Protect Your Peace

I said to a friend a few weeks ago advice that I need to take for myself and that I gladly share with others. We must be intentional about protecting our peace. Once you find it, don't let others disturb it, no matter who they are... ~Miss Higgi (Photo, Ghana 2014)

Good Parents; Our Greatest Gift

 In preparing a lesson for my class to talk about poverty, I could not help but think of my Mother raising five children by herself and imagining the many, many sleepless nights she must have had trying to figure out how to keep us together and make ends meet.

Of course we were poor. She was a single woman with five children. Crazily however, people in the neighborhood used to say, "those Higginbothams got money!" How could we possibly have money? We were one of very few single parent families in the neighborhood. It was the 60s and 70s and yes, many Black families were still intact. Don't believe the hype! Against all odds to destroy our family structure, many were holding it down, poor and otherwise.

Despite a great start, my father gave up really early. He and my Mom had worked so hard that by the time I started kindergarten, we were the third Black family to move into an all white neighborhood, which is a story in itself. Let's just say, our white neighbors were not so welcoming. My Mom told us their stories of putting cherry bombs in our   mailbox, throwing for sale signs in our yard, of course, their children were forbidden to play with us and as more Black families moved in, municipal services like school bus transportation, just stopped. We were five so we played with one another.

Thanks to my father, and my Mother who also worked, we were living the dream, "moving on up!", so to speak. My parents were in their 20s. Once however, my father decided not to come home anymore, the court ordered $25 per week child support for FIVE kids! Laughable! He never paid. He lived and died in arrears...

My Mom raised us singlehandedly as did many other Black Women. Therefore, hashtag, I AM NOT A FEMINIST! Black Women were "roaring", if you will, burning their bras, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in the pan long before it became fashionable, courageous or some catchy soundbite for white women to  wear as a badge of honor symbolizing having found herself or announcing to the world her newfound freedom demanding to be seen, validated and heard.

Not necessarily by choice and certainly not to make a political statement, somehow single Black Mothers found the strength to protect and make sure that her children never went without. I know nothing of being hungry, cold, wearing tattered or shabby clothing, bearing the responsibility of raising my younger siblings or going without the necessities of life. We had as much in terms of material things, and maybe more love, as did most other children in our neighborhood.

It was a different time. Kids were not hung up on overpriced designer labels. Some kids got teased yes, but no one got killed for a pair of sneakers.

Designer labels hit the scene somewhere during my high school years. Mommy bought us knock offs or moderately priced slightly "irregular" Gloria  Vanderbilt or Calvin Klein jeans or Chuck Connor Allstar sneakers. Remember that? LOL! There were whole stores specifically selling "irregulars"!

Despite the odds, my Mom sacrificed, likely her life with stress and worry dying of cancer at the tender age of 45, so that we could live a decent life. My Mother was not unique. Many a poor Black child never knew or felt poor thanks to many a Black Mom. Since slavery, the Black Mother  has been the epitome of the "tiger" or  protective Mom, born likely not by choice but from necessity,  probably having  to do with bearing the pain of her husband being sold away from her and having her suckling babies literally snatched from her breast and also sold on an auction block. Let us never forget...

The Black Woman knows pain, thus giving birth to the facade of  Strong Black Woman. Is she real? Are all Black Women strong or us it an ill-gotten perception? How does she show up in the world when she is not strong? Is her strength an asset, a burden or is it the mask she wears to cover her [our] pain? Sistah love is real and imperative to feed our soul, so Black Women, we MUST Gather...

Although outwardly strong, our Mothers were not super women, they were tired women and we must always honor, revere and protect them where we can. I have always said, if I must be poor, I choose being Black and poor. So many times we manage to wear "poor" or mask it in pride so well, such that even we forget.

Many a Black Mother shielded us to never have poor mindsets, despite our financial reality. I remember my Mom saying we were "poor kids with rich ideas". I recall her ever so clearly saying that to me when I told her I was going to study abroad in Spain. We had never been on an airplane before. I was 21. She was 39ish. She died never having flown. Never did she get to meet the jetsetting spirit she unintentionally unleashed in her daughter, who would travel the world,  during that long reluctant drive to JFK Airport wherein she prayed all the way that I would not dare get on that big ole' airplane to parts unfamiliar, beyond her reach and protection of her wing. She really did pray that I would come to my senses and drive back home with her but still, she let me fly. She was proud. She loved bragging rights about her kids. Me living in Spain, was one of those rights for sure! Seemingly she was oblivious, never fully realizing or  understanding that it was she who planted those "rich kid" seeds in our minds. My greatest regret is not being able to take care of and spoil her in return. I did little things before she died, but I wanted to do so much more.

I'll Always Love My Mama! STILL, she is truly my favorite Girl!!!

Pass this blog post on and share your stories of love about your Black Mother or Father with others, especially your children, preferably with her or him if s/he is still here to receive your flowers. While the story of my father is woe, leaving my frame of reference maternal love, I fully appreciate being deprived of the great love many a child knows of their father. Celebrate him too! Don't wait until your parents birthday, Christmas, Mother's or Father's Day or God forbid, theit funeral. Give them their roses everyday! If we are blessed, one or both of our parents are our gift that never stops giving. Miss Higgi Says, Thank them...

Where Is The Humanity?

 

Murder Victim Daunte Wright with Baby Son

An Asian female judge cried when she had to sentence the white woman killer cop to a mini vacation in prison for the murder of Daunte Wright. The Black female judge hugged & gave a Bible to the white female killer cop that she "was forced" to send to prison for the murder of Botham Jean. Are you seeing any trends here?

White women cops killing innocent Black men. Turn on the waterworks. Flowing tears resulting in slap on the wrist sentencing and remorseful judges. Tears, hugs and Bibles not for the victim or his family, but for the "poor" white woman cop a jury forced these fragile, and clearly biased, judges to sentence to prison. What?

This judge who, between tears, plead the case for this MURDERER even better than did her paid counsel, had the audacity to interject George Floyd in her sentencing, justifying her inadequate sentence because murdering kim didn't leave her knee on Daunte's neck for 9 minutes. Somehow this made her commission of murder of a Black man less harmful, less impactful or less destructive than chauvin's murder of George Floyd and thus, warranted only slap on the wrist, sentencing well below the standard. I guess in her mind, kim the murderer has suffered enough. Do these judges have this kind of compassion when the defendants are Black? Where are the tears, Bibles, hugs and regrets of sending them/us off to prison?

This judge obviously saw the murdering white female cop as human, a sentiment not bestowed the Wright Family. The tears she wept were not for Daunte or his Family but for the murderer cop who she all but called a good cop and for the pain of feeling forced to send to prison even if only for a minute. Her life mattered said the judge who told us of all she still has to offer society. What about Daunte? Had he nothing to offer? How about his now fatherless son? What about his grieving parents?

What would be the Asian judges sentencing if the dead victim and grieving Family looked like her? Would she then see them as human and dispense law in the name of law not in the name of her emotions? I guess not only Becky' hides behind their tears...

It seems for Black folks to get justice or to be perceived HUMAN and capable of feeling hurt or pain, murders of us must be brutal AND televised? And then, maybe then, this judge, racist cops and others might see us as human and grant us dignity and some semblance of justice! When they see us...

This case took me right back to Latasha Harlins. Her life did not matter either. It was a white female judge who sentenced a Korean woman to probation for the cold blooded murder of her. She was 15 and already regarded as less than human. Her Family's pain was irrelevant. This fight is never over...

How dare this woman who society gives cover as a person of color, thereby denoting some understanding or appreciation of the experience of being Black in America, which is the foundation of all that is race in America. She knows not my experience and never can she stand in my shoes... She is a convenient scapegoat or deflection used to avoid the conversation of race as it pertains to Black folks in America. POC or biracial my ass! She is Asian. Daunte was Black. The ending of this tragic story unfolded accordingly. His life and his death mattered not. This judge, as did the murdering cop, saw not his humanity or content of his character, that other convenient deflection or distortion of Dr. King's words, she saw the color of his skin. Justice in America reigns on.

Where Is the Humanity, you ask? There is no humanity! 

 

 #BlackFamiliesHurt2 #BeckyTears #BlackTwitter #whentheyseeus #Karen #dauntewright

Happy Birthday Dr. King!

Happy Birthday Dr. King!

This morning I listened to a friend's radio tribute to Dr. King and was reminded of the struggle to get recognition of his birthday as a national holiday. AZ was the last hold out state to oppose the holiday under the late "great" Senator John McCain. Ironically, it is now AZ Congresswoman sinema who is threatening our right to vote. Damn Arizona!

We were just kids. Stevie Wonder, Coretta King and others were marching in the streets and fighting for the legislation of his birthday as a holiday. My earliest memories, long before the holiday was confirmed, are that Black students did not go to school on his birthday. We didn't wait for others to acknowledge, validate or give us permission to celebrate our hero, we affirmed ourselves for ourselves. May we find that same audacity again, especially during the urgency of now...

The least political of Black parents supported the children's annual boycott of school. I would imagine many of them, those who could, took the day off from work. The Black community made our own holiday and decidedly celebrated Dr. King in our own way.

Black churches and others in the community started a "day of service" in celebration of Dr. King. It was not to be a day off but a day to be "on", to do something constructive in the community, volunteerism of some kind. I remember volunteering at many a soup line or homeless shelter. It was a very special time in the Black community that spread to the community at large once the day became a national holiday. We must now protect the day from losing any bit of its legitimacy by becoming commercialized.

Today, feeling very despondent by the current state of things, I CHOOSE to be reminded that Dr. King did not die in vain. I CHOOSE to be reminded and inspired that he was in his mere twenties when he picked up the baton and began his fight for civil rights, equality and justice for all. I will CHOOSE to be reminded and inspired that he was only in his thirties when certain others decided, as now have their offspring, that he was too great a threat to their version of "democracy" and therefore should not continue to live. They assassinated him as their descendants are currently very preoccupied with trying to assassinate Black access to the polls and our right to vote AND everyone's right to learn the truth of America's history, theirs and that of Black Americans.

I will CHOOSE today to be deliberately and positively moved by the spirit, memory, legacy, might and audacity of Dr. King.

Happy Martin Luther King Day Everyone!

(2022)

I Love My Fro'!

I just have to say that as much as we try to tell ourselves otherwise, our hair is our crown and our glory. Our hair does make a political statement, a social statement, a statement about how we see and regard ourselves. The natural state of our natural hair screams Black pride!

Our hair is saying something even when we're not aware or not trying to say a word...

Lately, I've been rockin' my fro', which I love, but I do tie up every now and then to embrace braids and to give myself and it, a break.  But there's nothing like when I wear my fro' and see the response that it evokes even from, especially from, my own people.

I was in Costco and I heard a young woman tell the person that she was with, "Oh my God!, I love her hair"!

Tonight I walked in my classroom and I heard one Black female student, who is a little older, say to the other, "Oh My God! Look at her hair! I knew she was gonna' wear her hair". They saw a glimpse of my hair last week when they took their midterm online. Tonight was the first time seeing it live and in person. Previously, they had only known me to have braids. Of course I pretend not to have heard them and left them to their moment of pride. I want to at least wink at them but I dare not. Teacher poker face...

One of my favorite student stories however is from a Black female student at another PWI in upstate NY.  She loves to tell of the Black professor with the white sounding sir name who showed up for the first night of class in a daishiki, sporting a fro' and how from then on, she vowed I would be her mentor for life. She is now a married woman and Mother to two and still very special to me.

Conversely, I remember a Black Woman admiring my fro telling me I was brave to wear it. Brave? OK...

I share that to say, it is our hair and if it talks to us, in a language of love and pride, a forbidden state for Black folks in America, what must it say to insecure others who have made it their mission in life to instill self doubt and self hate in all things Black? We are supposed to hate our image, our swag, our very selves. It is expected that we live and die for white acceptance, affirmation and approval. My hair says that I validate me!

It must incense those others when we dare embrace not only our hair but our very being and so many other attributes natural to only us.

So Ladies, rock your fro', wear your braids, tell stories with your cornrows, mystify with your locs, bedazzle with your twists, whatever is your desire, just wear it, your hair, proudly and unapologetically!
It is ours.
It is regal.
And no one can take it from us!

If I am to be honest, I do feel some kinda' way when I wear my fro'. I know many eyes are on me, positive and negative. I do wear it some times to some places to make a statement. Yeah, I do...

I feel proud when I wear my fro'.
I feel invincible. I feel the eyes and sometimes the envy of many.

Most of all, I feel beautiful and confident and proud when I wear my fro! I love my fro! Oh yes I do!!!

The 4th Thursday

Now here's a dinner invitation the guests probably regret not declining. I'm Just Guessin'...

As we kick off the 2021 holiday season, enjoy your time tomorrow, the 4th Thursday of November, with your loved ones, "just because", not in any way celebratory or in observance of any part of the intended meaning or purpose of the "holiday". 

Thanksgiving is a day of white washed history wherein Americans celebrate mass massacre and theft of land from kind, gracious Native American people who welcomed foreigners happening upon their land and who forever disturbed their peace in the most unimaginable way.

Not satisfied, these very same "people" traveled to another continent far, far away, Africa. Again, they were received warmly by kind and gracious people who welcomed them as foreigners to their land only to be robbed of their natural resources, to include their people, who were kidnapped, tortured, raped, deprived of culture, separated as families and enslaved for many centuries for the sole purpose of building a nation on land now stolen from America's indigenous people.

As you celebrate tomorrow or shop til' you drop on Friday, take a moment to consider this "festive" occasion as another reason America does not want the truth of her history to be told. If, around your dinner table, you do acknowledge Thanksgiving, as you rightfully acknowledge and give thanks for the people and the many blessings in your life, be sure to also say a prayer for Native Americans [and enslaved Africans] as you enlighten your family of what happened then, and what that "kill or be killed" spirit looks like today.

Enjoy this 4th Thursday in November with loved ones just because...

When The Going Gets Rough, Will You Be There?

As you may know by now, I have a few elders in my life who are especially special to me. I do what I can to bring them a dose of joy when I can be it a phone call, an unexpected gift, a card from me or requested be sent by you, my friends, to my special elder, a visit, whatever I can do to let them know they are special and thought of.

I am in DC right now visiting one of my special elder buds. I tried.last night to coax him out of the house with an invite to dinner. He wasn't up to it. It was a surprise visit. He didn't know I was coming so I took it in stride.

I was hungry so before going to the apartment, I took myself to dinner. When I got back he alluded to a few items he needed. I walked across the street to purchase them, along with some ice cream, he loves ice cream. We ate ice cream, watched TV and talked a bit before leaving him in his room, I thought to get some rest.

At 3am I hear his TV airing the same program that has been looping for hours now. I assume he is asleep. I went into his room to turn off the TV. Its 3am and he was not in his bed.

I didn't see him at first glance. He was seated in an obscure chair visible only when I walked further into the room. He was wide awake. When I asked why he was not in his bed, he responded, because he had been checking to be sure I hadn't left. How sad... I assured him I would not leave without telling him and convinced him to get in his bed.

A little while later his light was turned off as was his TV. I hate seeing him like this. I will come once per month to spend at least a little time with him. I have not said that to him because he will be anxious about it and preoccupied looking for me to come. Its just a commitment I have made to myself.

I look at my friend who I have known only to be a self assured, happy, vibrant, successful and confident man who thrived on giving to and helping others and I see a man who I imagine is lonely and afraid. The isolation of COVID exacerbated this I am sure. I look at my friend who is a widow, and I realize that many an elder was him, and that in time, I could be him.

Life is so unpredictable. We just don't know how we will land. Take good care of you, be good to others, its so much easier than the alternative, and please be deliberate in checking in on the elderly, the lonely, the sick and the shut in. This is when the true measure of friendship matters. Riding with folks in good times is effortless, its easy. Being there for them when they need you is a true measure of your character and your relationship with those you call "friend". Be there...