Journey to Empowerment Page 5

  I know that life offers joy and pain, sunshine and rain. And I know that my passion allows me to endure the pain and down times in life. My passion is my inner alarm clock to get up even when my body is tired or in pain. My passion pushes me to make one more phone call, or take one more vitamin to stay healthy, or to get up and walk or practice my yoga to reduce physical stress. My passion pushes me to smile instead of cry. It pushes me to keep going even when I feel unappreciated, overlooked, overworked or overwhelmed. My passion empowers me to speak up and PUSH (Push Until Something Happens).

  Several years ago, I realized that I could share my passion by teaching a seminar, “Do You Have a J-O-B or a J-O-Y?” I sincerely believe that once you discover and embrace your purpose and stick with it, the pursuit will become your passion. I’ve seen it demonstrated time and time again. You can turn your passion into your profession.

  Passion is your fire in your belly, heart and soul. Passion is an inner fire that burns away any procrastination, fear, indecision or worry. Passion doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Passion keeps you self-motivated. Passion gives you a reason to keep going when everything and everyone else says stop, or wait, or why are you doing that? Passion gives your life purpose. Passion is what gets you up in the morning and it will keep you up at night when others are sleeping. You rise to the occasion because passion can pull you through your pain, self-pity, self-defeat, depression and sorrow.

  A Season of Reinvention

  BY KAMILI BELL

  I am going through a season of reinvention. I have not yet discovered who it is that I am about to become, but I am well on my way. The journey and this season of limbo are at times confusing, yet delightful. One thing is for sure—I am not the same girl that I was four years ago, or even last year. At both times I was involved with two different people, neither of whom I imagined myself actually being with, yet both of whom I lied to and told many wonderful, sweet things they wanted to hear.

  I said these things because I was neither strong enough nor brave enough to tell the truth, and I needed their acceptance. Without it, how would I know I existed? It was so much easier to lie, both to them and to myself. I wasted so many years pretending. I am not that girl anymore. Right there and right now in this new space that I am in, I know that I am smart, beautiful and funny. I no longer seek external approval or affirmation of who I am.

  My inability to love myself honestly and openly stemmed from my experiences of a very tormented childhood among my peers. For reasons I have never been able to pin down, kids my own age just didn’t seem to understand or like me much. Inclusion in the “rat pack” was all I ever wanted! As a result, I spent many years trying to change my face to adjust to whatever crowd was newly listed as “in.” I never allowed myself a moment’s truth because I believed just being “me” wasn’t good enough. It would never gain me the acceptance I so desperately thought I needed. At times in my life, “me” could’ve been just about anybody at any given moment, and was always subject to change. Such a life is exhausting. All I really wanted was a sense of belonging without the compelling need to make changes and adjustments. No matter what wonderful things my mother, my grandmother or my aunts told me about myself, I was incapable of believing any of it. How on earth could they know these things about me if I had no clue?

  These feelings of inadequacy, of being a misfit, carried over into my adult life. But I put on a smiling face and figured none would be the wiser. Suddenly, I became this person everyone just loved and clamored to be friends with—always smiling, always laughing, always ready for a good time. Even though this was exactly the external acceptance I’d spent most of my years in search of, I just couldn’t trust it. I thought I was smart funny, and worthy of acceptance, but I never really believed it. As a defense mechanism, I surrounded myself with an impenetrable wall. I painted it with the pretense of being too complex to ever really be known, but I never gave anyone a chance to know me, including myself. I coated it with ambivalence and pretended not to have the energy to engage meaningfully in relationships, platonic or romantic. The truth was, and is, I’m just dying to let all those walls down, and to be completely honest without fear of the vulnerability honesty can create. I no longer feel the need to prove who I am or justify my existence to anyone, which is a step in the right direction. I am who I am.

  Who am I? I’m still that little weird kid who likes to bury her nose in a juicy book rather than go to loud parties, listens to relatively unknown bands rather than the radio playlist, likes digging though the racks of Goodwill more than shopping at the mall and loves lazy days spent in the company of a few very good girlfriends. I still have a ridiculous sense of humor that causes me to let loose uproarious laughter at any given moment. I’m no longer afraid or ashamed to be that kid.

  Who am I? I am bright, intelligent and full of laughter. Who am I? I am vulnerable and no longer afraid to admit it. I am not a stone wall; I am not as strong as the rock of Gibraltar. I am naked to the world, yet my spirit is strong. I know I am marvelous—not because anyone else says so, but because it is true, and I believe it. Of course, hearing it is great. But I no longer need to hear it. To depend on the outside is counterproductive and will only inhibit my ability to love and know myself.

  I can let go of my fear of betrayal and admit my vulnerability. I can be honest with others and myself, and I recognize that the consequences will not be painful but rather invigorating.

  I am going through a season of reinvention. The journey is at times confusing, yet always delightful.

  I Looked into Her Eyes

  BY ELEANOR BALLARD-GADSON

  I looked into her eyes, and the sadness I saw was heart wrenching. I tried to reach out to her with my eyes to let her know that I understood what she was going through.

  She gazed at me for a moment, and seemed to nod as if she understood my concerns, as she continued to be the victim of his insults.

  She stood every bit of five foot four and he was at least six foot two. He looked down at heras he told her what he was and was not going to do for her.

  She had a child in her arms, one in a carriage and two stood on either side of her. It was their father’s face that they had and it looked as if he had given birth to each of them himself.

  I sat helpless, staring at her, while he continued to browbeat her with his words. She looked up at me once again and with my eyes I tried to communicate my thoughts to her. Stay strong. Take care of you. Don’t let him hurt you. It won’t last forever.

  She gave me a faint smile as my train pulled out of the station, and I wept in silence, for she reminded me of my past.

  She was me a long time ago.

  * * *

  I will safeguard my power and not give others permission to make me weak and helpless. These are my affirming thoughts…

  * * *

  Journey to Womanhood

  I fully love myself in shadow and in light.

  —Queen Mutima Imani

  In Honor of Our Elders: Wisdom Along the Way

  BY SHIKANA TEMILLE PORTER, PH.D.

  “An Elder is more than a prophet.”

  —Ga proverb

  My wisdom-purposed journey toward womanhood commenced a little more than ten years after the landmark Brown v. Board of Education decision. In the beginning, there was a second-grade teacher, Mrs. McClain, a tall, slender, African-American woman with brown-sugar skin who wore black horn-rimmed glasses. She was gentle, kind and smiled as if she really liked us. It was Mrs. McClain who determined that my best friend, Rachelle (another cute little chocolate child), John (a chubby, cheerful Asian boy who loved to stretch out his arms and pretend he was an airplane) and I were to be assigned to the mentally gifted minors (MGM) program. Being placed in this category would lay the foundation for an educational path marked with enrichment, even though I often felt guilty because we were set apart from the other children. It did not seem fair that a different learning style determined who would be destined to less intellectually stimulat
ing classes.

  Then there was a fourth-grade teacher, my favorite teacher, who taught with passion, creativity and style. She, too, was tall, played the guitar and taught us how to use chopsticks. When I was nine years old and five feet six inches in height, it helped to have a role model who stood three inches above me and said out loud that it was “beautiful to be tall!” Mrs. Knudsen conveyed much respect for me and reinforced my love for learning. She had speed-writing contests and my new best friend, Lisa, came in second to me every time. At the end of that school year, Mrs. Knudsen predicted that I would become the editor of Ebony magazine. These wisdom-based moments at a school “high on a hill by the mountains, far above the sea…” left an indelible mark on me.

  On another significant pathway, there was a professor, my favorite professor, Dr. Danny L. Scarborough, who insisted that I call him Danny. Every lecture was a perfectly choreographed experience with drama, class and deep knowledge. He pierced my soul with introductions to poetic renderings from Mari Evans and Maya Angelou.

  My development as an African-descended woman was shaped by the power of Nommo (a Swahili term referring to the generative and productive power of the spoken word) experienced in that classroom. When Mari Evans came in person to read from her book I Am a Black Woman, my dramatic interpretations were vigorously enhanced. Furthermore, Danny captivated me with his profound expressions and visions. He insisted that Zora Neale Hurston wearing a red hat had come into the room when I entered and took my seat. One day after a glance in the mirror, briefly, I saw her, too! What a lesson in how to speak possibilities into the lives of young adults who, deep inside, believe empowerment is their destiny and simply need cues to help them claim it.

  Now, as I reflect on the impact of my examples of excellence in early childhood and post-secondary education, it is easy to see their influence on my teaching philosophy and approach. In each scenario, there were wisdom seeds planted in those lessons that would eventually blossom when the time was right. Mrs. McClain, Mrs. Knudsen and Dr. Scarborough were foundational figures in helping to foster my personal and professional growth. Clearly, they spoke with hope and truth about who I was and was yet to become.

  Certainly, this early grounding would sustain me in the ensuing season of harsh criticisms and judgments that seemed to color my graduate school experience. In fact, it was the remembrance of being identified as “gifted” in elementary school and in the African-centered framework in the Department of African-American Studies at the university I attended that helped to remove doubts about my ability to pursue a doctorate in clinical psychology. In particular, Dr. Shirley Weber, Dr. Shirley Thomas and Dr. Norman Chambers provided a rich, culturally centered context that would later serve to enhance my practice as a psychologist. For them, and what they shared, I remain eternally grateful.

  Although I haven’t published a magazine article yet, Ebony is still a possibility. Indeed, I am not a cultural anthropologist. However, much like Zora, my love for writing, inquiry and the desire to connect past, present and future are ever so strong. When I teach, I seek to inspire, reach and engage students in the manner that my elders did. Even though a good foundation for teaching was in place, it surprised me that having a passion for the discipline, respect for students and a love for learning would not be enough.

  Right before the start of graduate school, my childhood friend and I returned to our elementary school to see Mrs. Knudsen. She still remembered us and was happy to hear of our achievements. Years later, after giving my card to her cousin at our twentieth high school reunion, Mrs. Knudsen sent me a postcard full of positive praises. It’s amazing how good that still feels and so much of what has unfolded is because of what she poured into my life.

  It is in the blending of public scrutiny and praise that we find a way to our true centers even though both can seemingly be unbearable at times. Teaching has taught me not to take myself so seriously and that if I disregard the worst and the most glowing evaluations, a realistic assessment of my performance will be more possible to attain.

  My hardest lessons taught and learned were in the courses that attempted to challenge my movement beyond rhetorical multicultural content and right into the heart of diversity matters. Whether it was Ethics, Introduction to Psychotherapy, The Psychology of Women or Multicultural Issues in Psychology, there remained four constant core threads. My very presence assured that race, class, gender and culture were woven into the tapestry of each classroom encounter. Depending on one’s viewpoint, intricate patterns would begin to emerge and captivate imaginations, or some would remain distracted by the tattered strings and knots on the other side.

  Sometimes it seems impossible to get to the deep thoughts that penetrate and linger, as Danny seemed so capable of doing consistently and with ease. One day in particular, I found it painfully hard to engage in any meaningful dialogue beyond a superficial level. Aside from dealing with viral flu residuals, I just could not muster up enough strength to say what needed to be said around racism and feminism—two themes that the students chose to react to on that day. It began with one woman insisting that white women are oppressed in the same manner as women of color. She cited examples of discrimination, rejection and degradations to make her point. My immediate reaction was a defensive one that initially thwarted any attempts to facilitate discussion. My challenge was to convey how oppression is manifested differently. Fortunately, I recalled another wisdom-inspired moment that occurred while team-teaching a Cultural Diversity course with Dr. Oliva Espin. She put it best: “One cannot not have privilege.” We were then able to explore the idea that with privilege comes a responsibility to act in a way that uses it proactively and productively. Her words created a nice shift to empowering possibilities, rather than comparing oppressions.

  Whether we are in or outside of the classroom, we carry with us what we remember. What we remember and choose to share can make a difference in the lives of children, youths and young adults who are open and trusting of the process. Truly, when the students are ready, willing and able to find their rightful place in life-changing discourse, while acquiring wisdom along the way, every divinely appointed elder-teacher-learner will appear.

  Call to Ritual

  BY MARIA DENISE DOWD

  It’s been a long day, my Sweetness. Let’s connect—although it’s late—for a moment, perhaps over a shared jumbo mug of mint tea infused with raw honey, Honey. We’ll talk through the steam and share glimpses of our day past and our plans for tomorrow and the day after.

  Maybe we’ll split a sweet orange, ripped from its skin and handed from my lips to yours. We’ll savor the citrusy zest that tingles our mouths wanting more.

  Shall we soak in a warm bath scented with ginger or jasmine or lavender? And fill the room with candles and the kind of music we love to love by and by? In short order, the multisensory-surround-us-with-gentle-taps pulsate the epicenter of our blended hearts. This time, you’ll rest against me as I massage your scalp, and tug at your earlobes and remind you of all the things you already know about yourself and us—my king, your queen, our kingdom. Playfully, you splash water—properly anointed—on my cinnamonness and we watch it bead onto your chocolateness, then into a pool of bliss. What a luscious thing we have.

  Perhaps…just for fun, you’ll shave my legs. You know how antsy I get about stubble. You’ll glide your thumb along the inside curve of my slender foot and I’ll wiggle my copper-painted toes because your kisses tickle so.

  Our home is a bit chilly on this night, so we’ll bustle our buttered nakedness into our bed, and like an army of veteran soldiers…left…left…left right left…our limbs intertwine in perfect formation. Who will light these candles? I’ll defer to you, because you can take the heat of the cold better than me. But I’ll keep your side warm, and witness the first cast of glow against my curves and your straight lines. You’ll return to a waiting, wanting me…and we’ll caress our Divinity.

  I’m no longer chilly because we feel our skin to skin bec
ause we love the skin we’re in and how our skins blend…infinitely. Oh, what a blessing you are to me…and me to you.

  Good night…or perhaps good morning by now.

  Shall We, My Sweet?

  BY KALI ASHTAR

  Shall we, My Sweet?

  Yeah, go ’head…

  Yeah, go ’head…

  Enjoy the decadent, dark and gooey.

  Make me wanna go…ummmmm…Uh hum.

  Yummy for my Honey Tummy.

  My-eye King of thee Supreme Elixir…

  Me, you, our lickety treats…Oh, yeah…

  Just wanna sink my tongue into…

  And whhhhirl until my honey tummy aches…

  For your morning you.

  Oh…jeez…my tasty treat.

  Banquet for a Goddess…

  Feast for a Warrior Priest.

  A Fete…grandly, lusciously fashioned. Your syrup oh, so thick…and delicious. All up in my pores,

  All up in my/your open door…To the grand room of passion hearts, And other lip-smackin’ morsels. For your eyes and taste buds only. Spoon me up, lick the bowl.

  This Honey Be yours to eat…A nibble here/there…li’l tang with a bang. Engulfed all over the place.

  Raw, Raw Honey…

  Black ’n’ Strapped Molasses…Naturally Nectar…So Naturally So.

  * * *

  The blessings and grace that have been bestowed upon me leave me amazed. I am thankful for…