her hair color gave what she described as an instant tan.

Giovanni kept it real. She kept it human.

The professorial poet reminded listeners of the need for emotionalism in light of technological advances. She said that she does not ask her students at Virginia Tech year specific questions that could be answered with their gadgets.

Instead, she said that she asks questions like “What role did personal ambition play in the Renaissance?”

Many told her that they had never encountered emotional responses to academic material.

I could go on and on about the myriad perspectives that she shared and causes she championed… However, I hope that you’ll check out my story for HBCU Digest on her visit.

** Sneakpeak**  She and I talked hip-hop and misogyny.

 http://www.hbcudigest.com/34244/