I could “talk proper” and “articulate so well.” And by year three I got compliments for having no accent: “no one would be able to tell you weren’t from here!” I was ecstatic. I even let them touch my hair. After all, they were “just curious.” And I relished in the fact that I “wasn’t like them” because being the kind of Black I was made me acceptable. I was the “safe” African/Black woman.
"Onina mi." "Atomoo." "You are invited." These are three ways we invite others, sometimes total strangers to share our plate of rice or our bowl of soup. The first is in Ga, the language from the coastal region of Accrs, my maternal grandfather's mother tongue. The second is Fanti, from but further along the same … Continue reading Feed People: Heal Schisms
Tonight I read as part of the Big Words, Etc. series. It was my first time participating. The night’s theme was “expectations.” Here’s what I read:
In her Ramadan journal, my friend Serena blogged about the silence of my sadness in the wake of the acquittal of George Zimmerman. I am both: sad and silent. I haven’t cried, haven’t rallied, haven’t ranted. Haven’t done any of the things I usually do in these moments.
And that’s part of my silence, isn’t it? That I can say, “any of the things I usually do,” that I have ached through enough of these moments that I actually have an expected pattern of response.
I can come here and do things I can maybe be expected to do — wear a hoodie, wear a picture of this fallen boy on my shirt. I can come here and say the thing I…
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