That's a big wind up for the picture that was posted in the NY Post today concerning the newly signed Stimulus Bill. Who signed it? President Obama signed the bill and drew this reponse:
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
A Colorblind World is Still a Blind One
I don't have any great fascination with living in a colorblind world. As I've often said if the world were colorblind then a colored girl like me might be invisible. I think it is better that we all keep our eyes open and engage each other in healthy discussion around the things that effect us whether we are black or white and every hue in between.
That's a big wind up for the picture that was posted in the NY Post today concerning the newly signed Stimulus Bill. Who signed it? President Obama signed the bill and drew this reponse:
That's a big wind up for the picture that was posted in the NY Post today concerning the newly signed Stimulus Bill. Who signed it? President Obama signed the bill and drew this reponse:
Sunday, February 15, 2009
It's My Birthday
Today I get to celebrate my favorite day of the year. I don't get hung up on the numbers and today I proudly turn 43!I'm not Oprah but here a few of my all-time favorite things:
My favorite trip: Going to Ethiopia to see my kids.
My favorite holiday: Thanksgiving
My favorite book: All God's Children by Fox Butterfield
My favorite movie: Anything with Sidney Poitier but we can start with In the Heat of the Night and Blackboard Jungle -- maybe even Lilies of the Field.
My favorite song: Stand by Donnie McClurkin
My favorite writer: Langston Hughes
My favorite person: My Daddy (yes I call him daddy) who sent me the best birthday and Valentine's day cards.
My favorite food: Indian food
My favorite desert: Ice cream -- vanilla works fine
My favorite book of the bible: Nehemiah
My favorite scripture: 2 Timothy 1:7
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Color of My Culture
Reposted from months gone by in celebration of Black History Month. It's not the color of my skin that we celebrate but the depth of a culture that has survived against all odds.
My culture is colored by the family that raised me. It is the soulful blackness of the church that loved me and the colorful mix of the the foods and flavors that nourished me. My culture is the red-hot rhythmic dance of a people, the jazzy blues of music that beats in my heart, and the brown-eyed melodies of life that I learned how to sing.
The color of my culture is dark green and life affirming like collard greens on Thanksgiving. It's rich and strong in orange fibrous keratin like yams on Sunday afternoon. It is golden yellow like fresh cornbread crisp from that old cast iron skillet, and it is the conspicuous black spot staring back at me from black-eyed peas cooked on New Years day. My culture is as colorful as any soul food dinner served on mix-matched plates and as shiny as the Reynold's wrap we use to take our plates to go. It's sour green pickles, wine candy, red kool-aid, grape now-n-laters, red-hots, lemon heads, and bomb-pops.
My culture is multi-colored like kente clothe weaved together in a really tight pattern. It is jewel-toned and ruby red like the church ladies hats. It's soft pink and lilac like little girl dresses on Easter morning. It is beautiful like the stained glassed church windows that we propped open on hot summer holy ghost days. It is as majestic and and rich as Mahalia's voice on Precious Lord and the regal way she stood in her choir robe on the back of those church fans we use to wave. My culture is far-reaching faith in a Thomas Dorsey classic like Peace in the Valley. My culture is as white and pure like the hearts of the stewardess' board and the church mothers sitting clustered on the front row. My culture is contrast of pure whites, whiter than snow that we sang about in familiar hymns cast against the blackest covered Bible that holds God's powerful word.
My culture is bright yellow like the smiles on our faces listening to the children's sunshine band sing songs from their tender hearts. It is as complex as the synchronized turns that the ushers and the urshers made walking up and down the aisles of the church. It is the melodic hues flowing from the voices of the young adult choir singing the chorus of "How I Got Over!" My culture is intensified by the click clack joy of tambourines and that shrill B flat that sister Mary always managed to squeeze out just a little off key. My culture is concrete gray and unshakable like the faith we were always taught to have. It is as thunderous and moving as the morning prayer that would raise you from your seat, wake the sleeping child, compel you to wave your hands, testify, and shout -- AMEN!
The color of my culture is cocoa-brown skin, light, bright, and almost white. It is colored like the ashy knees in summer, Vaseline, and blue hair grease or the kind that we scooped out of the red jar. My culture is colorful barrettes, beads and ribbons that little girls wear in their hair. My culture is colored by the rhythmic way we in which speak, the way we roll our Rrrra's, and the way that only my mother could turn a phrase. It is the worn-out beige handle of that old worn out pressing comb that was always sparking on the kitchen stove. It is lively and colorful like our conversations and slips of the tongue that only grand-momma or big momma can make.
My culture is the royal blue way they we love and revere our mothers. It's the gold-ribbon honor that The Spinners gave to "Sadie", and Boys II Men gave to "Mama". My culture is loud like my mother and her sisters when they hear their favorite song on the radio. It is as deep as the deepest note that Barry White ever sung and higher pitched than the notes Minnie Ripperton sang about, "Lovin' You" and every note she sang in between when she took us, "Back Down Memory Lane."
My culture is crimson stained from the blood shed by the Martin King's, Emmit Till's, James Chaney's, Malcolm's and nameless men that died to make us free. My culture is played out in the soundtrack of our lives sung by Marvin, Curtis, Otis, and James Brown who first told us to be black and proud before he sang anything about feeling good. My culture pours out red heart love and chocolate covered soul like Patti, Aretha, and Gladys. The color of my culture changes effortlessly like a chameleon. Because, when we had little to believe in, we sang, hummed and waited when Sam Cooke told us "A Change is Going to Come..." And even now when we feel like we want to give in, we can still hear Luther saying, "Never too much, Never too much..." My culture is familial and connected like, Marvin Gaye's, "Brother, Brother, Brother" and the true refrain he sings in, "Make You Wanna Holler." You know, "throw up both my hands."
The color of my culture is true blue American and the color of hope that Barak Obama had the audacity to write about. It is the silk ribbon in Stevie Wonder's sky. It is the crayon box of colors that drew out the richness of a people before MTV had a generation and Beyonce ever had a hit. The color of my culture holds the supremeness of the Supremes, the emotion of the Emotions, and the dreams of the original Dreamette's . My culture is found in the rainbow colored way in which we were loved, protected, and encouraged that allows us to love, honor, and share in return.
My culture is the red carpet red that led me to every good thing that has and will ever happen in my life. It is a shinning star that announced the birth of a King and the same bright light that will lead the way for every little black boy and girl for generations to come.
The color of my culture is a legacy that won't end with bars and tones at midnight and it is the hope of a people that will never ever fade.
The Color of My Culture
Valarie A. Washington
copyright(c)2008
Valarie A. Washington
copyright(c)2008
My culture is colored by the family that raised me. It is the soulful blackness of the church that loved me and the colorful mix of the the foods and flavors that nourished me. My culture is the red-hot rhythmic dance of a people, the jazzy blues of music that beats in my heart, and the brown-eyed melodies of life that I learned how to sing.
The color of my culture is dark green and life affirming like collard greens on Thanksgiving. It's rich and strong in orange fibrous keratin like yams on Sunday afternoon. It is golden yellow like fresh cornbread crisp from that old cast iron skillet, and it is the conspicuous black spot staring back at me from black-eyed peas cooked on New Years day. My culture is as colorful as any soul food dinner served on mix-matched plates and as shiny as the Reynold's wrap we use to take our plates to go. It's sour green pickles, wine candy, red kool-aid, grape now-n-laters, red-hots, lemon heads, and bomb-pops.
My culture is multi-colored like kente clothe weaved together in a really tight pattern. It is jewel-toned and ruby red like the church ladies hats. It's soft pink and lilac like little girl dresses on Easter morning. It is beautiful like the stained glassed church windows that we propped open on hot summer holy ghost days. It is as majestic and and rich as Mahalia's voice on Precious Lord and the regal way she stood in her choir robe on the back of those church fans we use to wave. My culture is far-reaching faith in a Thomas Dorsey classic like Peace in the Valley. My culture is as white and pure like the hearts of the stewardess' board and the church mothers sitting clustered on the front row. My culture is contrast of pure whites, whiter than snow that we sang about in familiar hymns cast against the blackest covered Bible that holds God's powerful word.
My culture is bright yellow like the smiles on our faces listening to the children's sunshine band sing songs from their tender hearts. It is as complex as the synchronized turns that the ushers and the urshers made walking up and down the aisles of the church. It is the melodic hues flowing from the voices of the young adult choir singing the chorus of "How I Got Over!" My culture is intensified by the click clack joy of tambourines and that shrill B flat that sister Mary always managed to squeeze out just a little off key. My culture is concrete gray and unshakable like the faith we were always taught to have. It is as thunderous and moving as the morning prayer that would raise you from your seat, wake the sleeping child, compel you to wave your hands, testify, and shout -- AMEN!
The color of my culture is cocoa-brown skin, light, bright, and almost white. It is colored like the ashy knees in summer, Vaseline, and blue hair grease or the kind that we scooped out of the red jar. My culture is colorful barrettes, beads and ribbons that little girls wear in their hair. My culture is colored by the rhythmic way we in which speak, the way we roll our Rrrra's, and the way that only my mother could turn a phrase. It is the worn-out beige handle of that old worn out pressing comb that was always sparking on the kitchen stove. It is lively and colorful like our conversations and slips of the tongue that only grand-momma or big momma can make.
My culture is the royal blue way they we love and revere our mothers. It's the gold-ribbon honor that The Spinners gave to "Sadie", and Boys II Men gave to "Mama". My culture is loud like my mother and her sisters when they hear their favorite song on the radio. It is as deep as the deepest note that Barry White ever sung and higher pitched than the notes Minnie Ripperton sang about, "Lovin' You" and every note she sang in between when she took us, "Back Down Memory Lane."
My culture is crimson stained from the blood shed by the Martin King's, Emmit Till's, James Chaney's, Malcolm's and nameless men that died to make us free. My culture is played out in the soundtrack of our lives sung by Marvin, Curtis, Otis, and James Brown who first told us to be black and proud before he sang anything about feeling good. My culture pours out red heart love and chocolate covered soul like Patti, Aretha, and Gladys. The color of my culture changes effortlessly like a chameleon. Because, when we had little to believe in, we sang, hummed and waited when Sam Cooke told us "A Change is Going to Come..." And even now when we feel like we want to give in, we can still hear Luther saying, "Never too much, Never too much..." My culture is familial and connected like, Marvin Gaye's, "Brother, Brother, Brother" and the true refrain he sings in, "Make You Wanna Holler." You know, "throw up both my hands."
The color of my culture is true blue American and the color of hope that Barak Obama had the audacity to write about. It is the silk ribbon in Stevie Wonder's sky. It is the crayon box of colors that drew out the richness of a people before MTV had a generation and Beyonce ever had a hit. The color of my culture holds the supremeness of the Supremes, the emotion of the Emotions, and the dreams of the original Dreamette's . My culture is found in the rainbow colored way in which we were loved, protected, and encouraged that allows us to love, honor, and share in return.
My culture is the red carpet red that led me to every good thing that has and will ever happen in my life. It is a shinning star that announced the birth of a King and the same bright light that will lead the way for every little black boy and girl for generations to come.
The color of my culture is a legacy that won't end with bars and tones at midnight and it is the hope of a people that will never ever fade.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Ethiopia Celebrating Black History Month
On my recent trip to Ethiopia I was told over and over how much people there love President Obama and Oprah. It was funny that people would say, "You're from America, do you know Obama?" So, this story about Ethiopia's celebration of Black History Month acknowledging the influence and achievements of Blacks in America really caught my attention. The celebration is being observed under the theme “Quest for Black Citizenship in the Americas.”
From the EthioGuardian.com
“The Civil Rights Movement: from Martin Luther King Jr. to President Barack Obama-Personal Reflections”.
The United States ambassador to Ethiopia, Donald Yamamoto said Black history is a A panel discussion, organized in commemoration of the day, was held on Tuesday morning under the theme uniquely American journey that inspired all people.
“Black History Month in the USA is an opportunity to recognize the achievement of the African Americans reflected in the building of a strong nation,” said Ambassador Yamamoto.
The celebration of Black History Month has been observed in the USA since 1924. The month is a remembrance of important people and events in the history of the African Diaspora.
“The Black History Month is the history from slavery as we now move forward to where we are now, the election of President Barack Obama.” Said Ambassador George W. Haley, civil rights activist in the USA. “The election of President Obama is not only the pride of African Americans but also the pride of the world and it is incredible to see that the efforts of the movement has come to the position.”
Professor Andreas Eshete, President of the Addis Ababa University (AAU) said the civil rights movement mobilizes several people across the world, particularly in Africa to fight for their freedom from colonization and racial segregation. “Ethiopia, as an African country which was not colonized, was a pride to black people across the World,” he said.
He said the country has also inspired African Americans to fight for the respect for their rights.
Black History Month is celebrated annually in most countries worldwide in the month of February, while in the UK it is held in the month of October.
From the EthioGuardian.com
“The Civil Rights Movement: from Martin Luther King Jr. to President Barack Obama-Personal Reflections”.
The United States ambassador to Ethiopia, Donald Yamamoto said Black history is a A panel discussion, organized in commemoration of the day, was held on Tuesday morning under the theme uniquely American journey that inspired all people.
“Black History Month in the USA is an opportunity to recognize the achievement of the African Americans reflected in the building of a strong nation,” said Ambassador Yamamoto.
The celebration of Black History Month has been observed in the USA since 1924. The month is a remembrance of important people and events in the history of the African Diaspora.
“The Black History Month is the history from slavery as we now move forward to where we are now, the election of President Barack Obama.” Said Ambassador George W. Haley, civil rights activist in the USA. “The election of President Obama is not only the pride of African Americans but also the pride of the world and it is incredible to see that the efforts of the movement has come to the position.”
Professor Andreas Eshete, President of the Addis Ababa University (AAU) said the civil rights movement mobilizes several people across the world, particularly in Africa to fight for their freedom from colonization and racial segregation. “Ethiopia, as an African country which was not colonized, was a pride to black people across the World,” he said.
He said the country has also inspired African Americans to fight for the respect for their rights.
Black History Month is celebrated annually in most countries worldwide in the month of February, while in the UK it is held in the month of October.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Life as a Habesha
One site that I often read is www.abesha.com. I like the portraits and Q & A's that they do with young Ethiopian immigrants.
Here is a post from the site.
This Film Conveys a Coming of Age Story about Young Diaspora in America Washington, D.C. – January 30, 2009 - Zanta Media releases “Habesha Life,” a web based episodic series that explores the lives of young East Africans coming of age in the Washington, D.C. metro area. The series will be available free for viewing at the website www.habeshalife.com beginning February 15, 2009.
Here is a post from the site.
This Film Conveys a Coming of Age Story about Young Diaspora in America Washington, D.C. – January 30, 2009 - Zanta Media releases “Habesha Life,” a web based episodic series that explores the lives of young East Africans coming of age in the Washington, D.C. metro area. The series will be available free for viewing at the website www.habeshalife.com beginning February 15, 2009.
Everybody Has a Story
Many months ago I read a great book called Of Beetles and Angels: A Boy’s Remarkable Journey From A Refugee Camp To Harvard. It was written by a young man that immigrated to the US from Ethiopia at the age of 8 or 9. I was interested in experiences since he grew up literally around the corner from where I will raise my children. Below is an excerpt from a recent interview.
In the case of Mawi Asgedom, when he was a young boy he made ‘it’ out of Adi Wahla in Tigray with his family and into neighboring Sudan when countless thousands didn’t. From there again his family made ‘it’ out of Sudan and immigrated to Wheaton, Illinois.
Living in America, how do you feel about identity and how do you identify yourself?
Mawi: Well that is hard. Identity is a very American thing, and often times it is assumed for you before you can consciously do it for yourself. I would say in the past I thought of myself as part African-American, part African, Ethiopian and Eritrean and so on. At Harvard it was difficult to fall into one group because I would hang out with African-Americans. I would also be around white students because growing up in suburban Chicago (Wheaton) I was always around white people. Slowly I began to see that America was built on classifying people as this or that race. Today I feel like I belong both everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I don’t feel fully abesha, because growing up here, there is somewhat of a disconnect. (Laughs) I like basketball more than soccer. I feel like I am beyond simple classification now. As a speaker, strictly identifying yourself in one particular way closes you off to many potential audiences. It’s an advantage. As a speaker, I feel I can identify with diverse groups. I recognize cultural differences and can adjust to them.
Your book deals with the experiences of you and your family after emigrating to the U.S. Why do you think family is important and why did you choose to make it the theme of your book?
Mawi: I just felt that my story could not be isolated out of my familial experiences. Though I have experienced many things as an individual, the elements that shaped me the most were those that I had at an early age with and within my family. Also it was a story that needed to be told. That is not mine specifically, but it was the first book by a black immigrant refugee. It offers a different perspective than typical memoirs because I wrote it at a relatively young age. (Twenty-three)
Since your first book was published, you’ve also become a sought-after motivational speaker. How did it all come about? Have you always had public speaking aspirations?
Mawi: No way man. I was one of the shyest kids. I didn’t want to share my story with anyone because I was worried people would make fun on me. But as I matured, I saw my family and myself in a different light. I realized not only did I love my parents, but also I was also very proud of them. I would have never thought I would become an author or a speaker. But I love what I do. It all started after I graduated from college and was living in Oklahoma. The youth pastor at the church I was attending couldn’t make it one day and I took his place. The kids really seemed to enjoy my story and received it warmly. That’s how I got started.
In the case of Mawi Asgedom, when he was a young boy he made ‘it’ out of Adi Wahla in Tigray with his family and into neighboring Sudan when countless thousands didn’t. From there again his family made ‘it’ out of Sudan and immigrated to Wheaton, Illinois.
Living in America, how do you feel about identity and how do you identify yourself?
Mawi: Well that is hard. Identity is a very American thing, and often times it is assumed for you before you can consciously do it for yourself. I would say in the past I thought of myself as part African-American, part African, Ethiopian and Eritrean and so on. At Harvard it was difficult to fall into one group because I would hang out with African-Americans. I would also be around white students because growing up in suburban Chicago (Wheaton) I was always around white people. Slowly I began to see that America was built on classifying people as this or that race. Today I feel like I belong both everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I don’t feel fully abesha, because growing up here, there is somewhat of a disconnect. (Laughs) I like basketball more than soccer. I feel like I am beyond simple classification now. As a speaker, strictly identifying yourself in one particular way closes you off to many potential audiences. It’s an advantage. As a speaker, I feel I can identify with diverse groups. I recognize cultural differences and can adjust to them.
Your book deals with the experiences of you and your family after emigrating to the U.S. Why do you think family is important and why did you choose to make it the theme of your book?
Mawi: I just felt that my story could not be isolated out of my familial experiences. Though I have experienced many things as an individual, the elements that shaped me the most were those that I had at an early age with and within my family. Also it was a story that needed to be told. That is not mine specifically, but it was the first book by a black immigrant refugee. It offers a different perspective than typical memoirs because I wrote it at a relatively young age. (Twenty-three)
Since your first book was published, you’ve also become a sought-after motivational speaker. How did it all come about? Have you always had public speaking aspirations?
Mawi: No way man. I was one of the shyest kids. I didn’t want to share my story with anyone because I was worried people would make fun on me. But as I matured, I saw my family and myself in a different light. I realized not only did I love my parents, but also I was also very proud of them. I would have never thought I would become an author or a speaker. But I love what I do. It all started after I graduated from college and was living in Oklahoma. The youth pastor at the church I was attending couldn’t make it one day and I took his place. The kids really seemed to enjoy my story and received it warmly. That’s how I got started.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I Wonder as I Wander
I wonder if I showed up a preschool in Anywhere, USA and offered up ice cream to a bunch of four, five, and six year old kids if they might rush for it, grab for it, and eat as much as I would allow them too. What if I returned a second or third day? Would I see the same thing? What could I conclude from that exercise?
- They were starving because they'd not been fed at home.
- The children had not been fed lunch by the school.
- The children just like ice cream.
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