Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

10 Essential Tips for Learning a New Language

We are global. We move about and we travel. Not all travel is touristic, however, as the gaps in global businesses close. According to the the U.S. Commerce Department’s National Travel and Tourism Office, the number of U.S. citizens traveling outside the country for business and leisure jumped by 6 percent last year, reaching a total of 93 million. As we connect with different people and cultures, language becomes essentially important when seeking to study abroad, work abroad, and even conducting business. But you need not worry-you can and should learn a new language! Learning new languages doesn’t only open opportunities beyond your imagination, it keeps your brain agile and will help you materialize your capabilities to connect and understand your fellow global citizens! Isn’t that exciting?! Once you commit to learning a new language, follow these 10 essential tips for faster acquisition, and speak-ability (see how I did that? LOL):

  1. Take a course. Some of us need community. Joining a class not only commits you to learning, it offers motivation and guidance in learning your chosen language. Language schools are also a great place to network with other students and you’ll inadvertently gain more information about your language by way of other students who have traveled to different countries, business opportunities, all while enjoying a group setting for practice.
  2. Supplement your education online. Youtube provides an array of language lessons for free. Listen to it while you drive, when at home, repeat the words you hear.
  3. Watch films in the language of pursuit, put on the subtitles. You’ll be surprised at how quickly your brain registers the sounds of chosen language. It will also help you in pronunciations, stresses, and tonal sounds.
  4. Learn at least 3 words a day and use it in a sentence. No one to practice? Recite these sentences while you look at your mouth in the mirror. Our tongues must become familiar with certain words. You’ll find your mouth making shapes you’ve never used.
  5. Don’t get hung up on the grammar. You will make mistakes. Focus on small phrases and practice saying them over and over. You may also write down essential travel phrases like: Hello/Thank you/My name is…/Where is the bathroom?/How much is it? Practice saying these phrases in your chosen language. Also remember, your vocabulary will grow quickly. Sometimes, one word sentences and pointing (using your body to communicate) helps.
  6. Buy a language CD to listen to while you drive and/or while at home.
  7. Get a friend who speaks your language and frequent areas where your chosen language is spoken. Tell your friend who is a native speaker, that you wish to learn the language and requests that all conversations be done in said language for a time. This is a great way to get corrected on grammar, and honor your friend’s culture. Go to restaurants, cultural events, and even try to get invited to private gatherings and listen. Watch mannerisms, listen to expressions and conversational colloquialisms.
  8. Practice your new language. Order food, make purchases at a store, or begin with greetings. If you’re in New York, go to China Town and practice your Mandarin; In Miami, order a cafecito (Cuban coffee) in Little Havana. Learning a new language can be delicious as you immerse yourself in its culture through food!
  9. Listen to music in your chosen language. You’ll discover a plethora of wonderful music and become familiar with the poetry of your new language. As you listen, try to understand phrases. Write down words or phrases you don’t understand. Try to understand figurative language: similes, metaphors, and idioms.
  10. Practice writing! You can get a pen pal. Write a letter to a friend. Or you may write a letter to yourself. You can also practice writing a poem. You cannot write without reading. Reading allows more practice and familiarization with your chosen language. Not ready to write? Google Translate an entire text you’ve written in your native language. Read and become familiar with inverses in language.

Learning a new language can be scary and even frustrating. But don’t give up. Follow these tips and I can assure you that your new language will spill from your lips with ease in no time. Challenge yourself and have fun! Parlez-Vous Francais?!

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

I want to Save Black People

I’m going to begin this post with an apology-to myself for not recording my thoughts more often. At least, not throughout the summer. I mean, I’ve written. I think I’d have a harder time dealing with myself if I didn’t record how I was feeling. But fear has kept me from posting. Having said that, I will apologize to my potential and current followers for not sharing. I believe we can each teach one; and many times, I find that my experiences are beneficial to others. Furthermore, I usually post about more existential realities through anectdotes. Those are philosophical, and always include an allorgical reference which we can each, probably, apply.

But here I go. Lately, I’ve been deep in seclusion, reflection, and space of just being. I’ve become somewhat of a recluse. And that’s on purpose. As an empath, I feel the weight of the world. As if, I’m waiting for my super power to kick in, so I can save the Black people. But alas, it hasn’t happened. And I’m emensely depressed over the fact that people still hate. People are ever so greedy. People seek approval and hyperbolize their lives for attention like a drug. And at the bottom, are yet still, the Blacks. The Blacks, often copied, never respected. Our culture. Often acculturated and appropriated, never given credit. Our hair, often ridiculed, often adopted. Our skin, often seen as an anomally, rarely attributed to its originality of life.

I’m tired. And while one may read this and say, Oh, here’s another angry Black woman. I say, No. I’m not angry. I’m just sad. Sad that in this day and age, people are dominated by White Supremacy. That one would think that I am seeking approval or acceptance from the hegemonic society, or that I at least should, is absurd. I’m no conformist. And I find that anytime I conform, I am depressed. So no thanky you; I am not seeking a seat at the table. I’d like to say, Fuck you. Go fuck yourself, and your job.

But oftentimes, we have to conform. We conform to be able to provide for our families. I lament the years Black people fought for integration. I think it was the biggest disservice to our race. I think the fight should have been, should still be, for access. We want access and equality. Not an opportunity to serve you. Don’t be fooled by our free nation, we are not free. Freedom comes with the equal access to acquiring real wealth. And I’m not speaking of the opportunity to play for your sports teams, or dance on a grand stage, like Beyonce. Black people, like all people are more than your entertaining monkeys. Stop looking to us as your monkeys. I don’t want a banana. I don’t want your foodstamps. I don’t want your handouts. I just want equal access to real contracts, money, owning networks, enterprises, the real money making machines. I don’t want to conform to you; it’d be nice to have others conform to us for a change without it being a conformity to our culture. Stop using us without giving a rat’s ass how it came to be; what others suffered to bring that to you; stop consuming our gifts as a birthright, and taking the credit for it. Stop White Supremacy.

I want the world to really be my oyster. However, I don’t want to be the oyster. When you see a Black person, try to forget what you think about them. Remove the stereotypes of what you think a Black person is. We are not angry, aggressive, theives, killers, gangbangers. And we don’t all like hip-hop or live a hip-hop lifestyle. I love hip-hop-the music, the elements, the artform. People watch videos, and think they are adopting a hip-hop lifestyle, still, cultural appropriation-albeit wrong-and want to act Black, whatever their notions of Black is, and yet, don’t really want to BE Black. They love what is perceived as Black culture, as if it’s wrapped in hip-hop, without the traumas of being Black. Black is not a culture, it is not a stain upon life. Black is a codefied word to describe peoples having African ancestry. Can you imagine thinking that a Black person from Papua New Ginea is hip-hop. Well, with the way of the world, who knows? Maybe their young people are embracing hip-hop. But when you find Europeans and Asians embracing hip-hop, without any respect to its founding people, I cringe.

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

My Niggah

Two Boys on Tracks, San Marcos

“Whut up, my niggah!” Came the boisterous greeting from Carl to his best friend from Kindergarten as he approached him. He gave his friend the once over, studying his oversized, worn sneakers, baggy jeans held by a tight belt, that seemed to swallow his thinly framed friend, as the jeans were bigger than the present-day, Hip-hop fashion commanded, and his oversized Cross Colour ® shirt, a Hip Hop clothing design which became popular in 1989, appeared weathered. The once vibrantly multi-colored, stripped shirt was now faded.  “Guess you wearin’ yo’ big bro’s old clothes again!” He laughed, still holding his friend’s hand, from “slappin’ fives”, and sliding into held fists, which remained at chest height. Carl’s eyes made it to his friend’s hair, and then Carl made a quick jerk from the hand embrace. He brought his released fist to cup his lips and he yelled, “Yooooooo! What da fuck dey did to yo’ tape, man?!” He cackled out, stomped his feet as if he meant to march away, but was suspended by a turnstile as he made a full 360° turn while dancing and chanting in synchronized march step. He looked at his friend and repeated, “Whut dey did to yo’ tape, niggah?! Dey fucked you up!” He seemed to press hard upon the word, ‘fuck’, as he held that word longer than the any other word in his query. He reached up to his friend’s forehead, where his hairline was crooked, and half of it was  ¼ of an inch further back from his natural hairline, proving that his barber was either blind or inept. Carl bent over in a belly laugh, not realizing the hurt he had imposed upon his too-shocked-to-speak friend.

“Mannn, shuddup!” Bernard muttered, grossly embarrassed and looking around as if he’d find the perfect hole to crawl into. He touched his hairline with his right hand, and palm brushed his curly hair down, as if that would correct the injustice done to it. He pushed past his friend, more angrily now, than hurt, to continue his walk to the school house. His old backpack slouched on his right shoulder, forcing his body to lean towards the left as he stalked away. His step hipped-hopped on his left leg, as was the “cool walk” of the day, taking full steps with his left, and shorter ones of his right leg. Looking at him, one couldn’t tell if that was due to the weight of his book bag, or his natural walk. Either way, his pride was tethered to that walk, which gave the perception that it did not bother him that he was lacking what he thought was essential to a successful life at school. If his mom didn’t stop trying to cut his hair, and he didn’t get some new clothes soon, his life at Miramar Elementary School would be hell. He’d have no respect, and worse, no friends. He slapped his fist into his open left palm as he thought about what he could do to make money.

“Yo, B! Wait up, niggah. Don’t be mad at me!” Carl yelled as he ran after his best friend. It wasn’t his fault dude was coming to school all jacked up. At least he still hung out with him. And if he didn’t tell him the truth, he wouldn’t be a friend. Bernard should be lucky that he still hangs out with him even though he comes to school looking like his people must be poor as fuck. He put his arm around his friend’s neck aggressively, although to show affection. “Chill out, niggah.” He beckoned, but more to show his familiarity, “We fam, niggah. Don’t get all all soft on me, nah.” He shook his pal’s neck as if that would shake off the hurt he realized Bernard was feeling.

The boys traveled two more blocks south in silence. They continued their way down to NW 2nd Avenue; their destination, 30th Street, to wait on the school bus scheduled to pick them up from behind Buena Vista Elementary School. As they passed by LaFama Supermarket on 31st Street, Carl turned to Bernard who by now was in better spirits and said, “Man, I’m hungry.”

The smell of Cuban coffee and fresh pastries filled the air. One could also get a whiff of buttered Cuban toasts and bacon. The bakery café right next door to La Fama served breakfast and dinner at the same time. Cubans ate anything at any time. They even had chicharrones, pork cracklings, right next to the pastelitos de guayaba,  pastelitos de guayaba y queso, and pastelitos de carne-the three main staples of Cuban pastries, in the pastry warmer which also contained empanadas de carne, and croquetas de jamón.

Carl fell from formation and faced the bakery. The sunrise cast a brilliant yellow light upon the otherwise pre-dawn dim of light. Workers and moms packed the outside window, and inside, a row of hungry worker men sat in the narrow café, which only had a foot of standing room between the wall, and from behind the men who sat on stools.  “Niggah, you deaf?! Let’s go, man. I’m hungry!” He started towards the café.

“But I don’t-“ Bernard started.

“Niggah, shut up. I already know yo’ ass ain’t got no money! Let’s go. You know you hongry!” And with that, he grabbed his best friend by the collar and dragged him towards the café until Bernard resolved that, that’s what they were doing at this moment-getting something to eat.

And Bernard conceded that, his friend was a jerk, but at least he looked out for him.

 

 

Image by Richard Menzies, at http://rdmenzies.com/Photography/

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

The Attacker

Tom Hoops

Faded screams and yells melted into the rhythmic drumming in sync with the bloody fists pounding against Carolina’s head. Her vision blurred, and she faded in and out of darkness and the prism of colors.

Her attacker continued the thrashing despite the screams of onlookers.

The scene was chaotic at least. Cars zoomed by, and honked at the onlooking crowd- which had all but spill into the street from the shadowy alley where most were suspended; they watching what must have been an epic event. The crowd jumped, hollered and pumped raised fists in the air; but it had an interestingly ominous feel. One couldn’t tell if what they were watching was exciting or dangerous. Passerby-ers couldn’t tell if the crowd was happy or afraid-the excitement and mayhem was that of something gratuitous being given, or some type of cock fight. One couldn’t tell by their reaction. From behind, a new comer can only see that many had pulled out their cell phones-that prevented any newcomers from seeing the event.  These lucky ones, who had gotten to the event early, were recording. Some continued to scream at whatever they were watching. Some ran out of the alley. But most stood, cell phones capturing the atrocity being committed, too immobile to decipher what was actually happening, with their mouths agape in a silent scream.

Carolina’s body weakened under her attacker, moribund and motionless. Her face sunken by broken skin and bones. Blood splattered everywhere and revealed white flesh, and muscles from her exposed cheeks and vertically split lips. The cartilage from her broken nose protruded from her disfigured face.

The Attacker grew tired. His hands were bruised and the blood which hid his knuckles was a mixture of his and his victim’s. He leaned back against his heels as his knees were hot and sore from the hot, asphalt pavement. He took a deep breath. He looked around at the cellphones in the air, and seemed deaf to the screams. His eyes were dark, glossy, but empty of emotion-they reflected the horror stained upon his audience’s faces. His break seemed to come from fatigue, rather than remorse. He rocked himself up slowly. His right knee came up as he planted that foot on the ground. He looked up again, with his right elbow propped upon his knee, and held his chin. He lifted that arm and wiped his forehead with a bloody backhand. He winced with pain from the contact of his forehead with his bruised knuckles. He then placed his hand back on his knee to support himself as he pulled his left leg up to finally stand up. He squinted as he leaned his head back to look directly at the sky, partially hidden by the flanking buildings. He didn’t shield his eyes from the protruding, yet glaring sun. He then placed both hands on his hips and inhaled slowly. He exhaled harshly, and coughed his head back down as his chin met his chest. He slowly raised his head and looked around. He wiped his mouth with bloody fist.

The crowd seemed to stop. All noise. Stopped. People became frightened and put their phones down. A few who dared to continue taping slowly backed out of the alley, pushing and stepping on whomever was behind them without so much of an ‘excuse me’.

The Attacker’s chest heaved up and down. His faced screwed back, as if he remembered his anger. He flashed back to his victim who laid there. Lifeless. And with the gasps and screams of a climaxed crowd who could take no more of the brutality, he gave Carolina one more swift and hard kick to the ribs. The crack of her bones muffled by his loud growl. And without so much of a glance at his environment, nor victim, he stalked away.

No one followed him.

“Call an ambulance!” broke the silence from the confused crowd.

 

Image borrowed by Emmi Grace’s article (Pinterest)

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

Sad Eyes

I saw you.

Your smile,

Your style,

Your wit,

Your guile.

You’re fascinating.

You’re a risk taker.

You’re passionate.

But you’re sad.

Why are you sad?

What holds you down?

What makes you mad?

What’ll make you glad?

Why are you sad?

Choices. Choices. Choices.

We live with their outcomes.

We yield to their demands.

We succumb to their tasks.

But we’re sad.

But we smile.

That smile.

That smile hides a million wants.

That smile focuses on the present.

That smile forces us to move on.

But you’re sad.  

Almond shaped, glistening eyes.

Twinkling with kindness.

Tells a story you try to hide.

One not worth revealing.

As you push on throughout your day,

Know that there’s someone

Who can see,

Your smile,

Your style,

Your wit,

Your guile,

Your eyes,

Your sad eyes.

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier · 1 Comment

Women Uncensored Interviews Rachel Spector on New Initiative By The Children’s Trust(Miami, FL)

Thrive By 5

Father reading a book with his young son and daughter.

On Thursday’s Women Uncensored Raw Talk with Tico & Addi (on WSRF 1580AM, http://www.wsrf.com, at 6pm-8pm), we had the esteemed opportunity to interview Rachel Spector, of the Thrive by Five initiative which the Children’s Trust approved to begin late last year. Together with one of their grant recipients, Merline Pierre, of Garden of Light Academy, Ms. Spector shared this amazing initiative with us. We’ve added a blurb from the organization’s site, and compiled information regarding their goals for the benefit of parents, childcare workers and centers!

We would also like to thank Rachel Spector, Merline Pierre, and The Children’s Trust for sharing the information with the community, and for graciously entertaining the interview.

Taken from The Children’s Trust Website:

THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 2018

The Children’s Trust recognizes the importance of early brain development and its impact on later life success. As a result, we have invested in an array of strategies to support young children’s physical, cognitive, social and emotional readiness for starting school. Thrive by 5 aims to coordinate a continuum of service supports.

The Trust reviewed its systems of how it awards money, and has consequently re-vamped its structure to assure it is getting into the hands of professionals delivery high quality service. And Miami-Dade County is the only community in the country this mix of strategies, systems and assessment tools to insure that the money is spent wisely.

To support this endeavor, The Children’s Trust Board unanimously approved four funding resolutions linked to  their Thrive by 5 initiative. Altogether, these grants total $2.752 million to support high quality early learning childcare programs here in Miami-Dade.


And, this funding draws down an additional $20,120,000 in state and federal funding, grants that support over 2,660 early learning childcare slots for families that earn up to 200 percent of the federal poverty rate. 


The money focuses on agencies and organizations that provide programs and services that support young children’s physical, cognitive social and emotional readiness for starting school. (This investment also includes Early Head Start and early learning slots for the working poor and migrant families.)

Such as:

1). Early Intervention: Specialized autism evaluations, early intervention services, early childhood summer programs for children w/disabilities and early childhood research 

2). Early Learning Quality Improvement System Money supports on-site coaching, teacher scholarships, teacher salary supplements, tiered payment differentials and child scholarships. These incentives have been proven to encourage programs to improve and sustain their delivery of high-quality early learning services, which impacts young children’s readiness to enter school.

3). Parenting and Home Visiting Services focus on nurturing parent-child relationships, language-rich environments, age-appropriate child development, behavior management, child health, safety and injury prevention.

4). Early Literacy Support provides funding for Reach Out and Read, Read to Learn Book Club, Read to Learn Books for Free, and Summer Reading Explorers 


https://www.thechildrenstrust.org/content/early-learning-quality-improvement-system


For your reference, The Children’s Trust is a dedicated source of revenue established by voter referendum to improve the lives of children and families in Miami-Dade County by making strategic investments in their future.

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

Wisdom From the Elders

Human nature is a bird that only sees the seed.

But The eye of reason sees the trap.

The eye of passion is blind.

The satisfied eye notices no defect while the hateful eye notices the slightest vice.

The silence of a man does not mean that he does not know what is going on around him, but rather that sometimes what happens around him does not deserve his words.

Do not listen to gossip about someone. Learn to trust your own judgment because you risk missing out on great people because of the lousy people who like to denigrate others!

Weak people take revenge, strong people forgive, and intelligent people ignore!

Be selective in your battles; sometimes peace is better than being right!

Sometimes you have to stop giving explanations because people only understand what they want to understand!

People talk behind your back for 3 reasons: When they can not reach your level; when they do not have what you have; and when they try to copy your lifestyle but they can not!

We do not forgive others for them; we do it for ourselves-to move forward and go forward!

Grudge is a loss of happiness. Laugh when you can, apologize when you should, and let go of things you can not change!

Forgive those who have hurt you; do not run after those who are ignorant; love those who are present, and forget those who have left you!

Why do children fight today and play together tomorrow? Because their happiness is worth more than their pride!

Message received from a friend and transferred to friends. This is the wisdom of elders.

–Author unknown

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier · 1 Comment

Day of Death Walk

Walking to school was the funniest thing.

Ashley and I often laughed our way to school. The walk alone was never boring; we generally made fun of the characters on the street. Something funny awaited our way to meet our school bus to Miramar Elementary School. We were the most popular girls in 5th grade.

We looked forward to our walks. There was a certain independence reserved only for these times. Any other time, we were confined to the sidewalk directly in front of my house. And once the streetlights came on, my front door was the proverbial limit.

There was much to be seen on any given morning. We looked forward to the funny men and women who graced the front of Jibarito Supermarket.  Ashley and I would ‘round the corner to our right, and head south.

7:30am.

Down 2nd Avenue, we expected to see various happenings: Dogs chasing men riding bikes; Hector’s daily prostitute dramas!

Maria always went back, even though each morning, she would be thrown out while she yelled and screamed in protest.

Hector’s wife was due home from working all night. And although we understood every Spanish word he yelled, it came in rambling, quick-tongue form.

Hector always promised to see her later, once Maria conceded the fight. She would gently gather her things, thrown out by Hector, from the sidewalk, and carefully fold each item. She’d hand brush her hair. Look around. Pout her lips. And proudly walk away.

Then there were the early-morning meetings with drug dealers, and their diligent day-workers. Their meetings were held from their low-rider Cadillacs, gleaming in the sun. Workers hunched in the passenger windows for their debriefing sessions and assignments.

The Jibarito Supermarket, being on our right-hand side, was where we expected the most action. There, an ever-changing, animated group of homeless people who looked like they represented the dingy version of United Colors of Benetton, congregated at its doors, to supplicate potential patrons to make their daily donations to their cause. In turn, they’d dance and entertain. They’d even open the door to help generous ones enter the store.

We’ve witnessed them push the store door close to non-generous ones.

That was funny to us.

Jose, the manager of this motley crew, was Cuban. Jose didn’t appear homeless, though. He was always clean, smelled of cologne and rum, and wore all white. White panama hat. White, crisp shirt. White trousers. White shoes. Jose was heavy set with a huge, square face and a bushy unkempt beard. His wild, salt-and-pepper hair tamed only by his hat. In fact, the only colors which adorned Jose were his generous set of reds, yellow-and-greens, blue-and whites, and other color beads which hung low to his belly.

As we approached, he balanced on each foot like a jester holding invisible juggling balls. He motioned towards the supermarket doors to usher givers in. He bowed as people entered, as if it was an invitation to a show. His show. He held the door with his right hand, the same hand which held his dented flask. It spilled his deliverance with each boisterous arm exertion. His theatrical left hand remained palm up, showing thick golden rings on his pointer and middle fingers. The jester’s smile, gleamed a couple golden teeth and golden crowns, as it tightly clutched a thick Cuban cigar. 

We were finally directly in his path.

“¿Oye, muchachas?! ¿Donde vayas?” He sang through gritted teeth; he twirled and swooped his waist to the right. He hopped to the left.

We veered to the opening right.

He immediately hopped to the right-leaving his scent where he had just stood. His golden teeth blinded us, but gleaming blood-shot eyes connected with us. His movements made him appear almost as a phantom, leaving a trail of white. I wondered if I had imagined it. He was both scary and amusing.

We stopped quickly-and dodged left-and ran. We ran away from the store, leaving his companions in the same uproar. They were laughing.

We were laughing. Holding hands and screaming, we ran down two blocks. Then, we stopped. We hunched over, gasping for breath, laughing uncontrollably.

We blindly walked and laughed as we continued south, down 2ndAvenue.

We passed 32nd Street.

Two days later, we heard that he had raped Carmen, a Puerto Rican girl in our grade.   

 We didn’t know if it was true or not, and our parents always said not to comment on things we didn’t see with our own eyes. And even then, if it wasn’t our business, to keep our mouths shut. You see. You don’t see. Well, we didn’t see-for real. So, we didn’t know.   

That was the last time we saw him.

7:40am.

Oblivious to any real danger, we walked one more block and enjoyed more minor thrills along the way. We saw Madame Union’s pit bulls mating. They seem to be having a group sex party.

I was just astonished to see Madam Union’s all white pack in full swing-humping.

“Ouuu!” Ashley beamed. “Let’s tie them.”

“How do you tie them?”

“Girl, don’t you know anything?!” Ashley asked. “It’s a Haitian thing. Anytime you see dogs fucking,” she grabbed my pinky finger with her pinky finger, “You tie ‘em up by doin’ this. You say my name,” She said as she pushed our joined pinkies towards me, “I say your name,” she said, as she pulled our joined pinkies back towards her. “Ready?”

“Okay,” I said. “Ashley,” I said cautiously, as I yanked her pinky towards me.

“Adrienne,” She pulled back.

“Ashley!” I got excited.

“Adrienne!” She matched my excitement.

We continued this way for a few minutes.

We were so engulfed in our spell, that we didn’t notice the moans of three coupled pits.

We finally looked to our right, where the orgy was, in Madam Union’s dirt yard. We witnessed the coupled dogs attempting to pull away from one another. They fought for freedom and all three pairs were stuck!

We erupted in laughter.

But the dogs were in visible pain. All three dogs pulled and pulled. But they were stuck.

“Ki es sa k’ap fout anmerde chyienm yo la?!” (Who’s bothering my dogs?) Came Madam Union’s boisterously shrieky voice, as she swung her door open hard with annoyance. 

Madam Union was the vodou queen. You didn’t mess with her!

We startled and broke out in lightning speed. We ran away laughing, to the sound of her precious dogs moaning in pain. We prayed she didn’t see our faces.

 7:50am.

Javier and Hector. They dropped out of Robert E. Lee to sell drugs for Papo. Their shift began early morning, I guess. Because they were soon approaching.  

 Instinctively nervous, I walked closer to Ashley as the gap between Javier and Hector and us closed.

“Y’all want some weed?” Hector, the one with slicked back, shiny-with-gel-black hair asked. His wife beater t-shirt was tucked firmly into his tight, light-stone-washed jeans. His belt seemed too big for the ‘fit. But he seemed to appreciate his own style. He switched from leg-to-leg, confidently, and leaned back, peering at us from his angled head.

“What’s weed?” Confused, I looked to Ashley. She knew everything.

“Some bullshit these assholes smoke,” Ashley replied right in front of him with disdain, “It’s like grass and they get all high-acting stupid,” she said as she twisted her neck. She then turned back at him slowly, fearlessly.  She glared at Hector. Then at Javier.

I was still thinking about how much emphasis she put on the word stupid. The word dropped slow and heavy, and the last syllable lingered on her tongue. That sound only comes through clenched teeth, with the tongue pushing up against the ceiling of the mouth. I thought it was kind of harsh. I wondered if she could have simply said, no thank you. But I assumed the stance. Whether she was mean or not, I’m sure she had a good reason for it. They didn’t deserve our kindness, anyways-being high all the time. They were stupid; dropping out of school and stuff. I had to be ready to fight if Hector got offended.  I looked at her distorted face, head cocked-to-the-left, and matched the look. I shared her glare to the boys.

Everyone knew who Ashley’s brother was. He was the king of that block. And you don’t wanna mess with Big E’s sister.

“Dayum, dawg, my bad. We didn’t see you,” Hector laughed, “Javi, let’s go, man.”  They backed up, and walked around us without saying another word.

The feeling of power crawled up my back. I felt protected and proud.  

Astride slammed her fist into her palm.

I thought that was a bit extra at this point.

7:53am.

“Maa-riiii-cooooone!” Wailed a drunkard walking towards us from a distance.

We looked at each other with mouths agape.

I blinked to see if I was hallucinating.

“Maa-riiii-cooooone!” Floated from his wet, dribbling lips again. Our crooner was lazily gliding towards us. His guayabera shirt was dingy and un-buttoned. It was a couple sizes too big, so it only framed his boney, peach-colored chest which looked like a canvas for sparing hairs budding.  His oversized trousers were equally dirty, and his bare feet were so darkened with dirt, it didn’t match his body’s complexion. “Maa-riiii-cooooone!” He yelled again.   

And that’s when I saw it.

A long oblong shaped penis protruded from his unzipped trousers, and dangled left to right with each arduous step the man took.  He was getting closer to us.

Too shocked to laugh. Too shocked to scream. Ashley and I looked at each other with inquisition marking our faces.

“Maa-riiii-”

Thwack! Came a loud blow to his head by a nearby savior. He had hit the Maricone guy on the head with a green Heineken bottle.

Maricone laid motionless on the floor, with blood pumping out of his head.

Ashley and I grabbed each other at the impact of the blow. Too shaken to speak, we hugged each other tightly.

The savior seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Everything went silent. And we froze. Heart stopped beating. Tears spilled from our eyes. We couldn’t move.

It was not funny.

7:56 AM.

We have to go. The bus is set to arrive at 8:00am.

I don’t remember catching the bus.

I don’t even remember the ride to school.

I heard or learned nothing that day. We floated through the day.

Every time we attempted to begin the conversation, we found no words.

We shook our heads on it. I shook my head to shake the images out of my head. I didn’t want to think about it.

5th grade felt like a container to suppress our womanhood.

Later, we learned that Maricone died.

That same day, Hector and Javier died. Got shot for stealing Papo’s weed.

Fat Cuban jester died. Carmen’s dad had a gun.

Our walks to school were no longer funny.  

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

Ingrate=Miserable

You know someone.

You know someone who is always miserable.

They complain about life, work, their spouses, their children, or lack thereof.

They come across as never being satisfied.

They’re annoying.

An ungrateful person will turn any situation into an opportunity to play victim.

They are conniving, but come off as sweet and helpless.

Beware.

No need in wasting time with these ones.

Their lives suck because they don’t know how to look at their situation as opportunities to do better.

They cannot get out of their place of lack, and imagine that each failure is a step towards their goals.

They don’t think that someone is doing much worse than they are.

They cannot imagine their situation can be worst.

We’ve probably all been there. I sure have. I’ve been the ingrate.

Misery.

Misery is linked to being in a space of ungratefulness.

If this is you, change your attitude.

Know that counting your “bliss” will help your chakra ascend.

Go to that place of peace.

Oh, there’s nothing to be grateful for? Your life is the shits?

  1. Are you breathing?
  2. Do you have access to clean water?
  3. Do you have a bed/couch/floor in a warm place to sleep?
  4. Do you have clothes?
  5. Do your legs and arms work?
  6. Does your brain still work?
  7. Are you able to eat?

If you answered “yes” to the majority of these questions, you are winning.

Most times, our situation changes with but a thought.

Change your thinking. Make plans. Today is not tomorrow.

Stop driving yourself into the ground with negative thoughts. Drive those away!

Remember, no one owes you anything. But you owe the world your gift. Find it. Share it. And that step towards your life purpose will change everything.

Remember to be grateful for the little things. That way, the universe rewards you with more to be grateful for.

Never forget a hand that helps you. Be loyal to those who are in your corner. Be grateful for the friend who is always there to help you, listen to you, put up with your shit.

Stop playing victim. Be honest to yourself. Analyze your situation and take ownership of your own decisions which have put you there. Then, design your plan of how to get yourself out. There is ALWAYS a way out.

Be kind to yourself. Stop bad-mouthing yourself. It’s pathetic, actually. You are born with special gifts and talents. Being special is a choice. If you do nothing with what you have, “special” doesn’t just fall upon you. Be great! Be special. However, sitting around moping about lack is actually diminishing your light. You’ll make yourself sick. Stop it.  

So, let’s go over this again. If you want to get out of your misery, start being grateful! Challenge yourself-keep going. You deserve peace. You deserve happiness. And we deserve to not put up with your crabby ass!

Posted on by Journey of a Cultural Carrier

Space: Protecting Your Energy

The space between you and others shorten with each interaction-social media check-in, message reading, text response, phone call answered, physical encounter, and even mental thoughts. We are essentially free of space-having none at all.

I think and work ways to achieve space. I understand that we are but one evolving, growing and pulling endeavor of energy. Everything contains energy. Everything has degrees of energy. Everyone is energy. And energy is fluid.

Have you ever had a friend call you for advice, and after the conversation, you’re physically tired? If it was intense, and you had to dig deep to give your intuitive help, even your brain hurts. They have sucked your energy. Limit these people. Be kind to yourself-you do not have to respond to their phone calls, text or messages. You have a right to reject an incoming call or text. There is no need to feel guilty. Additionally, you may take time to finally respond. You’ll find more and more that when you finally respond, the problem is resolved. Your peace is not disturbed, and you’ll be happy you honored yourself first.

If you’re an Empath, you automatically absorb energy. And let’s face it, most people harbor a lot of bad/negative energy. Not because they’re not good people, but because generally, people do not know how to let go of hurt, disappointment, trauma, worry and pain. In your interaction with them, you subconsciously give more positive energy than you receive. Thus leaving you depressed, sad, or just ill-content. And leaving you wondering why you feel so heavy.

Empaths are always tired. They have the most energy in the morning, before physically responding to others, whether through social media check-in, message response, verbal conversations with their mates, children, family or outside persons. Empaths recharge during their rejuvenation periods of sleep. Minimally, we need at least five hours of sleep to be at our optimal best. How many times have you started your day with abundant positive energy, and one phone call or interaction with a mate, friend, loved one, boss or opening of a bill sent you spiraling into a wave of anger or frustration?

I decided to write about space because it is important to consciously block ourselves from energy suckers. Energy suckers aren’t necessarily doing this on purpose, or with malicious intent. It’s just that energy suckers are usually codependent ones who constantly need your energy. Energy suckers also come in the form of other things, too-bills, obligations, circumstances. And because Empaths naturally absorb atmospheric energy and others’ emotions, feelings-the good, bad and ugly, we are left spent and tired. Consciously visualize yourself blocking that energy-even when in communication with someone else.

I block people’s energy by remaining fixed on my highest crown chakra-my 7th level, where my mind is open, yet free of baggage. I consciously absorb light into this violet place of grounded calmness, and remind myself to not absorb, or be moved too greatly (or negatively) by what I’m hearing (or whatever is happening). To be fair, while my subject (friend or other) is speaking their mind (if that’s the case), I rely on my 6th chakra to be intuitive, and receive messages that this person needs to hear. But it is my 7th level, which allows me to release my advice-speak my truth to this person, and thus, releasing their energy back to them. If it’s a circumstance which needs my attention, I focus on what can be done in the present, and prioritize what is important. Granted, I’ve transformed the energy to positive. But I do not absorb. That way, If my task was to help another, I don’t even remember the conversation. It was not mine to keep. Circumstances aren’t ours to keep, we are to learn from them, and let them go. Energetically let them go. Visualize it flying away, gently with the wind.

We have the power to manipulate energy. We have the power to filter what comes to us in the form of news, messages, programming, instructions, or status quo. Don’t allow others to dictate your mood, or state of being. Take care of yourself. Always, self first. Love yourself. Respect yourself. And most importantly, honor yourself, and your sacred space.