Dear Rob Ford: My 6yr old would like share her lesson with you

For the last three or four summer camp days my spawn has been coming home with her water bottle full, so as always I’ve been following up with: Did you forget to drink your water today, why is your water bottle still full?, you need water to grow, and a 100 useful “fun” facts about why we need water. All of which were rebuffed with stories of how she drank all her water and re-filled it at camp. Which made sense the first two times. After the third day I caught on and would ask questions casting doubt and reminding her why it is important to tell the truth but she reassured me it was all legit.

Fast forward to day five or so when she had a string of supporting cast all of who she went with to fill the bottle and featuring a teacher who helped open the bottle. So of course I asked if I called her teacher would she support her story and what should happen if she doesn’t; To which my cleaver spawn even had punishment ideas. That’s of course until I called her bluff and suggested harsher punishment more befitting prolonged deception. She broke down and in tears admitted to all the lies in sequential order and then uttered as sincere of an apology as a six year old in tears could muster which was then followed up by a plea for clemency.

Her punishment was decided upon and agreed to by the both of us in three parts: One was a denial of privilege by rescinding her permission to attend a field trip that was planned for the next day to the Hockey Hall of Fame something she had been looking forward to for a very long time and even got a family member to purchase a hockey jersey of her favorite team to wear on the trip; Two education thru repetition, she would have to tell everyone who asked why she wasn’t going the whole truth of what happened; And three in her next video blog she would discuss the lesson she learn and different ways to rebuild trust.

She cried that morning before summer camp I almost did too, we shared our feelings and how we will hold each other accountable in love thru honest communication, how punishment can sometimes feel like lack of love in the moment and that even though that’s how she felt that she also knew in her heart that I loved her “dearly”. 

....Lessons from a six year old to Rob Ford  

Celebrating the lives, history and strength of those who were never meant to survive.

Heading to the beach in hopes of finally discussing HER aboriginal history with her. Not sure how much is too much and even where to start.
Reflecting on the stories of the residential-school system HER grandaunt shared with me, the separation from her family, everything she knew and the impact it still had on her.
Cherishing my baby's happiness in celebrating a day of her colonizers never sat well with me but here we are:
I'm dragging ass to the beach praying to the ancestors; hers and mines for wisdom, guidance and courage.
Shes smiling and skipping along in a oversize red Canada day hat she was gifted. #lesigh #ohCanada

Centering: Black, Indigenous and all Peoples of Color

Creating anything that is centered on the experiences of Black, Indigenous and People of Color (BIPOC) isn't popular and can be problematic as white supremacy has weaved itself into every aspect of our lived and shared experiences. white supremacy demands answers, demands power and center stage, it demands not only that we hate each other but that we hate all the different shades of our heritage and all traces of our his/her story.

As for me, I wont buckle or budge. This revolution might start as a concept, but I will be there every day pounding the pavement, raising my voice in celebration of placing BIPOC in the center: For those of us who's birthright have been snuffed out from existence, for those of us who cant go home, or have no home, for those who have been disowned and disenfranchised.

I wont claim to know all the answers, or even know what all the questions are, but I will keep my money, my voice and my soul where my heart is at all times. I will keep on evolving, loving my comrades and my self. Until there is no strength left to move, no blood left to be spilled and no breath left to voice the struggles of our people.

After all ... I am Maroon.

"I believe we are still so innocent. The species are still so innocent that a person who is apt to be murdered believes that the murderer, just before he puts the final wrench on his throat, will have enough compassion to give him one sweet cup of water."
- Maya Angelou (Rest in Strength)

Shadow

I am the pain on your soul.
You've been: bled, torn open, walked on, brutalized and left to rot.
You can try not to be defined by your past but your history was barely survivable.
I see your smile and I hear your shallow breath when you say you are "OK".
But I know too well the weight of your story, the paralyzing fear that keeps you up at night and crippled in bed during the day. I see your your dreams been flooded by nightmares of not being able to protect your own from a similar faith. And while you are not defined by your trauma you will never be afforded the ability to just walk away.
Do not be fooled... I am with you always, I am your shadow; embrace me. 

*Image by Kevin Sweeney. 

Breaking up with Christianity

When I tell people I was raised very religious a certain look washes their face as a noticeable computation of what that would look like on me and whether to offer a sympathetic ear. 

The truth is I would rather come out a thousand times over as gay/queer before I say what I know in my heart is true ... that I've denounced my faith in Christianity. It is such guarded information that this is actually the first time I've thought it out loud.

The "why", is much longer than I would have time or space to write about or openly process. 
But I can say the "how", and that its been a very long time coming. I can say that Christianity has had a profound impact in my life.


Dear Christianity,

I will refrain from saying "its not you its me" the truth is its mostly you.

I have loved you from before I knew myself, we started this relationship at such an early age that I never really thought twice about the potential of a break up. You have been there for me and with me through some extremely difficult times and I know I wouldn't have survived otherwise. There were times I felt abandoned and ignored by you; when you stood by and allowed my innocence to be stolen, I wondered if you were cheating on me or if you just didn't love me anymore.  Like a naive yet obedient child I thought that I could solve my dilemmas by loving you more, committing to you more, giving more, being more than I ever thought possible. I attended every denominational service I could find, but even that didn't prevent it, it didn't prevent them.

Then you told me to not live by works but by faith, which I can say has been one of the greatest parts of loving you. Holding on to hope, as I barricaded my doors nightly. I prayed that you would see my undying faith, my lack of interest in sin and my commitment you.

After moving to Canada I knew you loved me and I wallowed in your bosom. Forsaking all else I join up, signed in and was baptized, renewing our wedding vows again for the forth time. I led many to you, recruited many for you and remained devoted throughout. I stifled my lust towards my gay female supervisor and fasted harder and prayed every time we were in the same room. I moved in with my other Christian sisters did everything with them and stayed faithfully true to your cause. I didn't know I was in a religious cult, I was blinded by love. And for a very long time I resented you and yet I felt obligated to you.

After leaving the cult I felt lost and so at a very young age I got married, instead of fornicating I lived by your words and was the dutiful and obedient wife and mother you wanted me to be. After several years my marriage crashed, I reflected on the life I've lived and the Biblically flawless choices I made. I slowly I started falling out: out of love, out of devotion out of obedience out of righteous indignation.

I purposely and methodically stripped myself bare, I saw that what I had stifled my whole life was me. I had been so easily lead, manipulated, and confined that I got used to seeing myself as a reflection of you. As I stood up for me, I had to unlearn, I had to start re-living, and re-evolving into the woman I was meant to be, the mother I wanted to be and the warrior I was destined to be.

I don't regret our relationship, I have known and loved you longer than I have known and love myself. And I will openly admit that finding me and loving me has been and probably will be the most difficult challenge in my life. I know there will be hiccups, I know I will falter, and I have, as I am only in the infancy of self love and self actualization.

For the first time I'm starting to see myself whole. I see you, completely and I see your spirit of indoctrination. I now know that you are a Trojan horse given by my colonizers and I see how my history and true self has been systematically replaced.

I do take full responsibility for the choices I've made, and for the person I was and have become and I choose to no longer be apart of this charade. I will choose to be hopeful, I will choose to be loving and honest and true.

I choose me.

Its over and I'm officially and publicly walking away. 

THE ANGRY BLACK WOMAN

So much anger, ripe disdain, murderous rage, her loud. screaming. voice. The savagery that is the angry black woman narrative.

She must be conquered, she must be laid bare, her loins are possessed with evil desires and her womb is cursed to churn out, litters of black babies and the worst of all atrocities the monstrous black boy.

This narrative is more poisonously popular today than it was in the days of slavery, back then the black woman could be tamed by the gruesome beatings of the black man and raped into submission by her white master.

Then there were the Nanny of the Maroon's, the Rosa Parks, the Ella Baker's, the Angela Davis, the Audre Lorde's, the Assata Shakur's, the Diane Abbott's. 

No longer were we just a quite place to pour the rage and frustrations that is the emasculation of black men, nor were we just a warm wet hole to conquer by our white masters. We the Black women of this world have an elusive power, our resiliency, and a wisdom that echoes thru our children. We teach them to read, to dream, we have given birth to new generations and with that we gave them something that is surprisingly more powerful than others could have imagined... we have given our descendants hope.

I sit my daughter between my legs; legs that had been forcefully pried open by your patriarchy and white supremacy. I slowly part her hair, and gently rub in the oils of my fore-mothers as I tell her stories of Anansi the spider's cunning and Nanny's leadership, I sing her songs of freedom, and recite Miss Lou's poetry. I do it all: with a mothers touch, fierceness, love and solidarity.

Yes. I am angry, I am the angry Black Woman you speak of. 
I am passionate, I am strong,

 I have the power and the stillness of the side eye.

 I am a freedom fighter, I am a revolutionary leader,

 I wheel the powers and the pleasures of my own body. 

I am a visionary, 

A nurse, I am a mother, I birth nations of black souls 

and I equip them with the strength, wisdom, courage, 
and knowledge of their ancestors.

I am the embodiment of hope and change 

'cause betta mus com.

While you sleep

My great grandmother, my grandmother my mother and my daughter are all alive, a precious bio-fact like a jewel I hold so dear. But on nights like these when I watch my daughter sleep I cant help but think of the history of evil that has impacted our lives from slavery, rape, servitude and incest, all four generations of us are all survivors of some of the worst types of evil this world has to offer.

And then I look at her sleep, so delicately peaceful, and unaware that even as a fetus she was called a "mutt" by her white father's white coworker and friend. Then I remembered the 1st time she came home and explained that she wished she lived in Jamaica where people looked like her. And as I asked her to further explain her feelings, it all faded to black as my heart sank. I stood there motionless with every racist encounter I've had flashing thru my mind and body, triggered, angry and speechless.

I focused on her words as she explained her discomfort and her new acknowledgement of the racial divide in authority figures at her school. I remembered mumbling something about our city's history and the need for more diversity and the pace of change.
But really, how do I explain to a small child that as different as she feels she will not only experience a multitude of racist encounters, racist people, racist systems of white idolatry but will also be treated differently because of her light skin privilege? A privilege that must always be checked.

 For now I stand here over her bed watching her sleep, praying to my ancestors, the universe and my black god(dess) that she (my peacefully sleeping daughter) will be as fierce, as brave, as strong, as wise and even more resilient than the five generations of women who have all survived and are all alive, loving her and teaching her the best way we can.

*Image - Family Tree (Limited Edition Lithograph) - Keith Mallett