Did you know that words have power? Spoken words. Written words. They have real power. Not in a mystical, Harry Potter, kinda way. But there is an energy that flows from your tongue, past your lips, to another's ears. And based on that energy, on the way it is received, on where the receiver is in their own journey of life, you can affect another person. Just with your words.
Last night, I watched the power of words hurt my child. A person, who shall remain nameless, but who is visiting for the holidays, told my daughter to shut up. Yep, she said "Shut Up." And my seven year old recoiled as if she had been hit and visibly bit down on her lips to keep them shut. Now, my "visitor" was in the middle of a game with my other daughter. My eldest girl kept talking and pointing out the error in my visitor's strategy. So the shut up flew of the tip of her tongue in the heat of competition.
But it still hurt.
I was going to respond, whip out my barrage of word counters and strike back on the person who had inadvertently hurt my daughter. But then I remembered. Words have power. And once put out there, you can't take them back. You can't press rewind and delete, can't retract them from the hearers head. It's done, once it leaves your lips. Once its written on paper. Once it has been received, it is forever in the sphere of thought, the realm of interaction. It is a one shot deal.
So I chose silence. I met word garbage with silence. I chose a metered tongue and a measured mind. And I spoke in soft tones to reassure my talkative child, to lightly dismiss the "snafu" and return her to a state of comfort. And I reflected on the power of words.
Don't believe me? Try it out. I tell my daughters they are beautiful everyday. They smile each and every time, as if it is the first time hearing it. We tell them how special they are, how thankful to God we are to have the opportunity to raise them, so on and so forth. I used to do this with my eldest son. And while he claims he doesn't remember it now, I know that those positive words were daily seeds of encouragement, counteracting the doubt and hate imposed by the world. I know that my son knows my love for him, unquestioning, more than anything else. I spent years speaking love to him.
Conversely, I don't have to spank. A disciplined word, a harsh tone, will reduce my children to tears. There is power in communication, power in the spoken word. Similarly the written word can invoke pain. When my son became upset with me he sent a text that he was going to "unfriend" me from facebook. And I responded right back via text with how mean his text was and a few thoughts of my own. And we hurt each other, bruised each other, via the electronic written word.
Think about the words you utter, before they leave your mouth. Think about how often your children hear you gossip, complain, whine, negatively compare, berate, belittle, etc. Understand the power of your tongue, of your word, of your pen and how it affects not only you but your seed and generations to come. It is imperative that you be careful with your words...
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Veni, Vidi, Vici - Period!
It's very simple. I want my headstone to read "Veni, Vidi, Vici." And the period is the most vital. In fact, maybe the word should be spelled out. Yes, this is what I think about on Christmas Eve, my death. I am sorry about that, folks, if you need more Christmas reflection, then this ain't the post for you. Christmas normally has a way of seriously depressing me, although, as I write this, I am not depressed in the least. Rather, I am feeling somewhat reflective.
But I digress. Chisel it into stone. "Veni, Vidi, Vici." DO NOT FORGET THE PERIOD. I deserve no less. I Came, I Saw, I Conquered. Period. This life of mine has been a ride like most have never seen. Yet, I am still here. Still in good health, still pushing forward. I birthed four beautiful children, was blessed by God to raise an additional magnificent soul. I have seen the beauty in pureness, the miracle of God's seed. It's a rare blessing, the kind of experience that verifies, if there was any doubt, that He is Omniscient and beyond comprehension. The smile of a baby can warm the coldest soul, melt away the spiritual ice, and make you recall love only dreamt of. And I have felt it. I have lived it. I have had the honor, over and over and over again, to cherish it.
And I have lost. Lost plenty. Loved ones, finances, career dreams, bits and pieces of me. I lost some, others were stolen, a few were robbed of me. Yet, every morning, I find a reason to smile. And pray. And pray. And smile.
I have known loneliness that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I have had it wrap around the very essence of my core, whispering lies to my spirit like bread to an undernourished child. I feasted on self hate, self doubt, self loathing, just me and my loneliness. And it embittered me to the core, until suicidal thoughts danced daily through my mind, convincing me that everyone who had every known me would be better off if I saved them the shame, spared them the embarrassment, and removed myself from this realm.
Yet, I am still here.
I have been poor. Lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner for months, kind of poor. Rotating the same three pants and shirts kind of poor. Daddy won't pay a dime of child support while traveling the country and living on yachts kinda poor. Have no idea if we will eat today or tomorrow, and have noone to ask, kind of poor. But, poverty made me stronger. Better. Able to cope. Able to adjust.
Now, I am able to be poor with grace. So poverty no longer holds me hostage. Despite financial gain, I am able to live without expectation, to know that God will handle it, to have already seen His blessing in just my current day living. I have conquered it.
What brought this up? Well, you already know, if you read my posts, that most of my thinking is completely random.
This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to Jasmine Sullivan's "Bust The Windows Out Your Car." To me, she is like Lauryn Hill mixed with my favorite songstress of angst, Alanis Morrisette (although Alanis no longer sings from such a dark space). Alanis Morrisette's album Jagged Little Pill is still, to this day, the purest expression of woman pain I have ever heard. And then I realized, I haven't had to listen to that Alanis' album in some years. I haven't tapped into that space in some time. There are still gaps, memories I wish I could plug, spaces that I would like to fill, but I have already paved and caulked more holes than anyone person should have. And that made me feel good. Empowered.
Leading me to this simple conclusion. When it's all said and done, and my last day has dawned, I'm out. Two fingers, a peace sign and a nod. And I won't be looking back. I have already lived fully, loved hard and completely, and given the best of me, as much as I could. My seed is sprinkled on this earth, and from the roots of this tree, grounded in God, there will be flowering seeds for generations to come. He has promised me this. And while my projects may not be complete, and I am constantly trying new things, my life is complete and I, finally, am complete.
So, that is my last wish. Send me out with a period and no mourning phrases. Don't want no big show, could care less about all the drama. Tag me with three simple words to summarize a life beyond measure - Veni, Vidi, Vici. Period.
But I digress. Chisel it into stone. "Veni, Vidi, Vici." DO NOT FORGET THE PERIOD. I deserve no less. I Came, I Saw, I Conquered. Period. This life of mine has been a ride like most have never seen. Yet, I am still here. Still in good health, still pushing forward. I birthed four beautiful children, was blessed by God to raise an additional magnificent soul. I have seen the beauty in pureness, the miracle of God's seed. It's a rare blessing, the kind of experience that verifies, if there was any doubt, that He is Omniscient and beyond comprehension. The smile of a baby can warm the coldest soul, melt away the spiritual ice, and make you recall love only dreamt of. And I have felt it. I have lived it. I have had the honor, over and over and over again, to cherish it.
And I have lost. Lost plenty. Loved ones, finances, career dreams, bits and pieces of me. I lost some, others were stolen, a few were robbed of me. Yet, every morning, I find a reason to smile. And pray. And pray. And smile.
I have known loneliness that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I have had it wrap around the very essence of my core, whispering lies to my spirit like bread to an undernourished child. I feasted on self hate, self doubt, self loathing, just me and my loneliness. And it embittered me to the core, until suicidal thoughts danced daily through my mind, convincing me that everyone who had every known me would be better off if I saved them the shame, spared them the embarrassment, and removed myself from this realm.
Yet, I am still here.
I have been poor. Lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner for months, kind of poor. Rotating the same three pants and shirts kind of poor. Daddy won't pay a dime of child support while traveling the country and living on yachts kinda poor. Have no idea if we will eat today or tomorrow, and have noone to ask, kind of poor. But, poverty made me stronger. Better. Able to cope. Able to adjust.
Now, I am able to be poor with grace. So poverty no longer holds me hostage. Despite financial gain, I am able to live without expectation, to know that God will handle it, to have already seen His blessing in just my current day living. I have conquered it.
What brought this up? Well, you already know, if you read my posts, that most of my thinking is completely random.
This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to Jasmine Sullivan's "Bust The Windows Out Your Car." To me, she is like Lauryn Hill mixed with my favorite songstress of angst, Alanis Morrisette (although Alanis no longer sings from such a dark space). Alanis Morrisette's album Jagged Little Pill is still, to this day, the purest expression of woman pain I have ever heard. And then I realized, I haven't had to listen to that Alanis' album in some years. I haven't tapped into that space in some time. There are still gaps, memories I wish I could plug, spaces that I would like to fill, but I have already paved and caulked more holes than anyone person should have. And that made me feel good. Empowered.
Leading me to this simple conclusion. When it's all said and done, and my last day has dawned, I'm out. Two fingers, a peace sign and a nod. And I won't be looking back. I have already lived fully, loved hard and completely, and given the best of me, as much as I could. My seed is sprinkled on this earth, and from the roots of this tree, grounded in God, there will be flowering seeds for generations to come. He has promised me this. And while my projects may not be complete, and I am constantly trying new things, my life is complete and I, finally, am complete.
So, that is my last wish. Send me out with a period and no mourning phrases. Don't want no big show, could care less about all the drama. Tag me with three simple words to summarize a life beyond measure - Veni, Vidi, Vici. Period.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
A Wonderful Midnight
Upon completion of Sistah Souljah's latest novel, Midnight, I sat back and sighed. It has been a while since it happened, since I was unable to put a book down until it was completed, craving the next step, desiring a positive future of the beloved characters. But I clung to this novel like a newborn to its bottle, unable to release my fascination of the world Sistah Souljah masters, flips upside down, complicates, and then serves back in easy fashion.
Would it be disrepectful to drop a "damn," in at this point? As a writer, a book reviewer and an attorney by trade, I am rarely left with just an expletive to express myself. But my response to the intricate and expert puzzle that Sistah Souljah weaves, a tight knitted pattern of beliefs stretched taut against the conflict and confusion of American society, was one word, breathed out in a long sigh. Damn.
The immediate feedback wasn't as strong as I was hoping for,leading me to delay buying and exploring Midnight. I think we, the readers, were hoping for another flashy Winter Santiago, and at the same time dreading another story about another drug game fiasco.
The literary world has changed since The Coldest Winter Ever. Thousands of lesser copycats mingled with so many poorly constructed street tales has, in some way, dampened us. Made us more skeptical and less willing to believe or even care about the street life. How could Sistah Souljah reenter the quagmire, writing in the same style, from the same point of view, spitting the same ole same?
She couldn't. She didn't.
Let's deal with some of the skepticism first. The main complaint that I repeatedly hear is that Midnight's experiences are unbelievable for a 14 year old. Firstly, I have to recall that readers compare the story to their own experiences and I am so glad to know that so many readers cannot relate. I, however, can. At age fourteen, two of my girlfriends had babies, I had already accompanied another one to the abortion clinic. Public transportation wasn't even a question, I moved around to school, after school functions, part time job and life. The boys in our world were already on their hustle, survival was already an issue. At age 14. I lived in upstate (western) New York, in a much smaller city named Rochester. Light years behind the fast paced scramble that is NYC.
But to say that Midnight, who had to operate as the man in his Muslim household isn't believable at 14 identifies the clear separation in class and economics in this country. It also tells how those who have had better fortune can't relate to the maturity others have to reach to survive.
I find Midnight not only credible, but his story endearing and his struggle startlingly real. And his youth is apparent in so much of the book: still hustling ball games with his friends, strategizing to go to the movies with girls, rolling blindly into parties, unable to ask for help to his many questions, taking forever to put two and two together about Bangs, still being open and able to love Akemi. That type of love couldn't and wouldn't be available to him at an older age, when skepticism sets in and makes love a ridiculous thing.
BTW - since when is 14 young in the hood? And since when is 14 young in Brooklyn? I'm just trying to understand.
The next complaint I heard was that the book is offensive to African Americans.The story is told from the point of view of an African immigrant from an influential Sudanese family who finds himself in the Brooklyn hood. His viewpoints and experiences of African Americans are limited to those stuck in the same neighborhood as him, as filtered through his 14 year old mind. And it occurred to me that, on so many levels, I relate to his struggle.
Is it easy to be a devout Christian in inner city America? How diligent must one be, trying to live according to the Bible, when no one else that you know expects or even understands that type of discipline. When your peer group actively ridicules devotion. How much more difficult would it be to live as a devout Muslim here, having come from a society structured around religion. Wouldn't any 14 year old boys statements be general and broad, encompassing the "world" as he sees it. And, despite himself and his moral compass, he still finds himself considering love with Bangs, rescuing Bangs in the only way he knows how. Considering resting his beliefs and marrying her and protecting her anyway, despite her family having so severely tainted her. He still longs for her in a way that he doesn't for any Sudanese woman, although he adores his culture. In the end, his love is for a woman with an artists eye, a woman like his mother, a woman preserved and loved and cherished by her family, despite the difference in culture.
Let me digress here - Do we preserve our baby girls? Are African American young girls affirmed, uplifted, protected - as a general rule? Honestly? Is it automatic that before you step to that her, you better come correct to her father, make sure you make it through her brother and be able to provide for her. If your answer to that is yes, then lets back up for a second - maybe you don't recall R. Kelly. The "pied piper of R&B" - proverbial young girl lover who our community discusses, our comedians joke about, and everyone shrugs and plays his latest joint. Or, how about Cam'Ron, taking his rap dis to the level of threatening to "bust off" in Nas' four year old daughter's face, without outrage from our community. Media images, music, comics, many aspects of our culture boasts of misogynistic intent, disregard and disgust for our young girls.
That is the beauty of literature, reading what is stated and what isn't. Midnight's blanket statements about my people are less offensive to me than the bookstores whose shelves are full of stereotypical nonsense, published by Black people.
Read real literature. Think on it. Compare it. Expand and grow, agree and disagree. That is what good literature is intended to do.
And no matter what you say, you can't deny that Midnight is true literature. It is a wonderful study of inner conflict, love, expectation, loyalty and trying to live devout. It remembers the purity, the unspoken uniqueness, of real love. Midnight is worth the read.
Would it be disrepectful to drop a "damn," in at this point? As a writer, a book reviewer and an attorney by trade, I am rarely left with just an expletive to express myself. But my response to the intricate and expert puzzle that Sistah Souljah weaves, a tight knitted pattern of beliefs stretched taut against the conflict and confusion of American society, was one word, breathed out in a long sigh. Damn.
The immediate feedback wasn't as strong as I was hoping for,leading me to delay buying and exploring Midnight. I think we, the readers, were hoping for another flashy Winter Santiago, and at the same time dreading another story about another drug game fiasco.
The literary world has changed since The Coldest Winter Ever. Thousands of lesser copycats mingled with so many poorly constructed street tales has, in some way, dampened us. Made us more skeptical and less willing to believe or even care about the street life. How could Sistah Souljah reenter the quagmire, writing in the same style, from the same point of view, spitting the same ole same?
She couldn't. She didn't.
Let's deal with some of the skepticism first. The main complaint that I repeatedly hear is that Midnight's experiences are unbelievable for a 14 year old. Firstly, I have to recall that readers compare the story to their own experiences and I am so glad to know that so many readers cannot relate. I, however, can. At age fourteen, two of my girlfriends had babies, I had already accompanied another one to the abortion clinic. Public transportation wasn't even a question, I moved around to school, after school functions, part time job and life. The boys in our world were already on their hustle, survival was already an issue. At age 14. I lived in upstate (western) New York, in a much smaller city named Rochester. Light years behind the fast paced scramble that is NYC.
But to say that Midnight, who had to operate as the man in his Muslim household isn't believable at 14 identifies the clear separation in class and economics in this country. It also tells how those who have had better fortune can't relate to the maturity others have to reach to survive.
I find Midnight not only credible, but his story endearing and his struggle startlingly real. And his youth is apparent in so much of the book: still hustling ball games with his friends, strategizing to go to the movies with girls, rolling blindly into parties, unable to ask for help to his many questions, taking forever to put two and two together about Bangs, still being open and able to love Akemi. That type of love couldn't and wouldn't be available to him at an older age, when skepticism sets in and makes love a ridiculous thing.
BTW - since when is 14 young in the hood? And since when is 14 young in Brooklyn? I'm just trying to understand.
The next complaint I heard was that the book is offensive to African Americans.The story is told from the point of view of an African immigrant from an influential Sudanese family who finds himself in the Brooklyn hood. His viewpoints and experiences of African Americans are limited to those stuck in the same neighborhood as him, as filtered through his 14 year old mind. And it occurred to me that, on so many levels, I relate to his struggle.
Is it easy to be a devout Christian in inner city America? How diligent must one be, trying to live according to the Bible, when no one else that you know expects or even understands that type of discipline. When your peer group actively ridicules devotion. How much more difficult would it be to live as a devout Muslim here, having come from a society structured around religion. Wouldn't any 14 year old boys statements be general and broad, encompassing the "world" as he sees it. And, despite himself and his moral compass, he still finds himself considering love with Bangs, rescuing Bangs in the only way he knows how. Considering resting his beliefs and marrying her and protecting her anyway, despite her family having so severely tainted her. He still longs for her in a way that he doesn't for any Sudanese woman, although he adores his culture. In the end, his love is for a woman with an artists eye, a woman like his mother, a woman preserved and loved and cherished by her family, despite the difference in culture.
Let me digress here - Do we preserve our baby girls? Are African American young girls affirmed, uplifted, protected - as a general rule? Honestly? Is it automatic that before you step to that her, you better come correct to her father, make sure you make it through her brother and be able to provide for her. If your answer to that is yes, then lets back up for a second - maybe you don't recall R. Kelly. The "pied piper of R&B" - proverbial young girl lover who our community discusses, our comedians joke about, and everyone shrugs and plays his latest joint. Or, how about Cam'Ron, taking his rap dis to the level of threatening to "bust off" in Nas' four year old daughter's face, without outrage from our community. Media images, music, comics, many aspects of our culture boasts of misogynistic intent, disregard and disgust for our young girls.
That is the beauty of literature, reading what is stated and what isn't. Midnight's blanket statements about my people are less offensive to me than the bookstores whose shelves are full of stereotypical nonsense, published by Black people.
Read real literature. Think on it. Compare it. Expand and grow, agree and disagree. That is what good literature is intended to do.
And no matter what you say, you can't deny that Midnight is true literature. It is a wonderful study of inner conflict, love, expectation, loyalty and trying to live devout. It remembers the purity, the unspoken uniqueness, of real love. Midnight is worth the read.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
I Am King
As you may have noticed, I enjoy being a fan. Not a groupie, mind you. I find nothing more annoying than someone droning on and on about a perfect stranger and their greatness based on a carefully constructed persona. Groupieism, at its worse, is nothing more than acceptable obsessiveness, i.e., possible stalker.
But, I do enjoy being a fan. I like cheering for folks while watching their careers blossom. I often look at it from a managers perspective - if Gabrielle Union was my client, how much would I actually have been able to get the studios to play her for the role in Daddy's Little Girl. What about Idris? How much did they pay him, and how much more could I have gotten him? Where is Nia Long and why were she and Gabrielle the only leading starlets for so long? These are the types of thoughts I have.
But, then there is Puff. Despite the name changes, P. Diddy I believe being the last one, he will always be Puff to me. And there is something so familiar about his energy that I like to see him succeed, even when I complain about the artist depleting label that is Bad Boy. Puff is an entity unto himself. And, what I think I love most about Puff is that he is a fan of the music. A lover of hip hop. So his exaggerated persona keeps money in his pocket, but, at the end of the day, the man works hard and seems to love hard (his work and life anyway, I have no idea why we keep hearing about all his baby mama drama).
What I have found amazing about him lately is his genuine affection of Barack OBama. While we were all touched, Puffy seemed to take it to heart. He did Bill Maher and radio, and his excitement was undeniable. Here was Puffy, someone who did everything they said a black man could never do, visibly in admiration of Barack. Because, at the end of the day, despite how many gains we made, Barack shattered a glass ceiling that was invisible, but certainly there.
Now Puffy is at it again. A new scent - I Am King. A new advertising promo, of black man greatness, i think? And Puffy is excited, energized, hearing the OBama call and answering it in his unique, open market and raking in the dividends, way. Either way, I enjoyed the clip below, and decided that I would share with you:
Diddy Blog 35: "I Am King" Mini-Movie
But, I do enjoy being a fan. I like cheering for folks while watching their careers blossom. I often look at it from a managers perspective - if Gabrielle Union was my client, how much would I actually have been able to get the studios to play her for the role in Daddy's Little Girl. What about Idris? How much did they pay him, and how much more could I have gotten him? Where is Nia Long and why were she and Gabrielle the only leading starlets for so long? These are the types of thoughts I have.
But, then there is Puff. Despite the name changes, P. Diddy I believe being the last one, he will always be Puff to me. And there is something so familiar about his energy that I like to see him succeed, even when I complain about the artist depleting label that is Bad Boy. Puff is an entity unto himself. And, what I think I love most about Puff is that he is a fan of the music. A lover of hip hop. So his exaggerated persona keeps money in his pocket, but, at the end of the day, the man works hard and seems to love hard (his work and life anyway, I have no idea why we keep hearing about all his baby mama drama).
What I have found amazing about him lately is his genuine affection of Barack OBama. While we were all touched, Puffy seemed to take it to heart. He did Bill Maher and radio, and his excitement was undeniable. Here was Puffy, someone who did everything they said a black man could never do, visibly in admiration of Barack. Because, at the end of the day, despite how many gains we made, Barack shattered a glass ceiling that was invisible, but certainly there.
Now Puffy is at it again. A new scent - I Am King. A new advertising promo, of black man greatness, i think? And Puffy is excited, energized, hearing the OBama call and answering it in his unique, open market and raking in the dividends, way. Either way, I enjoyed the clip below, and decided that I would share with you:
Diddy Blog 35: "I Am King" Mini-Movie
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