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Translation
Telling the Truth
I was watching this Youtube link Michelle Alexander, author of The New Jim Crow, posted on her Facebook page. (see below) It is from a program Michelle organized in her ongoing attempts to educate the public and hold elected officials responsible and urge them to revamp our judicial system that overincarcerates black people. Anyone who watches this video has to be struck by the emotional presentation by retired police major Neil Franklin, executive director of Law Enforcement Against Drug Prohibition. He chokes up recalling some of the things he did in the course of being a police officer fighting the “War on Drugs.
” Someone on Facebook commented that telling the truth is transformative.
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Who Did Gil Scott Come Here To Be?
After interviewing people about Gil Scott-Heron, I thought about my grandfather’s death. When my grandfather died I remember lamenting that he had not had an opportunity to do many of the things I thought he would have loved. He talked about traveling, yet he seldom drove far from his Washington, D.C. home. I had a list of regrets with his name on them when he died, but now I can’t remember what else was on the list.
Who Killed Gil Scott Heron?
It is ironic to me that I used to put on Gil to nod by after I shot drugs. And now he dies after a life of addiction. Did I help kill Gil? Did my consciousness help create the environment in which an addict can exist. Sure, I changed. And therein lies my hope for redemption. I changed my conciousness. God, I wish he could have done the same. Love you Poetry Man.
For the Writer, Blogger and Entrepreneur in You
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Posted in Writing
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What We See When We See
Some days I discover an article I wrote long ago that is relevent today, tomorrow, always. This is one. I offer it to you in an attempt to help you open your heart even wider, to think of crime and punishment, forgiveness and redemption in a new light. Sometimes life is veiled in such a way that we can’t possibly see what is really happening, or it requires a very different kind of looking. This is a long read but one I hope to find worthwhile, unforgettable. I wrote it when I was a reporter at the Washington Post. It was my painful pleasure to do so.
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24-7
Discovered this place, thanks to a friend (Thank you Jaz!). A prayer room. A 24-7 Prayer room. If there is one in your city and you need to step into another dimension, away from this one, into a sacred space, go, go, go. The 24-7 Prayer Room in Charlotte is a highly creative expression of God. And because I am such a Jesus girl, I felt right at home. Jesus is all up in that room. It has been a long time since an experience made me speechless, wordless, unable to describe clearly.But stepping into the prayer room silenced me. It is not something I can tell you about. It is something you must experience. It is part museum (not an accurate word) to Jesus the Christ. All I can say is find a 24-7 Prayer Room (Google it) and experience it for yourself. Lights, chalk board, branches, laptops, art, messages, map of the world, cool, comfortable furniture, a quiet place with unobtrusive music. It is more sacred than religious. I will go to write and pray. Besides, most days I don’t know the difference between the two–writing and praying. Both easy. Both hard. Both sacred. Both a blessing.
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Surrendering
I was standing at a festival in Atlanta Sunday. A woman from St. Simon Island, Ga. was selling these wonderful wooden blocks fit for hanging. I wanted one for my back patio, to hang by the door. I spotted one that said, “I’ll Fly Away.” I wanted it, but a woman was standing in front of it saying to her husband, “I can’t decide if I want this one or the other.” I let her choose first. It only seemed fair. She chose “Ill Fly Away.”
Posted in Motherhood
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Heart Strings
When I was young and a rebel giving my mother hell, she used to say, “When children are little they are on your apron strings; when they get older they are on your heart strings.” Her sentiments went over my head. I still sneaked out late at night to meet my boyfriend. I still skipped classes, hooked school. I still dropped out the window late at night when everyone was sleeping, left home and stayed with my boyfriend for several days without calling my desperately worried mother. But now I get it. In fact, I got it years ago. My daughter was in her early 20s and she called me sobbing because her heart had been broken by a guy. I had never heard her cry that way. My heart ached. My whole body hurt. I had never felt this way before. Then I realized it was my heart strings. It was as if this young man had broken my heart too.
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