Sankofa is Me, I am She

 Sankofa the majestic bird, Sankofa the reminder, Sankofa the very essence of my being. As I stand in the middle of this field with the wind blowing so elaborately. I stretch out my arms like our beloved savior did on the cross and I wish the wind would sweep me off of my feet. Sweep me away from here. Let me fly in the clouds let me be the Sankofa. I feel it. I feel the pain of my ancestors. It is so intense it cripples me when I speak about it. I feel it. This pain is intertwined with my character, my body, my brain, my mind and my soul. Depictions of my ancestor's struggles with freedom and dehumanization scare me. I feel  like I am there. I feel like I am the one being abused, mistreated and forgotten about. 

I stand in the field projecting my requests to the tall grass as if it were my deciding jury. “Just take me wind! Let me be the Sankofa!” I wait with my eyes closed as if I wished upon a shooting star. My wish seems to have fallen on deaf ears. The Sankofa keeps us rooted in our history. In order to prevail we must know our history. I desire to be the Sankofa because I am always rooted in my history. It never stops. I would much rather be able to fly and remind instead of being a human attempting to remind those that do not wish to remember.

Sankofa is me, I am she.

The Emotionally Starved vs The Emotionally Nourished

 

Loving you fully, takes a part of me. Some say it takes a small slice which in turn nourishes your partners heart. As Jesus fed the multitude it is up to me to give a piece of myself to feed you. For you it may be a piece small enough to patch your quilt of love. This quilt holds you as you sleep at night knowing that you have a piece of me holding you tight. For me, this piece can’t be folded. This piece can’t fit in your pocket. This piece is not so finite that you forget about it when you wash your jeans. This piece cannot complete your three hundred piece quilt. This piece is not a souvenir you can easily pack into your carryon. My piece is grand. My piece has weight. My piece is painful to give away. 

Loving you fully...

 I say I love you. Which I do. I just find it difficult for me to carve up myself to give to you as a present wrapped neatly with a bow. What if it’s a present you didn’t want? Will it just sit in the box on the floor collecting dust? Will you finally remember the box when you’re rearranging your room? What would you say? “Oh right i forgot she gave me that..” real love is painful. Real love is complex. I realize this but you don’t. You still require me to give you more and more and more.... 

Now I have scars. Now I am deformed because 

 I have carved myself to feed you. Now I am smaller because you have failed to feed me. I care about you so I continue to carve myself..

Look how you thrive as you receive endless emotional nourishment. 

Writing Process

 Take a deep breath. Exhale with the purpose of the story in mind. I repeat this process multiple times while sitting in an empty classroom filled with the atmosphere of learning. In this state I am not to be bothered. The noise cancellation from my headphones allows my thoughts to float in thin air like dancing fireflies. I like to think of my writing process as being unique. My writing process differs depending on the emotions my mental story has provoked. I have a strategic process when it comes to writing. I enjoy the mystery of not knowing what I will think about. It's like playing the slot machines in a casino. Hoping for the jackpot even if it is small. The game continues for the controlled person until a level of winners satisfaction is present. I know my story is complete when I achieve this feeling of winners satisfaction or as I like to call it, writers satisfaction. Some short stories require more time than others, but this is okay. I do not rush the process in which my thoughts have an outlet. I create my best work in isolation as I can think clearly and fluidly. As my stories come to my neocortex in picture form I need focus to be able to analyze them accurately. This process occurs in steps. First the images present themselves as a premier feature film that I did not patron to see, then I seek isolation and write each scene and what I interpret it to mean. Lastly, I publish them here for others to be provoked in thinking. My stories are vague as they can fit with multiple plots of reality and fiction. I could simply tell my own interpretations and meaning behind my work but ultimately I enjoy for this to be left up to the reader to experience their own mental journey. If the reader reaches my interpretations of the story, this is great. If the reader takes a journey down a different path with my stories this is great as well. My philosophy behind this is not to simply tell someone what to think but rather give them the opportunity to think on their own. In our world we are constantly told what we should think and in creative writing this should not be the case.

Iron Heart

 I’m aware of the space that I take up.... I feel the blankets and sheets engulfing me each time I think I move. I'm simply drowning. The numbness that I feel is comforting. How interesting is it not to feel your own heart beat? They tell me it’s all in my head. They tell me it can bring my bones to activate and declare the ground like they once did. It just doesn’t happen for me anymore. I’m stuck in my mind watching as the world continues on. They look at me as if my soul doesn’t exist, as if my eyes can’t see them. This bed is my home, my final resting place. I lay here thinking about dying because I panic when I don’t hear my own heartbeat. They always hint at “ what would you do if..” Well tell me. What would you do? Would you unplug my heart? Would you stay here with me until my eyes closed for the last time? You like to ask yourself what I would want  you to do. You think you’ve made the right choice. 

I see you. I see everything. If only I would’ve known you’d chosen me to expire tomorrow. I would have tried to get up. 

Do I have an expiration date? When it becomes too much for you is that when I’m tossed and sealed in the bag and carried away? I lay here knowing that I am dying. I don’t want anything more than to be engulfed by these blankets and sheets. In t-minus 7 hours, that’s the end of artificial  heart beat.

Ritualistic Cooking

 

                                            

Rituals are defined as a combination of gestures, symbols and language. While gestures and symbols have their own meaning, language helps to clarify and define the actions of a ritual. In modern day USA rituals are noted but not always fully examined and deemed as rituals. More specifically, the African American community houses many ritualistic activities that are not always noticeable to the unsuspecting eye. Cooking dinner and learning to cook are ritualistic rites of passage for women in African American families. The symbolism of wearing one’s first apron is significant and key values of love, nourishment, and womanly virtue can be assessed from the ritual of cooking. 

When a young girl experiences her first menstrual cycle, that in itself is deemed as a right of passage into womanhood. The first instance of a menstrual cycle only partially starts womanhood for a young lady in an African American community. The other instance molding her into a full woman is the first cooking lesson initiated by a mother or grandmother. The teacher is almost always a member from the matriarchal family. Almost immediately following the first menstrual cycle is the infamous cooking lesson. 

A young lady is soon invited into the kitchen of her mother or grandmother. She is instructed to wash her hands and is given an apron bought by the instructor. She starts off with learning how to prep the food by washing it. The first meal a young lady is taught to prepare differs between families, however, it usually consists of fried meat. In this process a young lady does not only acquire knowledge about cooking, she is also taught the convictions of a wife, mother, and nurturer. She is taught the virtue of a woman, modesty, duties, and what it means to be a good woman, wife, and mother. 

The ritual of cooking reflects key values of women being the nurturers of a family. It is also the main instance that I, like many other women, express my love for my family. The apron’s symbolism depicts the transition of a young lady to a woman. Just as a child transitions from wearing socks to shoes. The initial cooking lesson creates lasting social bonds to the teacher of the lesson. If questions shall arise about womanly virtue, cooking, and wifely convictions, it is first nature to call upon one’s cooking teacher. 

Cooking does not hinder a young lady to continue to live and experience life at the age they experience menstruation, it simply provides a guide to their new status change. The home is considered a place where the family thrives, expands, and forms social connections. Knowing how to cook and cooking contribute elements to the home that are important in African American communities.

As I experienced these same rites of passage making me into the woman that I am today, I am grateful for this ritual. I come home and cook dinner daily while reflecting on why I am cooking. Cooking is simple but complex at the same time due to its underlying meanings. The cooking woman determines the nourishment of the family, stability of a family, and sense of love. 

Femme African American Edgar Allan Poe

As I stare at this white canvas of my hopes and dreams about literacy, I am paralyzed. Paralyzed by the thought of what could be on my white canvas and what could be marked incorrect on my finished masterpiece. You know the masterpiece an artist spends a lifetime perfecting? What if he had a mentor that encouraged his growth as an artist or erased his work to add their own interpretation? Would the artist have a positive or negative outlook on his craft? I learned how to read and write in a similar sense. I was encouraged but then discouraged by my words being changed into something I was not intending.

My home was not the children’s library growing up. I was raised by my great grandparents, so my house had an overwhelming amount of King James Version bibles. Along with the bibles there was an encyclopedia, an atlas, and an ASL: Sign Language book. These books were my first encounters with reading. I learned sign language and I could recite Genesis in its entirety. I could name the Balkan Peninsula and all of Asia. My school principal and counselor thought I was too advanced for first grade, so they permitted me to go to second grade without attending first grade or kindergarten.The only area lacking my advancement was reading. I had to become better at reading. 

My second grade teacher Mrs. Leftler devoted her attention to me in order to raise my reading scores. Not only would she provide me with extra reading assignments, but she would also help me after class if I did not understand what I was reading. Mrs. Lefter wanted to prove that I belonged. My success in reading depended upon her ability to teach me and my ability to learn since omitting the first grade and kindergarten. I soon started reading on a fifth grade level and became hooked on the “Shadow Children Series.” “Among the hidden” was the first Shadow children book that I read. It was the first book that introduced me to my love and passion for the fiction and sometimes non-fictional darker books.

The previous experience with Mrs. Leftler impacted me greatly in my reading and writing life. I went on to write my own stories and poems, however, another year came. I was assigned to a different teacher. I was eager to showcase my stories I had so courageously composed and she marked everything wrong with my story with the dreaded red ink. My fifth grade teacher was a negative literary sponsor. Her impact was so great that I unconsciously chose not to remember her name. She did not encourage reading the types of books I was drawn to or writing creatively. In her class I was expected to only read the required materials and not mix outside influences of other books. She says I “would not be able to follow the lesson plans.” Her impact lead me to not write my short stories or read the kinds of books I was drawn to. She desired to be the principal of our school. For her review she wanted to have high scores from all students on the annual and quarterly exams. What was for her to gain caused me a great loss. I did not view reading and writing positively anymore. I began only doing what was required of me and not letting myself escape into the world I used to create when I read and wrote. In that world, I became a stranger- an exiled person due to my lack of commitment.

I did not become acquainted with my world again until I was in high school. I was assigned to read multiple poems by Edgar Allen Poe. Unknowingly those works brought me back. “The Raven” was my first encounter with dealing with death. I felt like I was a part of the story, in the back of the room observing from the shadows. I knew the pain the narrator felt since the loss of Lenore. I began reading my favorite genres again. I would make a weekly trip to the local library to check out something new and return something old. I began building a rapport with the librarian and she recommended books to me based on our conversations. I soon started reading two books a week along with my school assignments. I have yet to return to writing my poems and short stories. As a child I carefully utilized my thoughts and emotions as the palette for my short stories. I wanted to be the young African-American girl Edgar Allen Poe. I desired to have my own version of the famous “Nevermore.” It seems as if I cannot write anymore without imagining the red marks lighting up my masterpiece like the Fourth of July at the park. When I was writing as a child I would always write in my closet with the lights off. I enjoyed the darkness because it reminded me of outer space with the artificial stars illuminating the ceiling. The stories seemed to flow naturally. I read in the closet as well, but with the lights on and dimmed. When I dimmed the lights I was able to become lost in the story being told.
How I learned to read and write greatly shaped my views on literacy. I have yet to become reacquainted with creating stories. I would like to be able to write without conviction or the thought of the red marks adding commas, taking away commas, shortening my sentences, and simply staining the paper that I shouted my thoughts onto. I have had influence from positive and negative literary sponsors, however, I can still find the outer space within any closet and become lost in a story.