BlackCommentator.com Cover Story -- Thanksgiving: The National Day of Mourning Text of 1970 speech by Wampsutta An Aquinnah Wampanoag Elder

When Frank James (1923 - February 20, 2001), known to the Wampanoag people as Wampsutta, was invited to speak by the Commonwealth of Massachusettsat the 1970 annual Thanksgiving feast at Plymouth. When the text of Mr. James’ speech, a powerful statement of anger at the history of oppression of the Native people of America, became known before the event, the Commonwealth "disinvited" him. Wampsutta was not prepared to have his speech revised by the Pilgrims. He left the dinner and the ceremonies and went to the hill near the statue of the Massasoit, who as the leader of the Wampanoags when the Pilgrims landed in their territory. There overlooking Plymouth Harbor, he looked at the replica of the Mayflower. It was there that he gave his speech that was to be given to the Pilgrims and their guests. There eight or ten Indians and their supporters listened in indignation as Frank talked of the takeover of the Wampanoag tradition, culture, religion, and land.

That silencing of a strong and honest Native voice led to the convening of the National Day of Mourning. The following is the text of 1970 speech by Wampsutta, an Aquinnah Wampanoag elder and Native American activist:

I speak to you as a man -- a Wampanoag Man. I am a proud man, proud of my ancestry, my accomplishments won by a strict parental direction ("You must succeed - your face is a different color in this small Cape Cod community!"). I am a product of poverty and discrimination from these two social and economic diseases. I, and my brothers and sisters, have painfully overcome, and to some extent we have earned the respect of our community. We are Indians first - but we are termed "good citizens." Sometimes we are arrogant but only because society has pressured us to be so.

It is with mixed emotion that I stand here to share my thoughts. This is a time of celebration for you - celebrating an anniversary of a beginning for the white man in America. A time of looking back, of reflection. It is with a heavy heart that I look back upon what happened to my People.

Even before the Pilgrims landed it was common practice for explorers to capture Indians, take them to Europe and sell them as slaves for 220 shillings apiece. The Pilgrims had hardly explored the shores of Cape Cod for four days before they had robbed the graves of my ancestors and stolen their corn and beans. Mourt's Relation describes a searching party of sixteen men. Mourt goes on to say that this party took as much of the Indians' winter provisions as they were able to carry.

Massasoit, the great Sachem of the Wampanoag, knew these facts, yet he and his People welcomed and befriended the settlers of the Plymouth Plantation. Perhaps he did this because his Tribe had been depleted by an epidemic. Or his knowledge of the harsh oncoming winter was the reason for his peaceful acceptance of these acts. This action by Massasoit was perhaps our biggest mistake. We, the Wampanoag, welcomed you, the white man, with open arms, little knowing that it was the beginning of the end; that before 50 years were to pass, the Wampanoag would no longer be a free people.

Although the Puritans were harsh to members of their own society, the Indian was pressed between stone slabs and hanged as quickly as any other "witch."What happened in those short 50 years? What has happened in the last 300 years? History gives us facts and there were atrocities; there were broken promises - and most of these centered around land ownership. Among ourselves we understood that there were boundaries, but never before had we had to deal with fences and stone walls. But the white man had a need to prove his worth by the amount of land that he owned. Only ten years later, when the Puritans came, they treated the Wampanoag with even less kindness in converting the souls of the so-called "savages." Although the Puritans were harsh to members of their own society, the Indian was pressed between stone slabs and hanged as quickly as any other "witch."

And so down through the years there is record after record of Indian lands taken and, in token, reservations set up for him upon which to live. The Indian, having been stripped of his power, could only stand by and watch while the white man took his land and used it for his personal gain. This the Indian could not understand; for to him, land was survival, to farm, to hunt, to be enjoyed. It was not to be abused. We see incident after incident, where the white man sought to tame the "savage" and convert him to the Christian ways of life. The early Pilgrim settlers led the Indian to believe that if he did not behave, they would dig up the ground and unleash the great epidemic again.

The white man used the Indian's nautical skills and abilities. They let him be only a seaman -- but never a captain. Time and time again, in the white man's society, we Indians have been termed "low man on the totem pole."

Has the Wampanoag really disappeared? There is still an aura of mystery. We know there was an epidemic that took many Indian lives - some Wampanoags moved west and joined the Cherokee and Cheyenne. They were forced to move. Some even went north to Canada! Many Wampanoag put aside their Indian heritage and accepted the white man's way for their own survival. There are some Wampanoag who do not wish it known they are Indian for social or economic reasons.

What happened to those Wampanoags who chose to remain and live among the early settlers? What kind of existence did they live as "civilized" people? True, living was not as complex as life today, but they dealt with the confusion and the change. Honesty, trust, concern, pride, and politics wove themselves in and out of their [the Wampanoags'] daily living. Hence, he was termed crafty, cunning, rapacious, and dirty.

History wants us to believe that the Indian was a savage, illiterate, uncivilized animal. A history that was written by an organized, disciplined people, to expose us as an unorganized and undisciplined entity. Two distinctly different cultures met. One thought they must control life; the other believed life was to be enjoyed, because nature decreed it. Let us remember, the Indian is and was just as human as the white man. The Indian feels pain, gets hurt, and becomes defensive, has dreams, bears tragedy and failure, suffers from loneliness, needs to cry as well as laugh. He, too, is often misunderstood.

The white man in the presence of the Indian is still mystified by his uncanny ability to make him feel uncomfortable. This may be the image the white man has created of the Indian; his "savageness" has boomeranged and isn't a mystery; it is fear; fear of the Indian's temperament!

Even before the Pilgrims landed it was common practice for explorers to capture Indians, take them to Europe and sell them as slaves for 220 shillings apiece.High on a hill, overlooking the famed Plymouth Rock, stands the statue of our great Sachem, Massasoit. Massasoit has stood there many years in silence. We the descendants of this great Sachem have been a silent people. The necessity of making a living in this materialistic society of the white man caused us to be silent. Today, I and many of my people are choosing to face the truth. We ARE Indians!

Although time has drained our culture, and our language is almost extinct, we the Wampanoags still walk the lands of Massachusetts. We may be fragmented, we may be confused. Many years have passed since we have been a people together. Our lands were invaded. We fought as hard to keep our land as you the whites did to take our land away from us. We were conquered, we became the American prisoners of war in many cases, and wards of the United States Government, until only recently.

Our spirit refuses to die. Yesterday we walked the woodland paths and sandy trails. Today we must walk the macadam highways and roads. We are uniting We're standing not in our wigwams but in your concrete tent. We stand tall and proud, and before too many moons pass we'll right the wrongs we have allowed to happen to us.

We forfeited our country. Our lands have fallen into the hands of the aggressor. We have allowed the white man to keep us on our knees. What has happened cannot be changed, but today we must work towards a more humane America, a more Indian America, where men and nature once again are important; where the Indian values of honor, truth, and brotherhood prevail.

You the white man are celebrating an anniversary. We the Wampanoags will help you celebrate in the concept of a beginning. It was the beginning of a new life for the Pilgrims. Now, 350 years later it is a beginning of a new determination for the original American: the American Indian.

There are some factors concerning the Wampanoags and other Indians across this vast nation. We now have 350 years of experience living amongst the white man. We can now speak his language. We can now think as a white man thinks. We can now compete with him for the top jobs. We're being heard; we are now being listened to. The important point is that along with these necessities of everyday living, we still have the spirit, we still have the unique culture, we still have the will and, most important of all, the determination to remain as Indians. We are determined, and our presence here this evening is living testimony that this is only the beginning of the American Indian, particularly the Wampanoag, to regain the position in this country that is rightfully ours.

Related:
- The Legacy of Thanksgiving, and a Heritage of Lies
- National Day of Mourning Reflects on Thanksgiving’s Horrific, Bloody History

My heart is so damned full, Fam -- my Mama-Sister-Friend made me feel like "A Natural Woman"...

Aretha Franklin on The Wendy Williams Show: Part 1


Aretha Franklin on The Wendy Williams Show: Part 2


Aretha Franklin: Web Extras on The Wendy Williams Show


Related:
- Aretha Franklin: A Legacy in Music
- Aretha Franklin Is As Immortal As Can Be
- Aretha Franklin’s Astonishing “Dr. Feelgood”
- Soul Survivor

Soul Train Music Awards...

Tear it up Chillun!  I was blessed to have existed on the bridge of Erykah Badu and Gladys Knight -- and for that, I'm so very grateful:



Erykah and India -- what more can Black folk want??!!  Okay, Teddy Riley was, and is -- the SHIT!

Talked to the husband, who's out of the country for work, and he said "How old are we Deb, that the guy who gets a "Legend Award" -- is somebody whose music we loved and danced to??!!   Then he started singing "Let's Chill, let's settle down..."!!  All I could say was, "No shit!" as the tears streamed down my face.  I've never loved him more...

"American Promise" -- a documentary

Family, since I'm always about full disclosure -- I got the email below a little bit ago and dithered about the request because:

1. I'm always a little leery about other folk telling me how wonderful something is in representing my lived experiences and 
2. I don't run ads on my blog for a reason -- everything's not for sale:

Hi Deb,

I just came across your blog and I wanted to reach out and let you know about American Promise, the Sundance Grand Jury prize winning documentary following the journeys of two African-American boys and their families from kindergarten through high school graduation. The film provides a rare look into Black middle class life while exploring the common hopes and hurdles of parents navigating their children’s educational journeys.

"the film is revelatory as an embedded report from the front lines of parenting."
-Film Comment

"American Promise is more than a documentary; it is part of a bigger, ongoing movement about changing perceptions of-and behavior and values with respect to-young African-American males in our society." - Documentary Magazine

I thought the film would be of great interest and conversation for your community. Would you be able to share the below information with your community?

We also have an online day of action on October 15. We are hoping to use this build a HUGE social media buzz about Black Male Achievement and supporting young black boys. Please support us by donating your organization and your personal accounts to our Thunderclap here:  http://thndr.it/16jxiwX mark your calendars for our twitter chat at 3 pm. Thanks!

If you would like to view an online screener of the film, please let me know.

Best,
Darcy

I decided I'd go ahead and post it with the caveat that I'd reserve my comments for after I'd seen it. Here's the descriptive snippet I was asked to post on the blog:

An opportunity to take part in conversations and actions on how we can better serve black boys!

Check out, American Promise, a documentary 13 years in the making, following the journeys of two African-American boys and their families from kindergarten through high school graduation. The film provides a rare look into Black middle class life while exploring the common hopes and hurdles of parents navigating their children’s educational journeys. Releasing in theaters starting October 18. Watch the trailer below. To learn more or find out where it is playing in your city visit http://on.fb.me/17lBHAZ or email info@americanpromise.org 

As promised, I will reserve my comments for after I've seen it -- but I can tell you right now, just from the trailer, I'll have quite a few! Please come back and let's talk.

Related:
‘An Education in Equality’ (please do watch the embedded video here!)

Mr. Randall Robinson -- a Black man for whom I have the utmost respect

My cousin in Charleston called me yesterday and I was glad.  You see, since those murderers in DC killed Miriam Carey, I've been extremely uneasy -- in a rage really.  I needed to talk to someone who knew me well, so I could sufficiently release it before my head exploded.

We talked about a lot of family and home things (young, Veronica Brown's well-being weighs heavily on my mind still), and she let the raging old, foul-mouthed sailor in me spew forth.  As I was telling her how sick and damned tired I was about plenty on the national front (particularly the murders of Ms. Carey and the diabetic, Jack Lamar Roberson in Waycross, GA, as well as the self-immolation of John Constantino on the Mall in DC), she interrupted me,  reminding me of our departed, "strong, Black woman" grandmother:

"You remember how Grandmama used to say she was just weary when people got on her last, damned nerve?"

"Yes," I said, smiling to myself in instant recollection. "That's exactly how I feel, Verne -- I'm so damned weary!"

We simultaneously laughed out loud, then she said, "I can tell!"

The reason I share that little vignette, is because after we hung up I was pensive. I felt she'd helped me let the air out of the tire a little, but as I sat with myself, I thought about Randall Robinson and his book, Quitting America: The Departure of a Black Man from His Native Land and I went to my bookmarks to listen to his soothing, worldly and informative voice for about an hour.  Not quite sated though, I decided to get full.  I opened a bottle of wine, sat on my screened porch, put my feet up -- and listened to this wonderful CSPAN BookTV Interview from earlier this year on my laptop:



As I listened to that calm voice, gracefully telling the fullness of our story (and theirs), I felt the rest of that air slo-o-owly seep out of the tire.

This wonderful, 72 year-old Black man -- in his own first-person account -- was coolly expressing for me, a damn-near verbatim confirmation (albeit with way more couth than I can muster these days) of all the legitimately seething, anger I feel for this country and its procession of insecure and selfish, megalomaniacal pseudo-leaders with their global "military footprint" at home and abroad.

Gotti

Blanca

By the end of the video and that bottle of wine -- me and my pupples, Blanca and Gotti had all calmed down (both of them asleep at my feet in the waning Texas sun); the pounding in my head had stopped; I was full, and extremely happy I'd chosen to spend the evening with the esteemed and absolutely honorable, Randall Robinson.  I hope you will be too!


Related:
- Randall Robinson Interview, The Progressive
- Randall Robinson (Books)
- Georgia Police Kill Diabetic After Family Calls 911 For Ambulance
- The Normalization of Violence Against Black Women
- Freedom Rider: Aaron Alexis, Miriam Carey and John Constantino

Preserving cultural identity in the face of institutionalized white supremacy: Another Home-going -- Pt. 1a -- Cultural assaults on "The Other" continues

Veronica with her biological father Dusten Brown and his wife Robin. (Jeremy Charles for the Washington Post)

After having finally been able to organize my thoughts a little less emotionally about the decision reached by the "Supremes" in Adoptive Couple v. Baby Girl, I was gut-checked by this:  Baby Veronica To Be Adopted by White Couple:

In a 3-to-2 decision, South Carolina’s Supreme Court has ruled that the Native child whose case went to the US Supreme Court will be placed back with the white family that sought to adopt her.

In its ruling, the US Supreme Court held that Dusten Brown, and his daughter, Baby Veronica—who are both citizens of the Cherokee Nation—were essentially not protected under the Indian Child Welfare Act.  As such, the case was bounced back to the South Carolina court. After the ruling, Brown ironically attempted to adopt his own daughter in Oklahoma, since the high court didn’t recognize his rights as a parent. But Oklahoma declined to hear the petition, claiming that South Carolina retained exclusive jurisdiction of the case, since that was where the potential adoptive parents resided.

The South Carolina court agreed Wednesday to terminate Brown’s parental rights, ruling against him and Cherokee Nation. The ruling means that Matt and Melanie Capobianco, the white couple that sought to adopt Veronica, will now regain custody and finalize the adoption. (emphasis mine)

Before I launch into my feelings about the "taking" to which I referred here,  I just have to own, that my initial, sizing-up of Justice Sonia Sotomayor appears to have been a little hasty.

After the Changeling nominated her and then, had his puppy-dog underlings very publicly check her on her "wise Latina" comment and she acquiesced, saying it was a "poor choice of words" -- I thought, "No need to expect anything but the company line from her."  But it seems that, rather than taking a page from the Changeling's book, pretending to be wise and actually standing for something (other than himself and the string-pullers), once selected  -- she actually was wise, doing what my mother taught us regarding the whole, "integration" illusion.  Dana Lone Hill succinctly reiterates that lesson in her First Nations, White Privilege & the Red Struggle post:

“I will follow the white man’s trail. I will make him my friend, but I will not bend my back to his burdens. I will be cunning as a coyote. I will ask him to help me understand his ways, then I will prepare the way for my children, and their children. The Great Spirit has shown me – a day will come when they will outrun the white man in his own shoes.”

Tasunke Ota, Oglala Lakota

After reading her absolutely, stinging dissent (scroll down 3/4 of the way down to read it in its entirety), I've come to realize that unlike the Changeling, once she was selected, she refused to bend her back to their burdens and instead, she used that "trail" for some serious truth-telling.  Below, she lays out an excellent primer in how she learned to "understand" their ways and,"outrun the white man in his own shoes," skewering what Pascal Robert describes here, as the "Politics of Redemption" --

...The reader’s first clue that the majority’s supposedly straightforward reasoning is flawed is that not all Mem­bers who adopt its interpretation believe it is compelled by the text of the statute, see ante, at 1 (THOMAS, J., concur­ring); nor are they all willing to accept the consequences it will necessarily have beyond the specific factual scenario confronted here, see ante, at 1 (BREYER, J., concurring). The second clue is that the majority begins its analysis by plucking out of context a single phrase from the last clause of the last subsection of the relevant provision, and then builds its entire argument upon it. That is not how we ordinarily read statutes. The third clue is that the majority openly professes its aversion to Congress’ explicitly stated purpose in enacting the statute. The majority expresses concern that reading the Act to mean what it says will make it more difficult to place Indian children in adoptive homes, see ante, at 14, 16, but the Congress that enacted the statute announced its intent to stop “an alarmingly high percentage of Indian families [from being] broken up” by, among other things, a trend of “plac[ing] [Indian children] in non-Indian . . . adoptive homes.” 25 U.S.C.§1901(4). Policy disagreement with Congress’ judgment is not a valid reason for this Court to distort the pro­visions of the Act.  Unlike the majority, I cannot adopt a reading of ICWA that is contrary to both its text and its stated purpose.  I respectfully dissent. (emphasis mine)

Certainly far more "respectful" than I could've been under the circumstances (being "respectful" in the face of disrespect is counterintuitive to me -- particularly when the constant onslaught of microaggressions and overt racism are in play).  She continued:

ICWA commences with express findings. Congress rec­ogonized that “there is no resource that is more vital to the continued existence and integrity of Indian tribes than their children,” 25 U. S. C. §1901(3), and it found that this resource was threatened. State authorities insufficiently sensitive to “the essential tribal relations of Indian people and the cultural and social standards prevailing in Indian communities and families” were breaking up Indian fami­lies and moving Indian children to non-Indian homes and institutions. See §§1901(4)–(5). As §1901(4) makes clear, and as this Court recognized in Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians v. Holyfield, 490 U. S. 30, 33 (1989), adoptive placements of Indian children with non-Indian families contributed significantly to the overall problem. (emphasis mine)

This clip, from the soon to be released,  "Schooling the World: The White Man's Last Burden” immediately bears witness to that fact:



Moving on, with her dissent...

Working back to front, the majority then concludes that §1912(d), tainted by its association with §1912(f ), is also inapplicable; in the majority’s view, a family bond that does not take custodial form is not a family bond worth preserving from “breakup.” Because there are apparently no limits on the contaminating power of this single phrase, the majority does not stop there. Under its reading, §1903(9), which makes biological fathers “parent[s]” under this federal statute (and where, again, the phrase “continued custody” does not appear), has substantive force only when a birth father has physical or state-recognized legal custody of his daughter.

When it excludes noncustodial biological fathers from the Act’s substantive protections, this textually backward reading misapprehends ICWA’s structure and scope.  Moreover, notwithstanding the majority’s focus on the perceived parental shortcomings of Birth Father, its reasoning necessarily extends to all Indian parents who have never had custody of their children, no matter how fully those parents have embraced the financial and emotional responsibilities of parenting. The majority thereby trans­forms a statute that was intended to provide uniform federal standards for child custody proceedings involving Indian children and their biological parents into an illogi­cal piecemeal scheme. (emphasis mine)

The hypocrisy of this "scheme" is egregious, and veers dangerously close to the approval of child trafficking, if the "buyer"is white, and has enough money -- and the Capobiancos obviously fit both those requirements.  From the birth mother and her attorney (hired and paid for by the Capobiancos), to the agency handling the "adoption," to the faux adoptive parents and their attorney -- this case stinks of spiteful baby-selling.  The majority's wholesale acceptance of their "facts," despite evidence to the contrary, makes them complicit in the crime.

The birth mother, about whom I chose to exercise some restraint in my first post, should be ashamed. There's no doubt she got a boat-load of cash -- up to, and after the birth -- now she says, if the Capobiancos don't get Veronica, she will fight the termination of her parental rights (given up at her birth) if the couple’s adoption doesn’t go through.  À mi hermana morena, I say -- this is all you were ever about:

Though this case is primarily about Native American, biological fathers, it should send chills up the spines of any ethnicity of biological fathers, whom the haves routinely denigrate as "not wanting to take care of their own children" -- including their own.

Justice Scalia, joining Justice Sotomayor's dissent, makes plain the majority's hypocrisy saying:

While I am at it, I will add one thought. The Court’s opinion, it seems to me, needlessly demeans the rights of parenthood. It has been the constant practice of the common law to respect the entitlement of those who bring a child into the world to raise that child. We do not inquire whether leaving a child with his parents is “in the best interest of the child.” It sometimes is not; he would be better off raised by someone else. But parents have their rights, no less than children do. This father wants to raise his daughter, and the statute amply protects his right to do so. There is no reason in law or policy to dilute that protection. (emphasis mine)

And the majority's not alone in being hypocritical about this issue, our society is as well.  For all the talk in society about fathers not wanting to take care of their children, here we have a father who wanted to marry the mother of his child and live as a family -- fighting to do just that!  But Capobianco supporters rally around their "right" to this man's flesh and blood, while most of American society pays no attention.  Where's the flood of support for Mr. Brown?  Is society only interested in the perceived "rights" of the haves?  This is not their child!!!

I'd been seeing commercials for three upcoming episodes of Oprah's Lifeclass on "Fatherless Sons" and "Daddyless Daughters."  In it, she's crowing about, "I'm so glad we started this discussion!"  Please.  She may have started that discussion on OWN, but it's been going on long before then (guess you can tell, just like Obama-love, I'm not awash in Oprah-love either -- and for a lot of the same reasons).  I do, however, like and respect the opinions of Iyanla Vanzant.  As I think about this little girl, this one rings particularly true:

“What is it that would make a creature as fierce, majestic and powerful as a lion is, subject itself to the intimidation of a man a whip and a chair? The lion has been taught to forget what it is.”

― Iyanla Vanzant, Peace from Broken Pieces

I watched the "Daddyless Daughters" episode last weekend and it was interesting to hear how her opinions stacked up against the trauma being inflicted on this child by the Masters degree and PhD in Developmental Psychology-havin', faux adoptive mother, who develops therapy programs for children with behavior problems and their families! {smdh}  I wonder how Miss "O" and her team would spin what is happening to Veronica and her DADDY?  Look at the photo that introduces this post.  That child is a mirror of her father!  Do you think she won't know that the white man, who makes hay of cutting her umbilical cord is not her father?  What LIES will they tell her when she asks (and she will ask!) about her "real" family and why she doesn't look like EITHER OF THEM (Money talks, and bullshit walks is all I can think of right now)?!

As the case was kicked back to a South Carolina Court, where this sham adoption was already denied by the Family Court and then affirmed by the State Supreme Court, I just couldn't shake their continued, We want what we paid for protestations.  I never believed they cared a whit about "the best interests" of this child.  In this local Post & Courier piece, they tell the reporter -- "Their worst fear was making it harder for other families to adopt!"  And the more I read, the more obvious their motives become:

The Capobiancos realize that Veronica might call someone else Mommy and Daddy. But they know Veronica still remembers her first home.

In her room, the bed she once slept on is still set up as a crib. Matt Capobianco kneaded the arm of a padded chair tucked in the corner.

“When she couldn’t sleep, I would read to her in this chair,” he said. “Now when we come in here, it’s mostly just to run the vacuum.”

If Veronica returns, the couple thinks she’ll remember all of this — the Himalayan cat ZuZu, her toy grocery cart, the Santa, snowflake and candy cane stickers she adhered to a leg of the dining room table during the Christmas just before she left...

...Brown doesn’t want anything to change.

He, his wife, Robin, and Veronica vacationed in Branson, Mo., this weekend. But Brown thinks Oklahoma is where his daughter belongs.

It’s where she dons a traditional dress, dances, sings and bangs on a drum. She’s learning the language used in Brown’s Cherokee Nation.

It’s where she rides a Jet Ski with Brown and learns to doggy-paddle in a pool.

It’s where the pets she helped name — Cookie and Chip the guinea pigs, Cowboy and Boogers the dogs — mosey through the yard (emphasis mine)

Now it could just be me, but with the exception of Mr. Capobianco saying he read to her at night, those two descriptions of Veronica's life, B.A. (Before Alito)  and A.A. (After Alito) -- seemed all they ever had to offer Veronica were, THINGS -- bearing out Justice Sotomayor's most important statement in her dissent:

“We must remember that the purpose of an adop­tion is to provide a home for a child, not a child for a home.”

The Capobiancos need to realize, "The Great White Father Myth" is just that -- a myth:

Coming home from the schools and the cities and the milatary (sic) services the Indians of the new generation loom larger in their own self-esteem. It is this contagious pride that they have brought back with them to the reservations. Moreover, they now know more than merely how to speak the language of the conquerors. They know how to speak it in a way that the white man knows how to listen to. And it is this, their articulate voices, in swinging and university-toned English, which they have brought to the tribal elders, that more than anything else has scaled down the size of the unmountable mountain.

The effect of this change on the Cherokees of Oklahoma was told by Clyde Warrior: 'The unrest and resentment has always exsisted through all the age groups of Indians. But the elders did not think anything could be done.

"Now they have young people coming home who are somewhat verbal [in English], who have some knowledge of how the mechanics of government and American institutions work. They have begun to utilize these rebellious young people. It's a kind of happy meeting of elders, with power in the community, and these young people who have some idea of how urban America works."

In this way the young Indians are becoming the spokesmen for the unspoken thoughts of their fathers. So many things unsaid and uncommunicated for years have begun to be voiced with that "vehemence" and that "expressive, concise, emphatical, sonorous, and bold" eloquence that James Adair heard two hundred years ago.

And yet the white man, long soothed by the seemingly supplicant and seemingly stoic Indian, is reluctant to give up that comforting image. He prefers, of course, not to listen.

The tribal Indians are undergoing so intense and complex a process of rediscovery of their beliefs and strengths that they do not know how to make their voices heard. Nor do they know what to say. Young Vine Deloria, Jr., of the National Congress of American Indians, thought his own path of self-discovery that had led through two universities and governmental offices and Congressional hearings and national politics was not atypical.

His path "was just a little longer," Deloria, Jr., said: "In the college where I went there was a professor who had just discovered the 'crisis of identity.' He would sit in seminars and ask us: 'Do you have this "crisis of identity"?' What he meant was, 'Do you have a crisis in identifying with the mainstream of my way of life?' He should never have asked that question!

"There were a number of us, young Indians, who thought about it and discovered that we did not identify with his way of life. We identified with our Indian way of life.

As will "Veronica." I'm certain Dusten Brown and the Cherokee Nation will stop at nothing to curtail "The Taking" -- and they should not.  This child belongs with her father and if that does not happen, she will forever be a "Daddyless Daughter" -- I don't care how much money the child-trafficking Capobiancos have.

UPDATE: Native American groups ready to sue if SC court doesn't rehear Veronica case; Cherokee grant temp custody to father's family

Continued: Preserving cultural identity in the face of institutionalized white supremacy: Another Home-going -- Pt. 1b -- The "taking" rolls on with nary a peep from the MSM

Related:
- Leonhard: 'Human and Constitutional Rights' Violated in Baby Veronica Case
- Anger Erupts Across Indian Country Over Baby Veronica Ruling
- Native American Rights Fund: Stop the Forced Removal of Baby Veronica
- South Carolina court orders Baby Veronica returned to adoptive parents
-Native American group "confident" Veronica will stay with birth father
- James Island couple, Oklahoma man not giving up fight for chance to raise Baby Veronica

Will the "taking" ever end???

This is so wrong on so many levels. I am just speechless about this right now -- U.S. Supreme Court reverses S.C. court in Adoptive Couple v. Baby Girl, siding with James Island couple:

The opinion, written by Justice Samuel Alito, rules that assertions made by the South Carolina Supreme Court don't apply in the specific case of Adoptive Couple, saying that action by the S.C. court that resulted in Veronica being "taken, at the age of 27 months, from the only parents she had ever known" under the federal ICWA, "do not demand this result."

Writing for the Court, Alito says examination of the case using other provisions of the ICWA were inapplicable, and that an argument that the Capobianco's adoption was an attempt to "breakup" her birth father Dusten Brown's Native American family (as defined by the ICWA) is insubstantial since Brown "abandoned" Veronica before her birth.

So, white folk can still keep doing to Native-Americans what they've always done -- take their land, take their children and continue to slowly erase them from these alleged United States.{smdh} I just can't expound any further on this right now, I just can't.  But please read this incredibly truthful and moving piece by Dana Lone Hill over at The Intersection of Madness and Reality to get an idea of what I will say when I can -- "First Nations, White Privilege, & the Red Struggle."  This paragraph in particular, speaks passionately to what the sexist Alito and his lemmings have done with their lies and unbridled White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy today:

"In our very own land that we have ALWAYS occupied we have to fight, struggle, and reclaim our own very basic needs and rights. We are the only ethnic group who has a set of laws in place to keep our children with our own people because our children are targeted for foster care and years before boarding schools. Acts of genocide placing our children with other groups of people. We had to fight for the right to practice our own spirituality which we got in 1978. We had to buy our own stolen sacred land back." (all emphasis mine)

I'll write more later.

Continued: Preserving cultural identity in the face of institutionalized white supremacy: Another Home-going -- Pt. 1

Related:
- U.S. Supreme Court ruling -- Adoptive Couple v. Baby Girl
- Supreme Court says Native American child doesn’t have to be given to biological father

"Inseparable" -- how I always want authentic Black women to be!

For a myriad of reasons, it's been a few years since I've watched American Idol.  So you can imagine my surprise and delight in stumbling upon it last night, to not only find that my beautiful, "homegirl," Candice Glover -- had won the whole shebang!!

And unlike the Changeling and his "homeboy," Lincoln -- I'm certain it's safe for me to say that we are not just from the same place, we are of that place, sharing in a collection of innate life experiences and "systems of reality" (as James Baldwin put it) unique to our existences in that place (I'm homesick y'all, can you tell?). This young sister, like my family, is from one of the Sea Islands of South Carolina, all of which (along with those in North Carolina, Georgia and Florida), continue to struggle mightily to preserve our West African heritage through the Gullah and Geechee cultures.  I'm not at all surprised at this young woman's voice, because I know "from whence it came."

Candice, as I'm sure everyone in St. Helena and Beaufort are -- I am so damned proud of you (Whitney lives on, Sister) and your stick-to-it-tiveness!  Hope this is the start of our hearing and having some more great singers, and more great music like you shared throughout the show -- before I drop dead (and yes, I went to YouTube today and listened to all of her performances for the entire show)!

But wait y'all!  Here's the absolutely wonderful icing on the cake -- this, soulful, double-dose of sweet, young, Black womanhood:



Jennifer:  "Sang Candice!" -- I swear, homegirl took me back home to those incredibly, powerful Black choirs, in churches all across the South with those two little words!  And "sang" Candice did!


(P.S. Screw you, Simon Cowell!)

Albert Chinụalụmọgụ Achebe, 1930 - 2013

“I think it’s changed a bit. But not very much in its essentials. When I think of the standing, the importance and the erudition of all these people who see nothing about racism in Heart of Darkness, I’m convinced that we must really be living in different worlds. Anyway, if you don’t like someone’s story, you write your own. If you don’t like what somebody says, you say what it is you don’t like. Some people imagine that what I mean is, Don’t read Conrad. Good heavens, no! I teach Conrad. I teach Heart of Darkness. I have a course on Heart of Darkness in which what I’m saying is, Look at the way this man handles Africans. Do you recognize humanity there? People will tell you he was opposed to imperialism. But it’s not enough to say, I’m opposed to imperialism. Or, I’m opposed to these people—these poor people—being treated like this. Especially since he goes on straight away to call them “dogs standing on their hind legs.” That kind of thing. Animal imagery throughout. He didn’t see anything wrong with it. So we must live in different worlds. Until these two worlds come together we will have a lot of trouble.”

Chinua Achebe

Which is why we must continue to work, exceedingly hard at telling our own stories -- all of them.

The prolific, Nigerian novelist and educator, Chinua Achebe is now with the ancestors and I think it only fitting, to have the remarkable, young, Nigerian novelist, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie eulogize him. Read and enjoy her 2010 piece in Salon entitled, "Chinua Achebe: The man who rediscovered Africa":

When, in 1958, the London publishers William Heinemann received a manuscript of Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart,” they were unsure whether to publish it. The central question, according to editor Alan Hill, was this: “Would anyone possibly buy a novel by an African?” Not only were there a mere handful of examples of African writing in English at the time – such as Amos Tutuola’s surreal “The Palm-Wine Drinkard” and Cyprian Ekwensi’s novel of contemporary Lagos, “People of the City” – but none of them had the ambition, the subtlety, or the confidence of “Things Fall Apart.”

Chinua Achebe had initially conceived it as a story of three generations: a man in pre-colonial Igboland who struggles against the changes brought by the first European missionaries and administrators; his son who converts to Christianity and receives some Western education; and his grandson who is educated in England and is living the life of the new elite on the cusp of independence. Achebe later scaled down the novel, focusing only on the first generation, to produce a carefully observed story of the African-European colonial encounter set among the Igbo people of southeastern Nigeria in the 1890s, with the tragic hero Okonkwo at its center. Achebe’s second novel, “No Longer At Ease,” would skip a generation and tell the story of Okonkwo’s grandson, Obi, a civil servant in 1950s Lagos. His third novel, “Arrow of God,” about an Igbo priest and a British district officer in 1920s Igboland, can be read as representative of the times of Okonkwo’s son. All three novels, taken together as Achebe’s “African Trilogy,” create a full and beautifully nuanced arc, a human chronicle of the cultural and political changes that brought about what is now seen as the modern African state.

After William Heinemann overcame their reservations and published “Things Fall Apart” in June 1958, it became a critical success. Achebe, the Times Literary Supplement wrote, had “genuinely succeeded in presenting tribal life from the inside.” A novelty indeed. “Things Fall Apart” was pioneering not in its subject but in its African point of view, as there were already many well-regarded books about Africans written by non-Africans; tribal life had already been endlessly portrayed from the outside. Achebe himself first read some of the better-known examples of these “colonialism classics” as a secondary school student in the 1940s. “I did not see myself as an African to begin with,” he has written about his response to the African characters. “I took sides with the white men against the savages. The white man was good and reasonable and intelligent and courageous. The savages arrayed against him were sinister and stupid or, at the most, cunning. I hated their guts.” As Achebe matured and became more critical in his reading, he began to understand the enormous power that stories had, and how much this power was shaped by who told the stories and by how they were told. As a university student in the 1950s, in addition to reading Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Coleridge, Achebe also read Joyce Carey’s “Mister Johnson,” a novel set in Nigeria, which Time magazine had named the “best book ever written about Africa.” Achebe disagreed. Not only was the Nigerian character in the novel unrecognizable to him and his classmates but he also detected, in the description of Nigerians, “an undertow of uncharitableness … a contagion of distaste, hatred, and mockery.”

There has been much written about Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart” as a response to Mister Johnson, and one likes to think that Achebe would have written his novel even if he had not read Cary’s. Still, the prejudiced representation of African characters in literature could not but have had an influence on Achebe’s development as a writer. He would, years later, write a famous essay about the portrayal of Africans in Joseph Conrad’s classic novel “Heart of Darkness,” arguing not that Conrad should not have written honestly about the racism of the time, but that Conrad failed to hold an authorial rejection of that worldview.

The strangeness of seeing oneself distorted in literature – and indeed of not seeing oneself at all – was part of my own childhood. I grew up in the Nigerian university town of Nsukka in the 1980s, reading a lot of British children’s books. My early writing mimicked the books I was reading: all my characters were white and all my stories were set in England. Then I read “Things Fall Apart.” It was a glorious shock of discovery, as was “Arrow of God,” which I read shortly afterwards; I did not know in a concrete way until then that people like me could exist in literature. Here was a book that was unapologetically African, that was achingly familiar, but that was, also, exotic because it detailed the life of my people a hundred years before. Because I was educated in a Nigerian system that taught me little of my pre-colonial past, because I could not, for example, imagine with any accuracy how life had been organized in my part of the world in 1890, Achebe’s novels became strangely personal. “Things Fall Apart” was no longer a novel about a man whose exaggerated masculinity and encompassing fear of weakness make it impossible for him to adapt to the changes in his society, it became the life my great-grandfather might have lived. “Arrow of God” was no longer just about the British administration’s creation of warrant chiefs, and the linked destinies of two men – one an Igbo priest the other a British administrator – it became the story of my ancestral hometown during my grandfather’s time. “And No Longer at Ease” transcended the story of an educated young Nigerian struggling with the pressure of new urban expectations in Lagos, and became the story of my father’s generation.

Later, as an adult confronting the portrayals of Africa in non-African literature – Africa as a place without history, without humanity, without hope – and filled with that peculiar sense of defensiveness and vulnerability that comes with knowing that your humanity is seen as negotiable, I would turn again to Achebe’s novels. In the stark, sheer poetry of “Things Fall Apart,” in the humor and complexity of “Arrow of God,” I found a gentle reprimand: Don’t you dare believe other people’s stories of you.

Considering the time and circumstances under which he wrote, perhaps Chinua Achebe sensed that his work would become, for a generation of Africans, both literature and history. He has written that he would be satisfied if his novels did no more than teach his readers that their past “was not one long night of savagery from which the first Europeans acting on God’s behalf delivered them.” He has, on occasion, adopted a somewhat anthropological voice in his fiction: “Fortunately among these people,” we are told in “Things Fall Apart,” “a man was judged according to his worth and not according to the worth of his father.” But what is remarkable is that Achebe’s art never sinks under this burden of responsibility. A reader expecting to find simple answers in Chinua Achebe’s work will be disappointed, because he is a writer who embraces honesty and ambiguity and who complicates every situation. His criticism of the effects of colonialism on the Igbo is implicit, but so is his interrogation of the internal structure of Igbo society. When Nwoye, Okonkwo’s son in “Things Fall Apart,” breaks away from his family and community to join the Christians, it is a victory for the Europeans but also a victory for Nwoye, who finds peace and an outlet for deep disillusions he had long been nursing about his people’s traditions. When a character says, “The White man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers and our clan can no longer act as one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart,” the reader is aware that Achebe’s narrative is as much about the knife as it is about the vulnerabilities, the internal complexities, the cracks that already existed.

Achebe writes spare, elegant sentences in English but it is a Nigerian English and often, more specifically, an Igbo English. All three novels are filled with direct translations from the Igbo, resulting in expressions like “still carrying breakfast” and “what is called ‘the box is moving?’” as well as in laugh-out-loud lines, especially for an Igbo-speaking reader, like “the white man whose father or mother nobody knows.” It is, however, the rendition of proverbs, of speech, of manners of speaking, that elevate Achebe’s novels into a celebration of language. In “Arrow of God,” for example, Ezeulu eloquently captures his own cautious progressiveness when he tells his son whom he has decided to send to the missionary school: “I am like the bird eneke-nti-oba. When his friends asked him why he was always on the wing he replied: men of today have learnt to shoot without missing and so I have learnt to fly without perching…the world is like a Mask dancing. If you want to see it well you do not stand in one place.”

Achebe takes his characters seriously but not too seriously; he finds subtly subversive ways to question them and even laugh at them, and he refuses to rescue them from their foibles. Okonkwo, perhaps the best-known character in modern African writing in English, is the quintessential Strong Man, and is ruled by a profound fear that blinds him. His insecurities result in a relentless harshness and an extremist view of masculinity – he is so terrified of being thought weak that he destroys a person he loves and yet the reader empathizes with his remorse, repressed as it is.

It is impossible, especially for the contemporary reader, not to be struck by the portrayal of gender in “Things Fall Apart,” and the equating of weakness and inability with femaleness. More interesting, however, and perhaps more revealing, are the subtle ways in which Achebe interrogates this patriarchy: Okonkwo denigrates women and yet the child he most respects is his daughter Ezinma, the only character who dares to answer back to him and who happens to be confident and forthright in a way that his male children are not. My favorite part of the novel, and a small part indeed, is the love story of the old couple Ozoemena and Ndulue. When Ndulue dies, his wife Ozoemena goes to his hut to see his body and then goes into her own hut and is later found dead there. Okonkwo’s friend Obierika recalls, “It was always said that Ndulue and Ozoemena had one mind. I remember when I was a young boy and there was a song about them. He could not do anything without telling her.” This recollection troubles Okonkwo because, in his eyes, it casts doubts on Ndulue’s authentic masculinity. He says, “I thought he was a strong man in his youth.” The others agree that Ndulue was a strong man and had led the clan to war in those days. They do not see, as Okonkwo obviously does, a contradiction between the old man’s greatness in the realm of masculinity and his mutually dependent relationship with his wife.

It is this rigidity of Okonkwo’s, in addition to his uncompromising nature, his rashness, his excesses, for which the reader feels impatience. Yet, when placed in the context of the many small humiliations of the colonial encounter, his actions become worthy of empathy. The power structures of his society have been so easily overturned. Okonkwo is left struggling to understand a world in which the dignity he had always taken for granted has disappeared, in which elders are treated with scorn and he, proud warrior that he is, is flogged by agents of the District commissioner. The reader is moved to understand the helpless rage, and final violent actions, that are Okonkwo’s response to the enormous, and perhaps baffling, political and economic power that came with Christianity and Colonialism. We are left, in the end, with an unforgettable tragic character: a man who is gravely flawed but who has also been gravely wronged.

Ezeulu, the character at the center of “Arrow of God,” which remains my favorite novel, is both flawed and wronged like Okonkwo, and is also held captive by what he imagines his society expects of him. Unlike Okonkwo, a character who was clearly in Achebe’s control, Ezeulu is wondrously unwieldy and his deep complexity lends “Arrow of God” much of its enduring power. I suspect that, as happens in the best fiction, Chinua Achebe did not have complete control over this character; ultimately the spirit of Ezeulu dictated how his story would be told. “Arrow of God” is told from the points of view of both Ezeulu and the British district commissioner Winterbottom; when the novel begins, the central event has already occurred, much like a Greek drama, and what Achebe explores is the aftermath. Ezeulu has testified against his own people in a land case with the neighboring town, because he is determined to speak the truth, and this action has earned him the respect of the district officer the as well as the ire of his local opponents. It will also act as a catalyst that – added to Ezeulu’s stubborness, his idealism, his pride – will contribute to his tragic end.

Like “Things Fall Apart,” “Arrow of God” shows the angry helplessness of people in the face of formalized European power: powerful men are treated with scorn by government agents, great men are flogged, the justice system is replaced by one the people do not understand and do not have a say in, and the internal dynamics of the society is turned around.

In “No Longer at Ease,” however, this helplessness is replaced by something inchoate but less suffocating, because the terms have changed during the short-lived optimism of independence. Obi, struggling with the pressures of the new Nigerian society, captures this change when he thinks of his boss the Englishman Mr. Green, who he is sure “loved Africa but only Africa of a certain kind: the Africa of Charles the messenger, the Africa of his gardenboy and stewardboy. In 1900 Mr Green might have ranked among the greatest missionaries, in 1935 he would have made do with slapping headmasters in the presence of their pupils, but in 1957 he could only curse and swear.”

Achebe writes in the realist tradition and there are often traces of the autobiographical in his work. He was born in 1930 in the Igbo town of Ogidi, southeastern Nigeria. His parents were firm Christians but many of his relatives had retained the Igbo religion and so he grew up a witness to both sides of his heritage and, more importantly, a recipient of stories from both. Influences of his great-uncle, a wealthy and important man who had allowed the first missionaries to stay in his compound but later asked them to leave because he found their music too sad, are obvious in “Things Fall Apart.” He worked as a radio producer in Lagos in the 1950s and the details of this life – film shows and clubs and bars, observing formerly expatriate clubs that were now admitting a few Nigerians – give “No Longer at Ease” its verisimilitude. It was through a radio program that Achebe heard the story of an Igbo priest in a nearby town who, as a result of a number of events with the British administration, had postponed the sacred New Yam festival, which had never been done before. He decided to go and visit this town and the story inspired “Arrow of God.”

All of Achebe’s work is, in some way, about strong communitarian values, the use of language as collective art, the central place of storytelling and the importance of symbolic acts and objects in keeping a community together. The American writer John Updike, after reading “Arrow of God,” wrote to Achebe to say that a western writer would not have allowed the destruction of a character as rich as Ezeulu. This is debatable, but perhaps what Updike had understood was that Achebe was as much concerned with a person as he was with a people, an idea well captured in the proverb that a character in Arrow of God recites: “An animal rubs its itching flank against a tree, but a man asks his kinsman to scratch him.” (all emphasis mine)

I've only read "Things Fall Apart" but, I'll certainly read the rest of the trilogy.  Because,  just as I felt when my high school English teacher, Mrs. Alfreda Jenkins, fed our young, Black minds (thirsting for voices and experiences that sounded like our own) with all those wonderful voices of the Harlem Renaissance and beyond, my old-assed mind, right now, today -- still thirsts for those ancestral voices about whom Achebe wrote, voices which a lot of us would rather deny, or worse yet, hope would disappear.

Related:
- Author Chinua Achebe dies at 82
- Nigerian Writer Chinua Achebe, Author of ‘Things Fall Apart’, Dead at 82
- Chinua Achebe at 82: “We Remember Differently,” By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
- Chinua Achebe Biography

"Blacks Without Borders" -- the Pan-Africanism about which Malcolm spoke?

"Imagine, Affimative Action -- with teeth."

(I can just see my brother, Asa, shaking his head in the affirmative right now!)
















I think capitalism is a boil on the ass of human-kind, particularly since our Black bodies played such a large part in its birth and growth here in America.  However, this, is certainly what I thought we would do with it -- either here, or on The Continent if that's what we wanted to do (because I had, and still have no doubt, that we could!).

It seems these brothers and sisters took what they learned about it and went back home -- giving back, as they continue to prosper.  And as much as I hate that boil, I just can't be mad at them for that (okay, I gotta admit, the diamond trader did make me uncomfortable, because I immediately thought about -- conflict/blood diamonds, who owns the mines, who's doing the mining and under what conditions.  But, I can't ignore how she's not only ensured that African talent benefits from what she does, but that our African cultural heritage is at the forefront of her work as well).

Watching this documentary tonight, I'm once again reminded of Alex Raventhorne's comment on "...and yet they wonder why POC emigrate" over At the Bar:

"Stay where you are celebrated, reconsider where you are tolerated, and flee where you are persecuted."

Think about it Family...

Now - Peace, my Sister...

My Sister just tapped me on the shoulder and said - "Add this!"  So I did:



Y'all too funny!! Don't be scared!

All she said was, "I KNOW they thought this song was for HIM - but really - it was for US!"

"A Homegoing": Part 5b - The Center

Posted over at The Intersection of Madness & Reality last week, the following video seemed a perfect segue into this, the last part of "A Homegoing."  If you've not yet seen it, please take a moment to watch - and carefully listen:



This beautiful young sister definitely spoke to my own, "single story" existence, growing up Black in America (my collection of Nancy Drew books is still boxed up - somewhere!).  A voracious reader at a very young age as well - I, too, had fallen for the "single story."  And as Ms. Adichie so succinctly explained, the "unintended consequences" of doing so, took me everywhere except - from whence I came.

Serendipitously, however - a transfer to our neighborhood public high school (my then, single mother could no longer afford the Catholic school tuition), where I was assigned to the freshman English class of Mrs. Alfreda Jenkins (also my French teacher) - taught me a new and exciting story.

She introduced me to Black writers like my favorite, James Baldwin.  And for good measure - she brought along W.E.B. DuBois, Lorraine Hansberry, Richard Wright, Audre Lorde,  Claude McKay, James Weldon Johnson, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes and, Paul "We Wear the Mask" Laurence Dunbar.  All of them were writing about life - as I knew it!  And much like Adichie, I experienced a paradigm shift.

More relevant to this series though, Ms. Adichie perfectly described my prior, Black American "single story" of Africa.  Though I'd had two casual acquaintances from Africa at my small HBCU, who'd tried desperately to dispel the nonsense with which I had been inculcated all my life; I carried that trick-or-treat for UNICEF, "single story" with me.  Despite my knowledge of South African apartheid, Nelson Mandela's imprisonment and, the divestment campaigns of the late 70s - I still carried much of that "single story" with me. 

When I met Gerald Pinedo a little over 10 years ago, however, I began to really get how the "single story" of Africa - copiously fed to us in America - had been able "to flatten my experience and to overlook the many other stories that formed me."

Though very European (Lawd!  He absolutely hates when I say that - but it's true!), Gerald is one who is driven, to tell the whole of the stories which formed (and continue to form) us through his research, art, sculpture and documentary films.  Accordingly, he is a member of, and is certified by - the Society for the Promotion of Educational Art Projects on the History of Slavery, based in Cologne, Germany:

Here's a little about "the work":

While working tirelessly toward telling the whole of the story through exhibitions and lecturing - he's been working to make The Center a reality.  When I arrived in December last year, he was well on his way to accomplishing that, as well.

Below is a little slideshow, combining some of his earlier pictures when he began building in March of  2010, together with some that I took nine months later:

Aside from the bureaucracy that reigns, no matter the continent, he's been faced with some challenges, which have certainly delayed the completion of the project (like handmade concrete blocks and hand-hewn support beams!).  But he's persevered.

To date, the container of art, sculpture, books and their display cases and pedestals have arrived from Germany, and the generator for the electricity has been installed.  All that's left to do, is move it all in - and I'll be there to help him do it (Sometimes travel insurance is a good thing!  Long story, next post).

More importantly to me though, is the fact that my family will also be there to help.  The husband and I decided to forego the usual mall fare for the sons this Christmas, and elected instead, to put passports and tickets to The Gambia under the tree.  At 27 and 30 years old, I want them to have the opportunity to shed the "single story" of Africa that continues to this day - and make up their own minds.  So far, they're extremely excited.  I'll keep you posted.

I'd like to end the series the way I began it (seems fitting):

"When most people talk about a "home-going" - they're talking about a death and a burial. And in a sense, so am I, though not of a corporal kind."

Though I'm not completely there yet, I've come a long way toward putting the final nail in that particular coffin.  I've come to understand, as well as agree with Ms. Adichie, that - "When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about anyplace - we regain a kind of paradise."

Thanks again for your patience...

A "Homegoing" - Part 5a: Neocolonialism and Juffureh

I'd initially included "neo-colonialism" in the title for this piece but, with all the current examples of European and American, wink-and-a-nod R2P policies (encompassing regime change, to include out and out murder - and bragging about it {smdh}); the continued land-grabbing in Africa; and The shadow war in Syria (all which have transpired since Part 4!), I figured belaboring that point would've been moot.

So instead, I thought I'd do a Part 5(a), sharing some more "being there" and then, closing with my trip to Juffureh.  And then - because this post is already wa-a-ay long (Yeah, you might want to read it in shifts or something.  If nothing else, do, at least watch the slide show at the end!), I'll do a retrospective of The Center in Part 5(b).

Again, my apologies for leaving you hanging.  But as I said before, "Life just keeps happening!"

~#~

Leaving the LAICO

I made a beeline to the shower after my day at the rice farm and got ready for dinner.  Since Gerald had called, saying they'd be picking me up at check-out time the next day, I figured I'd pack my stuff, and spend the evening saying my goodbyes to those who'd made my introduction to The Gambia such a meaningful experience during my short stay at the LAICO Atlantic.

Stopping by Ibrahim, the sand-painter's table after eating, I got a huge hug and a promise to make me something "beau-ti-ful" on my next trip.  Laughing, I told him there'd definitely be a "next trip," so I was holding him to that (and expecting a  second-timer's discount!).

Heading toward my room, I saw Bintou ("but everybody calls me Mama") setting up the lobby bar.  I couldn't just say goodbye to this young sister, because for the short time I was there, she was - in so many delightful ways - one of those "archetypal dreams" of that "temple of my familiar."  So instead, I decided to sit and have a drink and talk.

One drink became two, then two became three as we talked and laughed about our families; our birth order (Bintou is the name given the youngest daughter and I'm the youngest daughter too); foods we liked (I already told ya'll, I love me some rice!  But I also like boiled peanuts and sweet potatoes - both of which my Grandmama grew in South Carolina and, are locally grown in The Gambia; what we each wanted to be when we grew up (What? I still have dreams!) and music - the rhythms of which we both agreed came first, then the words.  For all that "distance created, created deliberately" which continues to render our circumstances decidedly different - it was apparent that we were the ones, "more alike than we were unalike."

Then - I heard the music start in the club next to the bar.  Mama and I looked toward the door, then back at each other - and burst out laughing!  Draining my glass, I said,  "Hell, check-out's not 'til noon!  I think a little leg-shakin's in order!  Flashing that beautiful smile, she said, "I'm on til midnight or I'd go wit you!"  We hugged, promised to stay in touch and in I went.

I walked through the doors, surveyed the landscape and immediately spotted Ansumana dancing.  I'd met this young brother working the evening shift the day I arrived.  He'd said then - "Just remember 'handsome' and you'll remember my name!"  Crackin' the hell up, I asked, "Has that line ever worked for you??  Smiling broadly, he just slowly shook his head up and down like my youngest does - when the answer is absolute.  Witnessing the veritable stream of European women offering to buy him drinks and pulling him to the dance floor - I had no reason to doubt him.

He'd been a font of information since I got there, suggesting places in Banjul I should see; telling me how other parts of the country compared to the capital; schooling me about local reactions to, and interactions with, foreigners - especially foreign women (priceless, dead-on info, I promise you!).

I went over and plopped down on a stool at the bar and ordered a Guinness (thought I'd switch from the drinks I'd been having so I could be sure to get my old ass up in the morning - bad idea).  When Ansumana came off the dance floor, he took the stool next to me. I knew he'd worked earlier that day, so I asked why he was still there.  He said whenever he had the breakfast shift the next day, he'd just stay over in Banjul rather than going home to his village.  "Tonight though, my job is lookin' out for you my Sistah, he said laughing.  "Cuz trust - dese guys in here watchin' you!"

To throes of laughter from the bartender, I shot back, "Hell, no need for them to be watchin' me!  I'm old enough to be all their Mamas!  And besides, there's plenty women in here!"  Then Ansumana said, "But Sistah, you different from dem, You Black - and American!"

Asking what that had to do with anything, he said, "First of all, cuz we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here - at least not until the Roots Festival.  And second, you Blacks in America, you know how to fight for your rights - and win!"  I felt an uneasy sense of shame at his first observation, and while deeply humbled by the second, all I could think was, "Yeah, we used to."

I got this email from Mariatou after I'd returned, confirming his first observation:
Hi Deborah how are you doing, greetings from Gerald to you and my family...an how is the weather there? say hi to your husband an your boys for me, i miss you so much...the festival have started since last Sunday and a lot of black Americans are around, Luciano and some musician from Senegal, i wish you are around to witness a real roots festival. i will keep in touch with you thanks a lot bye for now...(She also told me they'd renamed James Island, now calling it, "Kunta Kinteh Island" during the festival)

Ansumana's, "...we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here" hit me somewhere deeply.  Silent for a moment, I mulled over why I'd taken more than 50 years to finally get there. In the spirit of Baldwin's "do your first works over" - I had to own that, growing up, and for a very long time after, I'd not only believed a lot of the stories fed me by my country about this continent, I'd also internalized the negative thoughts and feelings that had come along with them (divide-and-conquer seeds, perfectly sown).

My reverie was interrupted by the sound of bottles hitting the bar in front of me.  The bartender had given us another round and they were waiting on me for a toast.  Clicking our bottles, we toasted my "coming home" - and I have to say, it felt pretty damned good.  The three of us talked and laughed the night away over quite a few more bottles of Guinness.  And as the DJ put on the last song of the night, Ansumana jumped off his stool with a smile and a sweeping, "Madame...?"

A sucker for that "Madame" thing since I first heard it in the Banjul airport, I hopped off my stool and went out on the dance floor to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean.  I remember saying aloud (to no one in  particular), "Yes, a little leg-shakin is always good for the soul - especially to Mike!"  I'm old-er, what can I say?!

When the music stopped and the lights came on, he walked me to the hallway leading to my room, saying to call him once I got to the new hotel - so he could show me the nightlife in Senegambia (which according to him, was way better than Banjul).  I put his number in my phone and promised I would.  Once I started exploring though, I never got a chance to call, nor sample the Senegambia nightlife!

On to Bakau

The three Sidekicks were there on the dot at check-out to pick me up the next day.  I'd totally slept through my 10 a.m. wake-up call (like I said - switching to beer was a bad idea!).  Instead, it was the annoying and incessant ring I'd assigned to Gerald on my cell phone that woke me.  He was saying something about being just around the corner.  Figuring they'd arrive before I could shower and get dressed, I ran into the bathroom, made the sign-of-the-cross, brushed my teeth and threw on a sun-dress.

On the drive from Banjul to Bakau, I kept asking Gerald questions about the hotel.  Finally, he said, "Oh Deborah, don't worry, you will love this hotel!"  And he was right.  From the time we pulled up to the Ocean Bay Hotel Resort (located directly across the street from the U.N. building), to the day that I left - I not only loved this hotel - but I loved the people who worked there as well!

As we piled out of the car, the bellman greeted Gerald as if he were an old friend (which he indeed was, having stayed there for many months on end, for a few years).  Following him in, I noticed an enlarged replica of the photo on the right, prominently displayed on an easel outside the front door.  Curious, I asked what it was and what it meant.

He explained the statue stood on the island of Juffureh (made famous by Alex Haley's 1976 book - "Roots: The saga of an American Family").  The "Never Again!" he said, referred to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, its complete meaning - "Never Again in Chains."  I made a mental note to ask Mariatou how soon we could go there.

The lobby was a veritable Babel - abuzz with people from all corners of the world.  Some were checking in, while others - at tables and sofas spread around the lobby - were having drinks and/or food from the lobby bar, or hanging around the flat screen watching "football" (soccer to me).  When we reached the busy front desk, Gerald asked for "The Director" and we were sent down a short hall to his office.

He was a big man in stature - bespectacled, with coal-black skin, a booming voice and a ready smile.  Following the introductions, I asked if they were always so busy. He said, "Yes usually, especially with Christmas approaching."   But the reason they were so busy this time, was because of Laurent Gbagbo's refusal to abdicate the Cote d'Ivoire presidency.  As it turns out, the U.N. had evacuated all of its "essential personnel" from Abidjan - to The Gambia.

Let me interrupt the story and be clear here.  What I knew about Cote d'Ivoire previously, could fit on the flat side of a cocoa bean - literally.  And at first, I had the typical, colonized-mind, knee-jerk, American reaction: "He LOST the election!  What do you mean he REFUSES to step down?!"  But as I continued to follow the brewing conflict on the local and BBC news (most of the TV programming available aside from a couple movie channels), and interacted with some of the U.N.'s "essential personnel" -  my Spidey-senses started tingling.

So, I decided to talk with, and listen to - some damned West Africans (to include calling my Ivorian, Senegalese-twistin' sister-friend back home, leaving a rambling message asking after her family in her village - and peppered with plenty of "What the hells??")!

I was grateful for the opportunity to be there, getting my own bird's eye view of that whole, "two sides to every story, and then the truth" thing vis-à-vis neo-colonialists in modern-day Africa and this UN-monitored, "election."  And after kicking it around in my head for awhile, it began to make a a whole lot more sense to me.  My conclusion by the end of my stay?  There's never a dearth of those like the Changeling, willing to help feed those "I'm king of the world" beasts.

The Sidekicks, going back to the Center, said they'd come back for me the next day.  With a kiss on each cheek, Gerald assured me he was leaving me in good hands - and he was.  As I waited, half-listening as "The Director" handled a billing problem with one of the front-desk staff, I perused the pictures he had on a wall.  I didn't know any of the people with whom he was smiling and shaking hands, but I could tell they were African dignitaries of some sort.

Once he was convinced of the error, he firmly directed its correction and then turned his attention to me asking, "So where are you from?" When I said America, he asked puzzled, "So how do you know Pinedo?!"  I related the whole, met-in-Florida-ten-years-ago-when-I'd-interviewed-him-for-a-piece-in-the-local-newspaper-and-we'd-kept-in-touch-ever-since story. He asked if this was my first time in Africa, and again, I felt that creeping shame, hot on the back of my neck.  I answered, "Yes - but I'm sure it won't be my last."  We also talked  about the crumbs I'd been trying to follow, tracing my Sea-Island family roots back to West Africa.  With a hearty laugh, he said, "If anybody can help you with that - it's Pinedo!"

After signing everything, I got my "hotel passport" and the same bellman I'd met earlier escorted me to my room.  As we walked past the library toward my room, there was an old man on his hands and knees - plugging bald spots on the lawn (Oh I know - we're so evolved now, with our riding lawn mowers and/or gardeners!).  But in a strange and beautifully reaffirming way, it reminded me of how we've always been able to brilliantly do more - with less!  One thing's for sure, it made me appreciate the lushness all around me even more!

Aside from no in-room WiFi, I had no complaints about the LAICO during the few days I spent there.  But I have to say that this hotel, definitely helped ease my transition from those oh, so evolved, Western expectations - to the total reality that is The Gambia.

Once inside, the bellman showed me how to use my key-card to work the lights, explained the mini-bar/fridge thing, showed me how to operate the armoire safe and connect to the WiFi.  He opened the balcony curtains, to reveal a partial view of the pool through a rainbow of bouganvilleas (probably my most favorite flowering plant because they're a deceivingly, sturdy beauty with protective thorns - kind of like me!) - and I was mighty glad I'd trusted Gerald and his "arrangements."

For a damned-near germophobe, the room was perfect!  Deciding to take that shower I'd missed, I checked the grout (some things are harder to unlearn than others!), and then, bolstered by my few days of practice at the LAICO, I jumped into the small shower stall with my Butterfly Flower, a steady stream of  hot water - and found myself,  languishing!

After Skyping the husband to let him know I was safe and sound, I headed to dinner, but first - I stopped at the lobby bar for a Guinness and a chat (best source of information, I found).  The bartender gave me the lay of the land, suggested some dishes I should try and was again, surprised to find out I was from America.

An Australian couple came and sat on the two stools next to me.  We had some interesting conversations about Australia  (about which I know little), America (about which they knew even less)  and I don't know why, but we ended up talking about knowing different languages (well - more like our apparent unwillingness to embrace different languages).

It may have had more to do with me than them, because so far, I'd been pleasantly surprised to find, that even though each tribal group still maintained their own, distinct, cultural traditions and languages - many, if not most, were not only able to communicate with each other in English (the official language of the country) and some French, but in each other's tribal languages as well (unless that's a recent development, it kinda dispels that whole, "we couldn't talk to each other while chained together in the belly of a slave ship" thing - No?).

Having missed breakfast after over-sleeping, my stomach began to complain - loudly.  So, saying goodbye to everybody, I grabbed my unfinished Guinness and headed outside to the dining area around the pool.  After ordering, I just sat there, people-watching.  And aside from all the different accents I could hear, what I noticed most - from folk dressing formally for dinner, to "afternoon tea," to the way some guests treated the wait-staff - was the degree to which Europe's colonial influences were still so deeply embedded in the country. 

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as they were once a British colony which, geographically, is way closer to them, than they are to us - but I was.  However, when this local, cultural group performed, I was immediately pleased at how the mere sight of the "Hammer pants," coupled with the rhythm of the dance - instantly narrowed that "distance created, created deliberately" about which Baldwin spoke!  I went to bed early - and slept like a log.

The Sidekicks came for me a little after noon the next day.  When I got in the car, Gerald announced enthusiastically, "We're going to the Spanish man's house where I'm staying.  And I'm cooking!"

Juan and Gerald had become friends over time (since his earlier days of visiting The Gambia and staying at Ocean Bay).  So, since Gerald was in-country and Juan was in Spain, he was able to stay at the little house, not far from the hotel.  I'd later learn, there are quite a few Europeans, Lybians, Lebanese, Chinese  - and even a smattering of Americans - who've bought, and/or developed property in the country, renting them fairly inexpensively.

John's wife and daughter, along with her sister and her husband, visiting from Senegal, were waiting for us when we arrived.  Since they all spoke some English - and French - I thought it'd be the perfect time for me to practice a little.  Trust me, a Bachelor's degree in French does not a Francophone make!  My abysmal efforts gave new meaning to the phrase, "use it or lose it."  But they were all, very patient and gracious with my trying.

After the introductions and some small talk, I went outside on the patio for a cigarette.  Mariatou, John and his brother-in-law joined me, while Gerald and the sisters started dinner.  Soon, the delicious aroma of food coming from the kitchen won out and  I went back inside to see what was cooking.

Né and her daughter, Awa (that's her elbow in the photo on the left) were keeping an eye on the Chicken Yassa and potatoes on the small stove, while Gerald seasoned the freshly caught Ladyfish that he'd just cleaned and filleted.  I thought to myself, "Dinner's definitely gonna be lip-smackin'!" - and it was (do note the huge pot of rice sitting in front of Né in the photo on the right - I felt right at home!).  The best part of the day though - even better than the meal - was being, in community, with folk from the community who all looked like me, slowly working on closing that "distance."

Juffureh

Mariatou, and I made the trip from Bakau to Juffureh with Moussa.  He'd worked for Gerald when he started building the Center. Now, he apparently either drove a taxi, or hung out with the guys who do drive taxis.  He'd arranged our 7:30 a.m. taxi ride to the Banjul ferry, then shepherded us through the crowds in the ferry terminal and onboard.  And when we arrived in Barra, he negotiated the taxi fare from there, to Juffureh and back.

   
I tell you, if I'd not seen the levelling work being done on the road leading to the village (coating everything in its path with a thick, red sand that reminded me of "the red clay hills of Georgia"), I'd have said that the small fishing village of Juffureh hadn't changed much since Alex Haley traced his ancestral roots there in the late 1970s.

As a matter of fact, the thatched-roof huts of handmade mud bricks; donkeys, goats, cows and actual "macacas" (nod to stupid) freely roaming the tree-lined roads; the mortar-and-pestle sound of "Woman’s Wuck" (as detailed by Judith Carney in Chapter 4 of her wonderfully written, "Black Rice"); with a slew of little kids running around, laughing and playing barefoot in the dirt - all combined to make me feel I'd been transported to a place of little or no change at all.

We came upon this woman winnowing rice outside her compound. Instantly, I recognized the "basket" bridge between this West African village and my Charleston, SC roots. She spoke no English, but she carried on a lively conversation with Moussa, while Mariatou explained this part of the seed-to-table process to my forgotten self.

If you ever visit the Old Slave Market (we called it "Market," they call it "Mart" - go figure) in downtown Charleston, you can still find Black women making and selling beautifully woven, Sweet Grass baskets like the one she's using in the video.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.  Rather than just telling the story of my visit to Juffureh, I also wanted to share it in these photos.  I suggest watching it in full-screen, not only so you can see the, tiny, little words - but so you can pause it, and read some of the signs and excerpts.

No folks, I saw no slick Westernized malls, skyscrapers or subway trains in The Gambia (but, whether brought by owners, or sold through auctions or dealers - I did see plenty expensive, late-model Western vehicles!).  And for purely selfish, "Back to the Future" reasons,  I liked it like that.  Seems to me, the only harm in having an, "If I knew then, what I know now" do-over - is not learning a damned thing from it.  Me?  I want to learn...

UPDATE:  Ivory Coast elections bolster French recolonization plans

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 5b:  The Center