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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.

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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.

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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

Numb.Dumb.

Am I numb or dumb?

The question is valid. One term does not negate the other.

Numb to your words-swords wielded to hide, abide, impose a belief, a lie.

Dumb to what is real, ideal, what you reveal, in every breath of your life.

Numb to what I should feel, what you steal like your ancestors taught you.

Dumb to what I deserve, what you serve, your nerve, to observe me

Numb to what ought not be, us, you and me, makes no sense in any reality

Dumb to what ought to be, queen, me, king, you, seeds, us, royalty

Numb to pain, gain, freedom, slain, heartbeat, sustains, life maintains

Dumb to loss, the costs, the contracts, the con, the tracts, bad deals, intact

Numb to love, hate, fear, fate, possibilities mate, lovers abate

Dumb to what’s left in the wait, bait, a date, to relate, my choice to vacate

Numb to reality, real lie, spy, cry, die, deceive, receive, a pile, of bile

Dumb to levels, degrees, merits, values, assets, carbon, magic, cosmic channels

Numb to justice, it’s just…us, what is just is, just is, nothing

Dumb to pockets, dockets, sockets, holes, deepening the space of where carbon molds

Numb to you, inflated glob of goals, moles, trolls, roles, no soles, because you have no soul.

Dumb to yield, relinquish, power, my ore-my skull, my mind, mine

Numb to relation-ships, friend-ships, court-ships, owner-ship, rider-ship, space-ship-dumb shit

Dumb. Numb. Mum. Mute. Voiceless. Overlooked. Disregarded. Dumb. Numb.

 

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Workplace etiquette…easier said than done…

Don’t worry about what your boss tells others about you…

Don’t let the actions of negative people towards you get to you; they’re miserable. It’s not you; it’s them.

Smile in the midst of turmoil and distress, and eventually, your happiness will settle in.

Those who treat you badly will eventually be nice to you if you remain kind.

Do your best at your job, and your recognition is inevitable. Be diligent.

Smile. Smile. Smile. It’ll be better.

Do your best. It’ll be better.

Don’t worry about the defaming, slandering, manipulating, bullying by exclusion-the conniving malice, and ill-intent, and micro-management of a power-hungry witch. Worry not about about the plot, the closed-door meetings, the pretentious grins, and their mini- victories when you’ve shown your distress, and when you’ve had to remain silent to avoid cursing or simply losing it …no…

It’ll get better. Do your best. Smile.

Stay calm and smile.

Just smile. Smile. Smile some more.

abusive boss

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New York Jews Raise Over Six Million dollars: What of Negroes?

The sad part is that this article could have been written today, and still hold much relevance!

Henrietta Vinton Davis's Weblog

Amy Jacques Garvey, ”New York Jews Raise Over Six Million Dollars – What of Negroes?” Originally published in The Negro World, 5 June 1926.

The United Jewish campaign to raise $6,000,000 in Greater New York alone for the relief of Jews of Eastern Europe ended a few days ago. The amount was over-subscribed by $656,000. The national campaign aims to raise twenty-five million dollars, and from all indications this amount will also be over-subscribed.

The Bureau of Jewish Social Research estimates that there are only 3,600,00 0 Jews in this country, yet their ambition is to raise the enormous sum of twenty-five million dollars; not for their own benefit here, but to send to Europe to help their fellow-Jews who are in need. Such an example of racial love can not be too highly commended, as we ponder over the fellowship of these people, our thoughts return to our own…

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A day in life in Wynwood

It was a hot summer morning in June, and the sun had just made its break into the dark of dawn.  The roosters crowed in syncopation, and the sound of the sprinklers sang in the distance. The roar of the garbage truck collecting trash up and down the street, whistling at each stop alerted the day of the week: it was Monday.

I had graduated from Pre-school on Friday, and mom said that I was a big girl now. After Saturday and Sunday, I would go to a new school for the summer.  I didn’t realize that I was the only one going to school. My siblings were still yet in bed. By Sunday night, excitement and fear kept me up most of the night; so I was well awake by the time the garbage truck rolled around to my block. 

My brothers were in their rooms-still in bed sleeping.  The room I shared with my sister was closest to my parents’ room, separating my brothers’ room from my parents’. The tenor-pitched rumble of my sister’s snoring rang through our wood paneled room and reverberated off the walls to coda with a sharp triplet staccato.

The expected humidity of the tropical heat smothered me, and I felt tired. The sweat drenched my nightdress, leaving my back wet and my neck tickled and sticky. The dust laden oscillating fan did little to invite the breeze we enjoyed the night before. Resolving to my fate, I finally sat upright. I surveyed the square-shaped, dimly lit room. The doo-doo brown walls were ugly to me. Why would anyone want wood panels inside of the house? Wood should be on the outside of the house. The wooden floors didn’t help brighten the place either. My mom’s decorating did little to help.  The crisp, white cotton curtain panels, lined with lace and doilies hung lazily against each side of the open window.  The once, wind-enhanced, scary-in-the-night, flying curtains found no wind to give it life in the heat of the morning gleam. Beams from the sun made dust and particles visible to my naked eye.  The white highboy chest of drawers stood beneath the window. Porcelain figurines of white girls and boys playing graced the top of the white, lace doilies that covered the rectangular top of the drawer.  My sister’s and my comb, and our white, gold-trimmed, hand-painted-pearl brush of little red roses held curlies of our hair; and our hair ribbons and barrettes were all neatly scattered on our chest.   

Directly across the window and chest was the East wall, where the scary closet with no doors was positioned. I can’t remember ever seeing one there, but based on its exposed tracks along its perimeter, it needed one of those accordion doors, or the two-door kind which overlapped, and slid to close on either side. Either way, I just wished there was one there and I wouldn’t have to look the other way at night when the shadows from the moonlight casted upon the clothes looked like a mob of people from the 17th century, holding oil lanterns coming to take me away from my family.  The room had an old Early Americana feel to it: From the foot stools, the white porcelain basin of water my mom kept next to my bed so that I wouldn’t have to go all the way, down the hall to use the toilet in the middle of night, to the Monet paintings, the curtains, the smell-it felt old.   And I was convinced that ghosts lived with us.

 I decided that it was morning and I didn’t need to be afraid anymore.  I took a deep breath and stretched my arms up to God as if to say, Thank You for not letting them take me. I looked up and caught sight of a palmetto bug making its way up the wall. I blinked twice, to be sure because it was the exact same color as the walls. These monster roaches have tiny wings on their back and they fly. I plunged back under the covers and ignored the discomfort of my wet pillow as I tightly held on to the blankets. I couldn’t breathe.

You have to get up.

But the roach!…there’s a roach in my room!

 I realized that my sister had left the window open. She might as well have put up a sign saying: Come on in, Roaches! Mi casa es su casa! She knows I hate bugs!   Her tumultuous roaring continued and the smell of my breath was suffocating me under the covers.

 I pulled the sheets off my head and sat up again. Mr. Bug was gone. Or so I thought. I swung my feet to the floor and allowed my toes to feel for my feather soft house slippers.  If I could just get these on, I can make a dash for the bathroom. My little toes crept into the indulgent slippers, and I felt something move. Then I felt tentacles tickling my toes! I gasped in disbelief and horror-unable to move or utter a breath or sound,  before gasping a short breath again to force a heart-curdling screech which awoke the entire house.

My sister’s symphony of tenor to bass snoring stopped abruptly with a climactic snort; and she jolted out of bed.

My mom came rushing into our room with her hands holding her sponge rollers, screaming: “Sak pase?! Sak pase?!” What happened?! Her Mumu was buttoned wrong, unaligned and haphazardly, revealing her caramel breast which hung like Haitian mangos when its pulp is sucked out through a small piercing at the top, leaving its shape oblong but flat.

My brothers came rushing in, already laughing…

I heard the shower stream stop and heard my father yelling, “Sak gen la?!” What happened here? (What’s going on in there?)

My younger brother, the youngest of us five, all of three years, and 11 months, and 28 days old at the time ran to the bathroom door to fill my dad in on the hysterics of his morning-“Addi crying because she has a roach in her sandal!”

“Ah!” my dad grunted before he turned the faucet back on, and continued his shower.

My mom asked, “Do you have to be so ridiculous? Inférieure! Meaning: acting of lower class.

My sister muttered, “She’s such a drama queen,” and turned around to return to her slumber.

My brothers laughed and walked back to their room.

Seeing that my wailing had not subsided, my ma said, “Get up. Levez! Levez! Mettez’w  debout! Li l’heur pou’n allez.” It’s time to go.  My mom would go in and out from Haitian Creole to French and sometimes, she’d throw in some English words.

My mom rushed to help me get dressed after a much hurried, cold shower.

“Why do I have to go?” I whined. It didn’t seem fair. I’m the fourth child of five children-and of all of us, I had to go? Not fair. I knew my siblings would have a gay old time without me there. Mom and dad wouldn’t be home so they’d get to play with the neighbors.  They’d have a party and have fun playing pillow fights, kickball, Hide-and go-seek, Mother-may-I, Green-light-Red-Light, playing School, Shopping and Mommy and Daddy. But I would be stuck at school. It just didn’t seem fair. I’d just graduated Pre-School.

Without answering the question, she stated in our native Creole, “Et puis, fait vit!” For me to hurry up.

              Soon, we were out the door, and making our one-mile walk down Northwest 2nd Avenue, from 34th to 26th Street- down the boardwalk of Wynwood’s busiest district. No, it wasn’t Midtown, then. They’ve changed the name to Midtown now that it’s gained recognition for its art galleries, alternative music clubs and can boast a fine dining experience from top chefs from around the world; it is adjacent to Miami’s Design district. Now that most of the younger generation has moved away in search of a better life, the older people have either died, or sold their homes; now that a huge mall has been erected in the middle of the town where an old truck lot and cement company used to be; now that High Rises costing more than anyone from the old neighborhood, except for Hector and his crew who controlled the drug cartels, could afford grace the outskirts of our little town with panoramic balconies overlooking good ole Biscayne Bay and beyond;  and the old concrete homes are bought out by the booming artist community who has done a great job in giving the neighborhood a much needed facelift of beautifully painted, graffiti murals, renovated old-style, Miami homes with gorgeous curb appeals of well-manicured lawns; now that the bums and crack addicts are gone, it’s Midtown. But on this day, when the population of multi-ethnic families was poor to middle class, and everyone belonged, and all the children played in the street, and everyone knew everyone, and the stores were reasonably priced, it was Wynwood.

The smell of fresh Cuban breads and pastries tickled my nose and made my stomach growl. I could tell my mom was ignoring it, as we both inhaled the smell of rich, aromatic coffee beans being roasted at the coffee factory on 5th Avenue.   

A dog barked at a cat that jumped away with a loud meow, just in time for redemption; the buzzing sound of the street lights faded away as the lights automatically turned off. A rooster shrieked the final alarm to wake up; and then the rumbling train made its travel down North Miami Avenue. Ah, the quietest moment of the day.

                She tugged at my hand as we made it down the street-I guess it was important to get me there as fast as she could.

I allowed my eyes to follow Celia, the neighborhood drunk; I waved to her despite my mom’s eye-rolling and neck twisting to the opposite direction.

“Hola, mamita linda! Como estas?”  Celia danced around me.  Her heels seem to hurt, with deep cuts that didn’t bleed, five shades darker than her caramel skin tone. Celia smelled like she had just bathed in rum. Her eyes were bloodshot red and bulging; her speech slurred with smiling, crimson lips.

                My mom stepped to the left to avoid a collision, never letting go of me as she yanked my hands. My mom didn’t grant the woman her customary smile or acknowledgement; instead, she kept her head straight, and face stoic with a slight frown on her face as if she smelled something foul.

I thought of Celia the whole way to my new school, Centro Catholico de San Juan de Puerto Rico- where I would learn Spanish in no time because no one spoke English; and I would be the only Black, Haitian girl. 

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Black Feminism/Collaborative Heart

There are wide degrees of ideals and philosophies surrounding the term feminism. Feminism or to be a feminist has become (or always was) somewhat of a dirty word. It carries an ominous connotation which includes recklessness, boldness, defiance, egocentricity, obnoxious, strong-willed, demeaning of men, Lesbian, man-haters, ball-crushers, Bitch, and the list goes on…something which seemed to be important in the development of womanhood-to empower and embrace self has become a place of judgment. This judgment is served from our male counterparts, partners, women alike and even other feminists, and even feminists of other “colors”…so it becomes this tangle web of layers, from micro to macro aggressions which we face head on, in this labyrinth of being and existing.

My question then is, how do I walk in my strength and power without diminishing the efforts of my partner? My philosophies surrounding the greatness of women does not include keeping or placing my partner in the position of a footstool. Neither do I wish to have such a partner. For I think, whether your partner is of the same or opposite sex, what (at least for me) remains attractive and sexy, is confidence. What I love in a person is the spirit. I love a shining spirit which is fearless, kind, loving, humble, easy-going, funny and yet, powerful…and when that person knows this, I’m liable to lose my mind! It is indeed sexy to have a mate who understands the worth and contribution brought to your world, without having to hear about it in a nagging, bitchy way. The balance is: Be confident. But not obnoxious. Be secure and grounded, but not too passive. Be gregarious, but don’t behave as a 4-year-old who needs to be the complete center of attention and my world. Be assertive, but not overbearing and overpowering. And don’t you dare think that you can control or manipulate me.

So, can I be a bold feminist, and still exhibit some femininity? And will my graceful swag of being a woman (Slithering wiley with one leg gently before the other, gracefully allowing my arms to sway in it’s own dance with the wind, accentuating the sway of my hips in the figure 8, and allowing my eyes to smile and curve into an almond shape, half closed, but piercing-to pull you in, while the soft pillows of my lips pour deliciously sweet and richly articulated language that hypnotizes your senses) diminish my intelligence? Position? Am I still not a feminist when I decide to stop-pick my battles, let you win this one? Have I succumbed to the subjugation of an abusive relationship? (I’m always testing and analyzing my relationships to ensure that I’m not indeed in one)

Nevertheless, my answer is no. All relationships deserve some type of compromise, collaboration. There are indeed deal breakers. But, for the most part, through communication and having a bad memory, we can survive it. My goals surrounding relationships include to never lose myself. I will love you with every fiber in me; but you will not overpower my life. For in essence: I belong to no one. And you do not belong to me. Every day together is a gift unto each other. And that to me, is the present. And, a partner who NEEDS constant attention, and is threatened by the friendships I have with other people either needs to be trained or let go.

It is healthy to have friends. Friends are a necessary and valuable addition to your life. Choose your friends wisely. And cut the bad ones, the parasites, QUICKLY. Friendship is about give and take-after all, it is indeed a relationship. Friendship (and I’m not talking sex here) is intimate, passionate, and supportive of each other’s growth. This is why, in any marriage, or sexual relationship, the friendship component is crucial. It is the foundation to a life long partnership. So, appreciate and nurture the friends in your life which are compartmentalized into sections of your life which serves you and them. While your friends don’t share your bed, they share your lives. And the same rules of balance and respect applies.

So, did I go off into a deep tangent? Not really. I was pleasantly surprised this weekend. I needed my sisters. My friends. And I’m usually a private person, and don’t often discuss my relationship issues. However, I learned that we all go through the same things; and a strong word of advice from a friend, a sister can really help. I learned, that sometimes, all you can do is cry. And a good sister/friend will hold you. And let you cry. I learned that a friend who loves you will not join in and bash your partner-she will come and respectfully listen to both sides, and provide solid objective advice. Her heart is pure, without envy for you. She wants you to be happy. She wants your partner happy. She wants what you want. And will tell you when you’re wrong. That is true Black feminism.

So, to go back to the initial train of thought…Black Feminists, we can be strong. We can be bold. And yes, we can compromise, and collaborate. We can uplift our partners, and humble ourselves. We can let ’em win. We can work things out. And let go. No fighting. We can be silent. And that is true power.