Tag: Happiness

Millennial Meltdown! SOS…SOS

Posted on by Miss Harmon

At present, I’m finding my millennial brethren life-crisising all over the place. Words like: manifest, envision, vision board, freedom, financial freedom, dreams, passion, unpack, travel, enlightment, peace, etc. are recirculating through conversations between us with as much frequency as “um”, “uh” and “like” when we were teens.

What’s got me all riled up today over my cuppa peppermint tea is some early morning contemplation on historical trends in black history with white-supremacist beat-downs back into the sunken place. I’m no conspiracy theorist, but William Lynch and Jim Crow did conspire to make us the permanent underclass in America.

I’m weaving my literacy of historical propagandist ploys at manipulating the masses, and especially black people and youth, and I’m getting wafts of a stew that smells something like a rude awakening for us all. I’m suspicious about how Wakanda Forever, Black Lives Matter, the Bitcoin craze, soring numbers in black sole proprietorship businesses a’ bustling, and black middle-class flight from America (I’m for all of this by the way) all pans out for Black America when things inevitably get hard again.

I’m fucking scared. Too many of my black friends are quitting their pension yielding jobs in exchange for dream chasing, private business ventures, all to explore freedom and self -fulfillment. Black millennials, are still millennials. We are equally bombarded with the same level of propaganda that is telling us, the future is uncertain, live for now, life has no purpose so go find it kittens. We are all made to suckle at the pursuit of happiness, dig deep into our yogic selves and fill our hearts with light, as we embrace up-cycling our old clothes and living with our parents until it’s just ridiculous.

Here’s a broadly accepted theory about the millennial generation: We are projected to be less happier, and less fulfilled, because we are relentlessly in search of instant gratification. And since the air we pump back into our own feeding tubes on a daily basis to pursue the fill-in-the-blank of our dreams, nobody dare say to us, look guys:

 You’re getting older.

 

Let’s examine what it means to get older.

-You wrinkle.

-Your parents get old, need your help, and die.

-You start a family, who needs you to provide time, energy, and money.

-You need money for retirement because most of you will not be physically able to work through health complications or until you die.

 

So I acknowledge today:

Happiness does not come without tests of boredom, pain, suffering, discomfort, even anxiety. In other words, freedom ain’t free. And if you ain’t happy now with yourself, there is no “out there” that will MAKE you happy. If it’s the journey you crave, hop to it. But the journey still won’t make you happy. Feeling happy comes with contentment with ones own accomplishments, which literally could be ANYTHING. I’ve met too many travelers collecting visas like rings, never to learn much, never to gain any new substantive insight on life, love, culture, etc. What their unhappy asses get instead is a different variety of the same old shiny new thing to floss, meriting them coveted Instagram and Facebook attention.

In other words, today I say, Self:

Be honest with yourself, set a goal, ANY GOAL, and then work your pants off to achieve it. = Happy!

Fill yourself with the endorphins, serotonin, and adrenaline by feeling the gains of achievement. Then, oh Impatient One, watch your ego glow. Endure the wear and tear of perseverance.

I’m not 100% sold on capitalistic notions of success. I do not subscribe to the belief that we must work hard every second of the day, or even every hour in order to feel accomplished. However, I’ve noticed a few patterns of behavior across cultures. Without social purpose, which requires individuals to be regularly challenged with responsibility, individual humans don’t do so well. Look at my students out here in the Gulf who don’t have a worry in the world and can afford themselves with modern day slaves. By their own idle hands, they are killing themselves with sugar addiction and crashing their cars for the sport of it. Human existence without the arduous trials of obstacles= “Hmmmm, how do I turn up the Will I die if I… dial just a little bit?”

Furthermore, purchasing a new pair of red-bottoms or a new watch is the equivalent of eating glazed donuts in the morning to start your day off feeling right. That high doesn’t last very long if you’re goal is substantive nutrition, and before you know it, you need a new sugar fix.

Me. I’m ruminating:

At least three times we’ve seen Black America thrive and then have had the carpet snatched out from under us. First, Emancipation. We thought we was free until white wrath employed KKK bands to relentlessly terrorize us without penalty. Second, Black Artistic Renaissance of the 1920s. Heck! Everyone was Renaissancing. The Great Depression wiped that out. Third, the Civil Rights Movement. The narcotic infestation era of the 70s and 80s annihilated us by flooding black and urban neighborhoods with drugs, which ultimately authorized America to legally incarnate nearly our whole race. Too many of us are slaves all over again.

Thanks to Black Excellence boosterism, it feels like we are finally free. Free to come on up to the Penthouse, as John Legend sings it. But, because we are young, of course it feels like FINALLY we are free. We don’t have the longevity on earth nor the hindsight to see that: Nah, we’ve been free before. That we, once upon a few times, have been led to believe that we were all finally free to do, create, believe, dream, imagine ourselves able and entitled to live unencumbered lives. Then… many blacks and poor people were suddenly not! Pensions, Social Security, unions, welfare, job security, all those safe guards for which our parents fought were inspired on the way up out of living through and beating back the blues of a being stuck between a rock and broke ass place.

So what do we do? What does the millennial do? What does the black millennial do?

We foreit our packages, our way into the great white world (THERE IS NO ESCAPE! ALL OF IT WHITE YALL!!!!) on the hypothesis of being financially free.

Huh?!?

Can we at least agree that freedom is subjective…an illusion? My homie driving Uber speaks about being free to do what he pleases, but he drives all day while he believes himself the captain of his own ship. He’s free. He’s free! He’s free?

Even the business owner needs to kiss the behinds of investors, customers and sometimes employees. Think there’s no business owner gallivanting without worries? Yes, they may exist but they’re certainly the unicorns of business owners.

We take our degrees and make bold attempts to do right for our selves, drinking the individualist attitude Koolaid. We say no to job security or career paths, and expand our minds with more education. Black women hold the most degrees by ratio of any ethnic group in the USA. Have we noticed at all how that educational status is becoming less important with the rise of power yielded by social capital? And by the way, we have racked in quite a bit of debt paying for expanding our minds and not lining our actual pockets with cash rendering investments too. Who would’ve seen that a’coming? Sounds like another trip through Slavery Lane, don’t it???

Also, we talk big ideas about aligning ourselves and building the bond we’ve envied in immigrant groups. Why can’t we be like the Jews of New York City, we say? Here’s some facts:

  1. We’re not immigrants! We’ve never had the systemic institution of relying on each other (beyond our families—whatever was left of it post being sold away from each other once, plucked off for slaughter for generations, experimented on, sent to war, shot down, feed drugs, and incarcerated) to support a greater community of people black like us. Hell, we can’t even figure out who is “us” since we’ve also inherited white-supremacist thought patterns that has divided us by skin color, dialect, class-status, and now curl-pattern and nutritional classism. (I went there! I see a future where black vegan children aren’t allowed to play with the black neighbors who serve collard greens flavored with smoked neck bones. Do you?) Yes! We can build together. We can employ each other. We can work together. However, we can’t expect this to be easy, and need to develop a culture of loyalty. And that shit ain’t built in a day. Between Amazon Prime, Upwork and the countless other few-click agencies we can exhaust to fulfill our instant-gratification proclivities, building loyalty in the black community is fighting up hill, with no gloves and weights on. We need to activate patience! This means hold fast to hope, hold each other accountable and lift up our brothers and sisters WHEN they fall short, and have faith in our basic humanness to improve over time.
  1. For those of us who are immigrants, all it apparently takes is one American born generation for the homeland culture to take a back-seat to the individualistic thinking that’s got America’s children lost and on antidepressants. When your kids lose the village, what they pick up instead is the imposed white-supremacist projections of what they should be and how they should act. And you can try to keep your kids away from Black Americans all you want. I’ll advise you then to not send them to school or let them consume media at all. Black Americans haven’t found a means to escape being fed hostility about ourselves after 400 hundred years, and neither will you. Yes, I’m hype. Wakanda Forever! But Wakanda is a fictional place, and Trump America is REAL!
  2. Without a long-lived cultural institution that has effectively stood the test of time (like the Jewish experience of being persecuted and tried for 10,000 years) to teach us how to rely on each other, how to trust each other, how to be loyal to each other, we must acknowledge that while we are building, we are not there YET? Our families and communities did not all have the means to build itself up from poverty, and to develop a systemic netting to buffer losses experienced by the individual household. This means we do not have the trust funds our white millennial friends have (because it was a trendy status item for all the families in the neighborhood back then) to fall back on when they wake up to a chaotic adult reality. This also means that when my white friends say “So What?” when we talk about the responsibilities of taking care of elders, they can rest assured that their elders will be just fine, and I can’t. Black elders still need us to be well enough to take care of them in old age and ourselves and provide for our next generation.

How do we end the crisising? What comfort can be offered to the black millennial soul?

Let’s acknowledge that crisising is part of the human experience. Studies of adolescent development will confirm this. And since we can’t agree when adolescence ends, what we do believe right now is that the frontal lobe, presumably the part of the brain that allows us to grasp who we are beyond our own self-gratifying needs, starts to finish up the development process closer to our 30’s than when we turned age 20. No surprise that when we live in a society that doesn’t have clear roles or purpose for the individual, humans tussle in the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Just compare the dependency of western-modeled societies on drugs and pharmaceuticals to nonwestern-modeled societies.

And for goodness sake, drop the “happiness” talk. Happiness is relative and experienced differently by all. We can’t prevent crisising. What we can do is accept that it is not avoidable and at best manageable while we live in constant pursuit of the happy experiences we seek out and collect along our life journey.

Black millennials, we need to start with the end in mind. And not just the feel-good end, but a serious look at the end of our lives and the lives of all those who count on us. We are a diverse bunch, and many of us are privileged to have families with legacies of success and wealth. My rant pertains to those of us who don’t have the provisions of an Aunt Oprah or Uncle Tyler to pick up the slack if ever needed.

For me, I’m realizing that some variance of “struggle” finds me everywhere I go. So why do I intimidate so easily at the thought of jumping out of the pan and into the fire? With all of my miles, and merit badges, how is fear still part of my story? Can I relish in my confidence to take care of myself no matter what direction I go from here yet?

 

 

Kite and Spirituality

Posted on by Miss Harmon

 

I tap into my spirituality when kite-surfing. For those of you who know me, the ocean and I are not the best of friends. Stereotype me an urban black girl, but growing up, I ran from water for fear of what it would do to my hair. Furthermore, I distinctly remember my mother bringing me to the beach one day when I was small, brought me to the shore, and had me gaze at the water.

Ma: Can you drink all this water?

Me: No!

Ma: So stay out of it!

 

Dred-loc’d and ocean drawn now as an adult, (Moana I know your heart) I’ve developed an appreciation for ocean water, though I’m still weary of her as a moving, breathing, willful being. I learned to boogie board because that was safe enough, and kept me close to the shore. I took a few surf lessons through Chica Brava, an all girls surf school in Nicaragua, just to get a feel for riding manageable waves. But this appreciation in recent years has transformed into something I can not yet name. In October 2014, I nearly drowned attempting to scuba dive in the open stormy water of the Sodwana Bay in South Africa. I’ve taken private swim lessons since then, yet that doesn’t change the apprehension I have about swimming in the ocean. I am resolved to respect her as she lays right over there, with all her appeal and might. So, imagine my surprise when I discovered the joys of kite-surfing.

 

I arrived in Zanzibar shortly after a two week long venture about northern Tanzania. I was “supposed” to stay for only a few days, just to recuperate from summiting Mt. Kilimanjaro. I had booked a return flight from Lilongwe, Milawi in a few weeks because my intention was to continue backpacking south in Africa as soon as I felt well rested enough to carry on.

 

In Zanzibar, I frequently sauntered along the ocean side as a pastime between napping and talking with strangers about the peculiarities of life. The south-eastern coastal sky was littered with what appeared to be massive colorful floating contraptions. I didn’t even know the name for the sport before I wrote it off as some more crazy shit white people do. “No way! I’m not trying that.” I distinctly remember muttering this to myself as I strolled closer and closer to Paje, the major kite-surfing hub on the island.

 

It wasn’t until a new friend, Aziz from Oman, said that he wanted to give it a try that I opened myself to the experience. Aziz and I had been volunteering at the Bwejuu Charity School together, and I had come to respect him as my personal Swahili teacher. “Well, if you try it, I’ll try it too,” I said one evening over a thermos of Zanzibar spiced tea. Maybe I was seduced by the aromatic blend of the wafting vanilla, cinnamon and cardamom from our teacups. I’m such a sucker for communal experiences anyway, so clearly the universe had conspired to get me on a surf board. But Aziz never came to the kite training center. And since I had already psyched myself up to give it a try, I took a deep breath, and told instructor Jesus from España to strap me in. I was as ready as I’d ever be. I kept thinking: I’ll do it, and when I don’t like it, I can at least say I tried. It just wasn’t for me. (WHEN I don’t like it! Catch that pessimism?)

 

Four years later, three trips back to Zanzibar for a minimum of four weeks at a time, one sting-ray bite, countless sea urchin spiney encounters, a sprained foot, scraps, cuts and all, kite-surfing is one of the best things that has every happened to me. Am I a great kitesurfer, or even a good one? No way. But every time I’m out there with a kite and a board, I feel every cell in body vibrate with life and I lust for more. I catch myself screaming sometimes out in the water. This may be because it has taken me so long, what feels like an unreasonably unfair and brutal length of time, to finally kite solo. I’m an independent kite surfer. I no longer need to look back at an instructor to tell me if I should go further left or further right. It’s like getting your driver’s license and taking the high way by yourself the first few times with the music on at last. But the thrill of kite-surfing doesn’t seem to wane as does driving solo.

 

There’s a desperation that comes over us all, from novice to professional, as we sit on the sand and will the wind to beat strong enough to float our kites. I dream about it in my sleep. I catch myself on my bed with my arms raised, practicing the timing and proper positioning to motion the kite. I just want to get it right. Kite-surfing like standard surfing is an unrelenting and cyclical waiting game for enthusiasts; the ride comes and goes, and then you wait. All this over and over again. Comparatively, kite-surfers wait on the wind while standard surfers wait on the water. But I find that it teaches patience in a way that working with children never achieved. Before leaving the kite center, the instructors commonly say, “See you tomorrow. Hey…but we must pray for the wind.” I utter to myself and to others, “God willing, there will be wind tomorrow.”

 

When I’m actually gliding across the water, I am grateful to God, her in all her grace, for giving me that glorious ride each time. I have found more spirituality, more connectedness to nature, in kite-surfing than in anything I’ve ever experienced before. The wind and her will, has humbled me, and I am in love with every breath of her. The ocean, on the other hand, well…she knows that I awfully respect her. I’m just grateful for life jackets, nah mean?

 

Naomi, a kickass nomad from Australia, and I have become an excellent pair of kite junkies. As I sit here and type, I am relying on her to alert me to come and catch the “good enough” wind if she finally blows. Lately, we’ve been spending hours staring out at the water, resolved to drink up the sheer beauty of the scenery. I scream with exhilaration a lot these days. “This water looks like glass! My god! I can’t get bored of it!” She nods in blissful agreement with me. It doesn’t matter that there’s not enough wind for which our bones ache. Our hearts are amply full.

Naomi, Mohamed, Me, Saleem

 

The Millennial’s Guide for Inner Peace

Posted on by Miss Harmon

Ode

This is for all the ghetto girls who spent afternoons gazing out barred windows and who dreamed to be somewhere anywhere else. This is for all the kids who took sanctuary in their closet to escape the dysfunction of their habitat. This is for all the big foot, thick thigh mama’s who were made to feel ashamed of their bodies, to cover up, to wear oversized t-shirts, and who grieved their differences from the girls on t.v. This is for all the Cosby Kid Wanna-Be’s. (Aren’t we angry at the man but so grateful for his art, for it helped save our lives from the cycle of poverty.) For the latchkey kids who wanted their mom home instead of at work… until they discovered call waiting and three way. This is for every free spirited wild woman who wants to live without borders, except the ones she chooses. This is for every girl who refuses to say ‘yes’ because it’s cool for everybody else, and who says ‘no’ because someone has to ‘Goddamn it!’ This is for the “Too Much” women, the “Rainbow Is Enuf” women, and every woman who is part wolf as much as she is wind and water. This if for every black woman who has lost a brother to gun violence and continues to lose others to the prison industrial complex and other social injustices. This is for every woman who has ever loved another woman so much she learned to see the world contrary to her own self and with newer more compassionate eyes. This is for every woman who knows she deserves a furious love, and couldn’t find it, so she stopped looking and then ooops… found it. This is for every human who has reached the end of her limits and discovered a whole new self that was pretty fucking super hero-fantastic. 

Note 1

Don’t expect to find normal. Being different means realizing your true self. What makes your cells come alive and your toes curl specifically belongs to you. Let go of the expectation that other people SHOULD relate, and be grateful when someone does.

Note 2

Hold fast to old friends. Maintaining old relationships helps us honor our past, our commitments, our most sincerest selves. Old friends remember who you were, what trials you’ve lived through, and can help keep you grounded when we become too aloof. Our new friends aren’t equipped with the tools to rescue us from ourselves. 

Note 3

Let every step we take be to maximize opportunity. Since most of us can’t figure out what we want, we ought to make consistent choices that allow more room for opportunity.

Note 4

The older generations don’t get us! They are caught somewhere between envy and disgust with the whole lot of us. So stop telling them things. Just show them. 

Note 5

Rituals (Not to be confused with routine) bring inner stability. No need to be faux-Buddhist. My chant: “No toilet. 12. Toe!” (I’ll explain later.) Just make it something that empowers you to feel good, to help you find your happy place, to make you laugh. It’s okay. You can keep it a secret. Rituals = structure. And the brain loves structure.

Note 6

Practice makes perfect. When learning something new, everybody thinks they suck. And if you’re the unfortunate person who has to practice in front of others who are amazing at what you’re trying to do, just tell yourself that they are too absorbed with criticizing they’re own image; they can’t possibly notice how much you suck. Sucking is a rite of passage. (Keep it clean fokes.) Learn to love sucking. Smile at it. Laugh at it! And schedule a point in the not so near future to stop and reflect on how far you will have come.

Note 7

Challenging the self is its own reward. Try something new. Pick something. Anything. And challenge yourself to do it every day, just to nurture the spirit of success in the self. Success is an excellent addiction.

Note 8

Consume less! Make it a mantra. Make it sport you enjoy. Ask: Can I have one less…or, a little less…? For, if I’m not prepared to carry it on my back for a few hours or between travel destinations, I’m not buying it. Furthermore, a mentality committed to consuming less not only help save money, it can help you lose weight. I lost 15 pounds (slowly) just by fixating on consuming (with my mouth) less than what I would have before in my splurge by urge days.

Note 9

Consume positive media! Oh god! Music, pictures, videos, and tv. series alike have the power to influence your mood. If you choose the happier stuff, you’ll feel happier. Same goes for blood wrenching, corrupt, and violent stuff. Alls I’m saying is that Game of Thrones has certainly taken something away from my spirit that took dozens of TED Talks for me to get back.

Note 10

Free time should be free from self judgment. Doing whatever you want to do sometimes mean doing nothing at all, walking in circles, imagining, coloring, etc. Free time lets your own voice surface, unbridling your true desires and interests. It’s no surprise we in the US make no priority of vacation time. Heaven forbid we figure out that we don’t want to go shopping to make us feel better, and instead actually want to do something to BE better.

Note 11

No one else can define the experience of love in your body. That cliche romantic experience of a passionate love that renders you helpless, captivated by…–yeah that shit leads to self abuse for many of us. This is not reality, the norm, natural, nor necessary in order to have a fulfilling loving relationship. Your body and your mind determines the love experience for you. So don’t hold yourself or anyone else to the standards of French romantic propaganda.

Photo Credit : Vhdragoon Photography

Gap Year Lessons

Posted on by Miss Harmon

It’s been easy to allow other people’s assumptions, opinions and narratives dictate how I respond to life in my body, in my skin, in this world. This gap year gave me the time to isolate my own thoughts and feelings from those of others, and to listen to my intuition. The following is a list of life lessons I’ve recorded along my journey this year. Despite how many of these are cliche, they are my personal truths. 

1. It takes me two weeks to warm-up to a place, especially new places.
2. I like walking on the sand with water shoes. I love the squishiness inside the shoes, and the resolve of freedom for prickling things like broken shells and sea urchin spines. Ouch!  
3. When I’m in a funk, a place of disenchantment, I must compel myself to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary. (Thank you Naomi!) I will sit my tail down, and log three things I witness (with intention) that demonstrate magic, humanity, or love each day.
4. I can make room for my attention deficiency even in leisure. LOL! I am a person who enjoys bouncing between activities. (Draw in the sand, play the ukulele, read, etc.) 
5. I instantly smile while playing the uke…even though I can barely play through a You Are My Sunshine).
6. The greatest sense of freedom I’ve ever felt is wanting for nothing. This is not to be confused with being able to get all I want. 
7. I do not want to know the measure of time, numbers, intervals, etc. it takes to get something done, I’ll just do it blindly and thrive. 
8. “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” (African Proverb)
9. “Be intentional.” Apply this to love, life, and happiness. (Thanks Tiffany!)
10. I am a wild woman. (based on the publications of Clarissa Pinkola Estes)
11. To bleed also means to have flesh. (Women Who Run With Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes) Letting go, leaving friends and family, releasing experiences to memory hurts. But this body knows so much living, and I’ll honor every bruise.
12. I am content to stay in my room…as long as the door is open. 
13. My mantra: No toilet! Twelve! Toe!
14. I have my own rhythm. It doesn’t make sense to anyone else nor should it. Trust it! Respect it! 
15. “Do not make decisions out of fear, make them out of love” (Jim Carey)
16. I must nurture my “playful mind” forever and ever. (based on the lectures of Jim Carey)
17. Meditation occurs when I am learning something new. It is the only way I know how to quiet my mind. 
18. When I can’t stop thinking about something and want to, I must focus on something else.
19. Hapana kazi! (No work!) I never want to work again.
20. A home isn’t worth having if I can’t share it. 
21. The things I do when I don’t have to, are what I should be doing more of.
22. Visiting other people’s lives is nice, but only for just a moment. 
23. A healthy community offers purpose to all of it’s members. That’s what I want.
24. Black people–this obsession with personal space and lenience toward germaphobia are lesser known evils of white supremacy. How the hell did we get so afraid to touch each other? 
25. White supremacy hurts white people too. 
26. An easy way to restore my yen is to drink water. Who’d a thunk it?
27. Privacy. Eh. How much of it really is the desire to function without shame. 
28. I have a deathbed mentality.
29. Our birthright is to realize our “potential”. (Quotas from The Monk who sold his Ferrari)
30. Don’t take myself so seriously. Geeez!
31. Live in the now.
32. Happiness is a journey not a destination.
33. Vacation is an act of the mind. Disconnect. 
34. Friendship, like all things living, has a cycle. 
35. It’s good to be a part of something bigger than myself. 
36. Avatar was right! God lives in the hivemind.
37. “Real love” doesn’t make you lose your goddamn mind. Hollywood, please stop with your bologna. Sheeeez!

Gratitude

Posted on by Miss Harmon
I have much for which to be grateful. Had I never meant it before, nothing like a dirty back pack, miles to go, and a deep whiff of these roses to help me appreciate them now.
I’m grateful for…Love. It fills my cup and runneth over. I am fortunate to for love and kindness to find me no matter the hole I dropped myself in. I’ve been a true recipient of so much generosity this year. I leaned on so many others, borrowed their air and they gave it to me willingly. To confess the debt I feel to you all would denigrate this as my offering of gratitude. I thank you thank you thank you all for your homes, your beds, your meals, your contributions. My journey would’ve been empty without you.Health.I wanted a full medical exam before I gave up the security of health insurance. To be healthy is a gift. It is not promised, and it is not ever lasting. I am grateful to be well, full bodied, and abled. It has made carrying my apple green Deuter 60+10liter bag manageable every step of the way. I will fight for my health as time and age conspire with nature to take it from me. And I will honor all that I have been given, conventional flaws and all, with intention. Run. Eat well (as best I can). Aim to be the fittest me. And fo’ sho’ drink (mostly water) and be merry.Time.

To witness God. To hear my own voice above the noise. To be young and to have enjoyed it. To fall in love, then out of it, then back in again. To visit my loved ones. To know timelessness. To live my dreams (big ones and small). To question and to seek answers. To harness the wind and be wild.

Intuition.

Intuition is God’s voice within. I have let that voice speak to me above what my heart and mind have had to say. And it was always right. Intuition is the perfect strike between integrity and desire.

Freedom.

My freedom looks like rolling over in my bed in the somewhere out there, twisting my heels and ankles, and kicking my legs cuz it feels just that good to do whatever the hell I want. My god, it has been delicious. Just me, by myself a lot of the time. No plan. No demands. No imposed objectives. No shoulds. Only coulds! And say thank you, thank you, thank you to the designer of life for letting me seize this opportunity. How unAmerican of me, I know? What kind of working class black child am I? Psssssssht! That’s me.

Water.

Undoubtedly, the healing properties of water are unmatched by anything on this earth. My sister is a nurse, and she says that her one goal is to get black people to just drink more water. Drinking water heals. Staring at water also heals. God, I stared at oceans this year. Naomi, my kitesurfing wind-sister from Australia, and I just watched the Indian Ocean for hours. It was actually how we spent our last morning together before I left. Fried puff-puffs. Coffee. And sparkling clear blue water. I just needed one more look, just a moment to drink that water in with my eyes. And the women of Brazil hugged and prayed for me as I wept in the ocean on New Years 2017. “Yemanja”, I said, “please show me the way.” Is it me…or do people who live by water just seem to exist in a permanent state of chill? I’m grateful for discovering my love for water.

My American Accent.

Here me out. Before I catch a lecture from brutha man or an eye roll from sistah girl, try to feel me when I say white supremacy consumes the world, and our fancy pants American accent is a gift card to shop. With my mouth closed, I am received like a pauper, a subordinate. I’ve tested this theory in many places on multiple continents. I would be skipped while standing on lines, and overtly shoo’ed away. Only later, upon hearing my Anglo voice, I receive a double-take and consequently rapid service for mistreatment. I’ve been dismissed entirely by retail workers, later to be escorted by managers around the luxury items sections. I’ve been met by frustrated chefs who assumed I “must have” confused my own order, to then be sent bottles of champagne out of remorse for miscommunication on the part of the waitstaff. :/ Sadly, the result is even more dramatic on the African continent, though all except Ethiopia (thank you King Haile Selassi). My Anglo American accent changes things out there. And for those of us who can admit that it alters the dynamics of living a black life IN America to our advantage, let us not forget this is a very white card for access to white power. Take all that and raise it by the power of the Red, White and Blue, which IS the stamp we are given whether we like it our not, and picture it at work in every encounter you have with the countless others who’ve been consuming white American supremacy by the spoonful for generations. Yeh, it’s a tough pill to swallow. But it’s the god honest truth.