Arbitration

"Heaven Only Knows" by John Legend

...heaven only knows / heaven only knows...


I am sitting in this Art History 104 class, an important class to complete for my psychology major.  I almost didn't get into it and this professor was so kind as to give me an override and register for this class.

It was a struggle to get into this class because, although it was offered at many times, I had to pick a time that would not interrupt my work schedule (don't worry boo! I'ma tell you about my job!).  My job is quite flexible about accommodating my class schedule.  However, I don't want my hours to dwindle and reduce that fat check boo.

Today, I finally finished registering.  I have one class on Monday, Art History, and four classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Yes, that leaves Wednesdays and Fridays completely open.  I will be using those days as reading days in the morning before and after work.

So I am here sitting in this Art History class, which I was a little excited about.  I am an inconspicuous artist and of course I love history.  What better combination could there be than art and history?  What could be more interesting than to learn what cultural, religious, political, economic, and social circumstances that create and influence art?  I would be enthralled to learn about the way art has changed over centuries, how different artists influence one another, how art is an ancient, eternal, and universal conversation amongst human beings.

It ain't like that.

First of all, my professor is kind of a prick.  She's a young professor, probably an artist herself, extremely controlling, has too many rules, and is generally annoying.  Her most absurd rules are that you cannot use/have a laptop or cell phone in class.  Harmless right? But wait.  If you do use one of these two things, you will be permanently dismissed from class with a grade of W or F.

Heffah say what?

I agree with the no cell phone policy.  All these ringtones and collective vibrating is extremely distracting in class.  It also extremely offensive to the professor whose job it is to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge.  This job can only be performed if students pay attention and participate.

But to dismiss people from class? Absurd! This is college and this is typically a course taken late in one's college career by us non-art majors (because everybody waits until their last semester to complete their art credit).  We are adults and deserve some autonomy in our classes.  If taking notes on my laptop is the way I choose to catalog my notes, I should definitely be able to do so.  I find it insulting.  We pay to attend these classes and most of us are experienced enough in the academic field to use the form of note-taking and class participating that will most optimally facilitate our learning.

I kept giving her this side-eye/I-want-to-slap-you look.  I wish she would "permanently dismiss" me from her class.  I will permanently dismiss her from life. #andthatsreal

And this class is 2 hours and 45 minutes long, which I thought would be fine, but her rules and this dry ass material is killing me.  Of course, it is all the history of European art.  No colored folks up in chyea.  Shocking.

Please let me get an A in this class God.  My coursework will be remarkable as always but my attitude could be rank.  I believe professors dock some points for attitude.  I could come out of pocket and tell her about herself.  Don't get it twisted.  They have egos too.

Tear Asunder Your Illusions

 "Off The Wall" by Michael Jackson

...you can shout out all you want to / 'cause there ain't no sin in folks all gettin' loud / if you take a chance and do it / then they're ain't no one who's gonna put you down...


I took my braids out yesterday and washed it to reveal my natural little afro.  I was quite excited.  I can't really explain how I felt other than liberated.

I felt free of a lot of toxins, free of a lot of expectations, and free of a lot of nuisance.

I am sure that people will respond to me differently.  There is something considered to be intimidating or even haughty about natural haired women.  Women with natural hair are typically "conscious" and consciousness can sometimes connotate a haughtiness.

But I don't think haughtiness is accurate.  Something happens in you when realize how much the institutions of this civilizations lie to you, how impossible they try to make it for the common man, how they distract you so as not to allow you to notice the emptiness of this life and try to fight against it.  So you may be angered, irritated, underwhelmed with your life, frustrated with the blind people around you.  Maybe it is haughtiness.  Whatever.

Nonetheless, I felt electrified.  I know some people won't find me as attractive.  I know that certain type of men won't approach me (Hallelujah).  It's amazing, really.

I do feel a little self conscious.  I have lost the lustrous curly stands and other Caucasian knock off styles that people admired.  I miss the hair on my shoulders in some moments.  However, as I transition into this person who doesn't give a shit about what people think of her, who is doing it for Africa (everyday), who wants to let go of this materialistic, disillusioned, inauthentic, convoluted way of living to return to complex simplicity, who is preparing for daughters and the story of beauty I will be and teach them, I also gain confidence.  I'm happy to be natural and know what I know and to have realized what I have realized.

Lastly, it's just hair.  It is just a protein filament that grows out of our heads.  Civilization and culture happened and it became a way of expressing something, which is fine.  However, as usual, we have taken it too far.  It is a mode of expression but it is not our only mode of expression.


So Zainab, do what you do with this new do.  You are beautiful.


Zainab --> doing it for Africa since 1987.

Barnyard

"Closer to Love" by Matt Kearney

...oh, it's your light / oh, it's your way / pull me out of the dark / just to show me the way...

In the third grade, Ms. Miriello assigned us a project that required us to look at the moon every evening at the same time. We were supposed to record our findings in order to incorporate it into our lessons about weather, climate, weather and climate patterns, etc.

I always forgot to look at the moon at the same time each night and some nights I would just forget totally. I basically had to forge the information because I had no clue what the moon looked like that night. I forgot to look! I was 8 years old in 1995. The internet had not debuted in my life so I could not look it up and write it in on the calendar we were provided.

I cannot remember if my parents knew about my project and my delinquent reporting. I do remember, however, one night, my mother waking me out of my sleep to show me the moon. She gently held my hand and dragged my sleepy body to our back porch in our house in Raleigh, NC.

I could barely open my eyes and I was paranoid that I was in some kind of trouble so I was very disoriented. She stood behind me, held my shoulders, and rested her chin on the spot where my neck and shoulder met. She whispered in my ear while pointing up, "Look at the moon."

I looked up to a huge, blue glowing full moon, the only one of the cycle we were recording in school. I remember thinking how gorgeous it looked, that light cobalt blue against that almost black sky with sprinklings of small white stars.

I cannot remember if I recorded it or what, but that memory has always stuck with me. It was my little moment with my mom. I didn't have to share her with Sheikh or Lima. It was our little moment where my mother paid attention to the details of my life, woke her daughter up to look at the spectacle that was the moon.

I remember what she smelled like, the light pink pajama outfit she wore, the brand of her whisper. That is the woman I remember. I am angry with her. I am frustrated with her. But I remember that moment and I remember the woman that I love, the woman that I want to learn from, the woman I want to be like.

Since then, full moons have always meant my mother is watching, thinking of her daughter somewhere, with her hands on my shoulder and her whisper in my hair.

Goodnight Mommy.

Sometimes Love Takes a Long Time

"I Cry" by Anthony Hamilton

...oh girl I cry / these tears that I shed are the trails to bring you home...

I have taken to calling the House. I check on Lima Bean, mostly, and have interesting conversation with my Pops. My Daddy and I have always had the most interesting, stimulating, informative conversations for as long as I can remember.

The man is remarkably genius. Can't nobody tell me nothin' about my Daddy. He instilled in my this love of learning; this understanding that all the subjects (math, science, liberal arts) are all connected. They are not as rigidly compartmentalized as we would like to think.

Knowledge comes full circle. He also taught me that literally, the more you learn, the more you realize you know very little. Knowledge just doesn't make you knowledgeable, but sophisticates you enough to see how much there is in the world and how short your time is to learn it. That is what supposed to make you excited about life. Scurry, mice, for the nourishing cheese that is knowledge.

The Remedial Arts

"Break My Little Heart" by Jazmine Sullivan

...boy don't lead...lead me on / you don't know how I feel / please promise me...

I know this girl, beautiful girl. Funny, smart and wise far beyond her years. Loyal and honest, generous and considerate. Wide-eyed and ready. Dreams big and feels big.

If humans could even be perfect, she would almost be there.

But this girl doesn't know any of this about herself. She isn't humble. She is insecure.

And we're all insecure. However, her insecurities outweigh her knowledge of her grandiosity almost completely. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

It sabotages her in so many ways, like insecurities typically do. She is paranoid about how she is perceived, anxious about who she is, and hyperbolic in the examination of her flaws. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

She thinks his actions are whispers about her. His steps are sonar rebukes against the person she is. He isn't just unresponsive to a text, but he is ignoring her soul altogether, as if he is out to break her heart just by living his life. She doesn't see his attentiveness, his sensitivity to her feelings, and his willingness to talk and explain. She sees very little of the what the rest of the world loves about her.

Although my efforts in combating my own insecurities have been quite remedial, I have assumed the task of teaching her how to rebuild herself, love herself.

So I stopped by the computer lab in the library before my 2 o'clock class and typed up a syllabus for her. I described the course in self discovery she would be taking, listed the textbooks, and gave her a rudimentary outline of the assignments in personal growth she would have to complete.

And while I have her do all this, I, the professor, too will read. And we will repair ourselves together.

We will perfect the original projection of the image of perfection the world can already see.

Dante's New Beatrice

"Round Midgnight" by Ella Fitzgerald

...I do pretty well 'til after sundown / Suppertime I'm feelin' sad / But it gets really bad / 'Round midnight / Memories always start 'round midnight...

Nineteen days into this new year, I am quite proud of myself. Classes have commenced and I'm in love with my brain. I love school. I love to learn and I am taking the kinds of intellectually stimulating, humanity connecting classes that my mind was truly created for.

I am taking a World Studies class about the classic The Divine Comedy by the epic Italian poet Dante Alighieri. My professor is this balding, handsome, compactly built Italian genius who stolen my mind with his vast knowledge and my heart with his accent and animated English.

I imagined that this class would be messily boring (because I resent "the classics" written by these dead white men whose offspring annihilated what would have been African classics). But it is not. Dr. Piciche offers information about Dante the writer.

He provides historical and social contexts for many of the things Dante includes in his poem. He comments that times never really change. The technology gets better so more details are recorded and more babies are made so there is more to record. But times never really change.

Hence the term "classic". Classics survive time; remain relevant. Time gives us the illusion that things have changed so we hang on to very few things. And classics are the few things we hang onto.

Education sophisticates people. I do not mean sophistication in some saddidy, I-read-more-and-better-than you kind of way. Education sophisticates one into being humble. It reminds a person how big the world is and how small every person is...unless you decided that there is something that you can do to improve the world. That is what makes one grand.

In this new year, I have decided to discover and display my grandiosity. I have taken to praying far more often than I used to, eating as good as I know I should, being patient, and even more empathetic. I am calm.

I am still the same. I am uptight and I worry too much. I am pessimistic and I am dramatic. But I can calm myself down within a few seconds. If not, eventually, the situation dissipates totally and I think about it in a far less tragic way. It becomes correctable, manageable, necessary even.

I think I could be happy even though the situation has not changed. Beauty is a state of mind.

Like a Rock

"No Diggity" by Blackstreet

...I like the way you work it / No diggity / I'm 'bout to bag it up...

I found and read an article on www.CNN.com about a young boy with autism who was lost at sea with his father. I identified with all the things the father spoke about(click here to read it). The father kept track of his son as the boy drifted farther and farther away by reciting lines from Disney movies his son loved. (They were both rescued and survived).

My brother has autism and I often shout out beginning lines of catch phrases from different shows and movies he likes for him to complete them. He always laughs when I begin them. He understands it as a game and he loves it. I thought it was so cool that someone else does that with the child with autism that he loves.

It is a strange affinity. I love him because he is my brother. I love him because he is sick and I think if he knows he is loved, he can do much better than if he didn't know. I feel like I have to protect him, defend him, and save him from a world and culture that may not care about him.

I love a giggly, energetic boy with autism named Lima. He is the last of us to be born and the reason that we stick together, despite the tumult that is our family relationship. I was talking to Bri today and mentioned that. We go through a lot as a family and although our culture strongly emphasizes the unconditional love of family, I am not sure we would have upheld that without Lima Bean.

No matter what goes on within our family, no matter how angry we get with one another, we seem to be willing to reconcile for his sake. He is our atom and we are his electrons.

Even in this current tempest, his 18th birthday is this month and my parental unit is throwing him a birthday. Despite the fact that I don't really want to talk to them, I will definitely go because he is my sunshine, our sunshine. It hurts sometimes that the trials in my life have trumped my obligations to my brother. However, no life is without trials, so when court is adjourned, I'll return to my duties as his loving and attentive older sister.

We don't say things like "I love you" at my house, or show much affection at all, but we all tell Lima that we love him, when he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, when he returns from school, randomly when he passes through a hallway. Lima is the only thing we love more than we love to fight.

I love a child with Autism.

Sa Lone Krio

"You Put a Move on My Heart" by Tamia

...when the world seems a lonely place / I've got a dream that won't leave a trace / of the blues...

Language is miraculous and it is inadequate. It is so amazing that we developed this tool to communicate complex thoughts to one another. We have so many different languages with so many words and so many ways to express so many different thoughts.

But at the same time, there are so many things that are left uncommunicated or left communicated ineffectively. Language itself is beautiful. The efficacy of human communication is up for debate.

I speak a language called Krio. It is one of languages spoken at home in Sierra Leone and is under the umbrella of Creole languages of the world. It's a hybrid of English, Portugese, and an antiquated African language of Sierra Leone.

I love Krio. Of all the languages I have heard, it is the most fun, most alive, most versatile, most playful, and most far reaching (this is easily due to my personal bias). I love the language. She was my first.

When I moved to the United States, I forgot her for a little while but she was just dormant in my talents. When I grew up and had cousins coming from Sierra Leone, I wanted to be apart of their club. I had no memories of Sierra Leone, but I had her language. The stories that were told, the jokes that were made, the inside jokes that were maintained, the arguments/debates had were better in Krio. So, I listened very intently and I relearned to speak my first language in one summer at my Auntie Kadiatu's house surrounded by 5 cousins who spoke Krio and Temne better than English.

I spoke it exclusively, and I talk a lot. Eventually, I would slip up and think to say something in Krio, but would have to stop and switch to English mode for my friends.

Yesterday, a friend of mine and his girlfriend welcomed a baby girl. They too are from Sierra Leone. My older brother, his girlfriend, and I went to visit the family in the hospital. She explained to us what the pain was like. I have had people explain to me what childbirth is like and I have seen several myself, but the difference this time was that she spoke Krio.

The intentional hyperbolic stress on some words dancing with the raise in pitch of her voice in Krio made me almost feel what she felt. There is a tangibility about Krio to me. When some words are spoken, they have a life of their own. She used "heavy" to describe the contractions and heavy had a scent, and light, and a physical sensation to me. That is how I know I will need an epidural.

I listened to her say every word very intently (as I do when I listen to anyone talk). I hear the stresses, the pitches, the breathes in between. I hear everything. People would be creeped out if they knew the manner in which I listened to them speak.

And, I really liked the way she spoke. I do not like the way I speak Krio. I talk too fast so I eat the language rather than deliver it. I catch my tongue getting frustrated with the speed of my thoughts. At times she'll stop working all together in protest, as if to say she shouldn't be expected to keep up with the pace of my thoughts. There is time yet to communicate them. Chill.

But she also understands my excitement. I love to speak English but I love Krio more. I get to speak Krio to the people who love me most, who understand my history the best. Language is one of the few things that we could bring over from Sierra Leone and it connects us. We get to revert to our mother tongue and encourage fellowship after the American world has chewed us up, told us we are inadequate because we are foreign, alienated us because we are foreign.

Many foreigners, if not all, feel that way. You always feel some type of way, some type of closeness to a person you don't even know when you find out they speak your language while you walk along the streets with exclusive English speakers. This is the land of opporunity and the "melting pot/salad bowl," but sometimes, you miss home.

Sometimes, no matter how acclimated you have become, you feel that you can never be American. So when you run into some lady in the store, your ears perk up when you hear the syllables of your language and maybe you think of your mom and how she used to say to you in anger "Bo, pas na ya. La I no tel you 2 tem."

You know that lady knows your food, knows your music, has her flag hanging from her rearview mirror, yells at her children not to be "lek den American pikin den." And it's comforting.

September 12th

"I Decided" by Solange

I like using this small font. I don't know why exactly but it is much more aesthetic to me. The blog entries I write tend to be rather long and somehow a smaller font seems to consolidate the chaos.

Today is the day after September 11th and I was trying to remember what I was doing, what I noticed, what was going on around me on September 12, 2001. I was 14 at the time and the only thing I can really recall is that my Mom did not want us to tell people that we were Muslim and she would not let us go outside. That was annoying but having grown up, I realize what she was trying to do and I understand.

I remember it took a while before school went back to normal and freshman year of high school ended up being the longest year of my high school career for some reason.

I thought it was interesting that although I forgot that it was the seventh anniversary of the attacks, my blog entry on this particular blog was about planes (be they paper) and democracy (about home life). I didn't mean for that to happen, but once I realized that it was 9/11, it struck me as an unconscious attempt to remind myself. Read Magic Woman if you want to know what I currently think about the whole anniversary, consequent war, and all that.